Chapter Twenty-Two #3
“How’s he doing?” Animal asked.
Rags shrugged. “Don’t know. Doc said he’ll do whatever he can.” He grabbed the next shot and tossed it back. The burn slid down his throat and settled heavy in his gut.
“He’ll be okay,” Tank said, clasping Rags’s shoulder.
“What the fuck happened?” Banger asked, stepping up behind him.
“Throttle said the fucker blindsided him.” Rags kept his gaze on the empty glass.
“Did you get the bastard?” Anger edged Banger’s voice.
“Yeah. I wasted him.”
Banger’s fingers tightened on Rag’s shoulder. “Good. What does Doc say?”
“He’ll do his best.”
Before anyone could say anything more, Doc rushed into the main room. A sheen of sweat coated his face. His eyes flicked between Rags and Banger, finally landing on Banger.
“Throttle’s gotta go to the hospital. Now.”
“You can’t help him?” Banger asked.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s too risky to give him a transfusion here without cross-matching and monitoring for allergic or hemolytic reactions.
I can’t tell how deep the wound goes, or whether it nicked an organ, tore muscle, or worse.
The hospital can run the tests I can’t. What he has isn’t superficial. ”
Banger scrubbed a hand over his face. “The fuckin’ badges are gonna be all over this.”
“I’ll ride with him and handle the paperwork,” Doc said. “I’ll make it sound like an accident—roughhousing, something like that. I’ll say he was here at a party.”
Banger nodded and looked at Smokey. “Will the gurney fit in the van?”
“It’ll fit in the Ford Transit,” Smokey said.
“Pull it around. We have to go. Now.” Doc spun and hurried back to the surgical room.
“I can ride with Smokey,” Rags said.
“No. You follow. I want Smokey to drop Doc and Throttle off, then get his ass back here. If the fuckin’ badges show up, we gotta look like we just had one hell of a party.” Banger locked eyes with him. “You know what to tell ’em when they question you.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call his ol’ lady,” Banger muttered.
“I’ll reach out to Kimber,” Rags said, pulling his keys from his pocket. He lifted the bag of clothes. “I gotta dump this. My cut’s in there. I used it to stop the bleeding.”
“Leave it here. We’ll stash it where the fuckin’ badges won’t find it.” Tank took the bag. “Go.”
“Make sure you set Kimber straight,” Banger added.
“I will.”
Rags shoved his hands into his pockets and headed out.
The cold air bit at his cheeks as he pushed the Harley hard, the engine’s roar drowning out everything but the need to get to Pinewood Springs Hospital.
Thoughts blurred like the asphalt beneath his tires—fear, jagged and cold; anger, hot as the exhaust. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, forcing down the grief burning like molten lead in his gut.
The hospital’s sterile glare spilled across the parking lot, a harsh, white beacon against the dark.
He killed the engine and dropped the kickstand in one clean motion, the silence of the lot feeling heavy after the roar of the ride.
He crossed the lot in long strides. The automatic glass doors hissed open, exhaling cold, antiseptic air that nipped at his skin.
Before he could even scan the room, a security guard stepped into his path, thumbs hooked in his duty belt, the holstered gun impossible to miss.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked, his eyes dragging over the chains hanging from Rags’s pocket, then down to his biker boots.
Behind the security gate, a dozen citizens sat in faux leather chairs, hunched over phones or staring at a flickering TV.
“I’m here to see my friend,” Rags said, stepping toward the steel conveyor belt. He unclipped the chains and placed them, along with his phone, keys, and wallet, into a gray plastic bin, before walking through the metal detector.
“Driver’s license,” the guard said.
Suppressing the urge to tell the wannabe cop to fuck off, Rags pulled it from his wallet and dropped it on the counter.
The blond security guard with the buzz cut took his time, reading every line on the license while Rags ground his teeth.
If he snatched it back from the asshole, he’d never make it past the front desk.
“And why’s your friend here?” the guard asked, glancing up.
“He’s not in a good way. Isn’t that why people come to a hospital?” Rags held his stare.
For a long second, neither of them moved. The guard cleared his throat and handed the license back.
“Rags!”
He turned and saw Kimber rushing through the doors. He met her halfway and pulled her into a bear hug, feeling her shiver against him.
“What the fuck? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” she said.
“Let’s talk about this in the waiting room,” Rags whispered in her ear.
Throttle’s old lady’s eyes cut to the guard. “Okay.”
Rags walked through the metal detector, retrieved his possessions from the bin, and waited for Kimber to clear security.
“Check in at the desk,” the security guard said.
Rags strode away without another word to him.
“Thanks,” Kimber muttered.
“May I help you?” the medical receptionist asked.
Kimber hurried to the desk and slumped into a chair. “My husband was brought here. I want to know his status and when I can see him.”
“What’s his name?” the jovial woman asked.
Rags turned away and stared out the large windows facing the parking lot. He focused on one of the overhead lights, blocking out the sounds and movement around him.
“Rags?” Kimber said, tugging on his T-shirt.
“Uh, yeah?”
“She said we can go in to see Throttle in a few. You have to give her your information to get a name tag.”
“Okay.”
After what felt like forever, Rags and Kimber sat in Room 8—she in a chair on the right side of Throttle’s bed, and he on the left. They stared at the machines hooked up to him as he lay with his eyes closed, a bag of blood dripping steadily into his veins.
“Sweetheart, can you hear me?” Kimber asked, running her hand over his forearm. She glanced at Rags. “Why won’t he open his eyes?” A sob spilled out. She coughed and turned away.
“He’s sedated to keep him calm. Doc said he gave him something to ease the pain. He also lost a lot of blood, so he might be in shock. Doc said once he gets some blood, he should start responding.”
Kimber nodded, her pale lips trembling.
“He’s gonna be fine. You know he’s a fighter. He’s not gonna let this shit pull him down. You gotta know that, right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her gaze glued on her husband.
“Yeah. He’s gonna be just fine,” Rags said, trying to convince her… and himself.
“Hi,” a tall, blonde woman said, walking into the room. “I’m the nurse taking care of Mr. Reynolds.”
“Hi. I’m his wife,” Kimber mumbled. “How’s he doing?”
“Not too bad. His vitals are stable. The doctor will be in to keep you updated. We’ll have several techs coming in to run some tests.”
“Is he in a coma?” she blurted.
“No. He’s heavily sedated due to the pain and trauma. His body needs to relax.”
Kimber nodded and swiped her fingers across her cheeks.
The nurse glanced at Rags. “Are you his brother?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Nodding, she flicked her eyes between him and Kimber. “There are a couple of police officers who want to speak to you. I don’t want them coming in here for obvious reasons. You’ll have to talk with them in one of the offices. Follow me.”
Rags shot a look at Kimber. She nodded, and they followed the nurse down the hall. When they entered the room, two deputies sat at the head of a table. They glanced at Kimber then fixed their eyes on Rags.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” one of the badges said.
Kimber slipped into one of the chairs, but Rags just leaned back against the wall, his left leg bent and boot braced against it.
“What happened here?” the chubbier badge asked, looking at Rags.
Rags met his stare, his face devoid of emotion.
“My husband was at a party and was horsing around and being a bit… well, stupid, you know? Guys get like that. It’s all that testosterone,” Kimber said, voice steady, eyes unwavering.
“Is that what happened?” the thinner badge asked, pointing at Rags.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna give us more details?”
“Not much to give. Like his ol’ lady said, he was doing stupid shit and here he is.” Rags shrugged. “It happens.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with what went down in the Peaks warehouse district, would it?”
Rags scrunched his face. “The Peaks? The party was at our clubhouse.”
“Are you saying you don’t know what happened tonight at another motorcycle gang’s club?” the chubby one said, animosity lacing his voice.
“Don’t have a clue what you’re talkin’ about.” Rags resumed his impassive expression.
“Do you have any other questions?” Kimber sighed. “I want to get back to my husband.”
“Do you know anything about the biker gang who call themselves the Devil’s Reign?” the heavyset badge said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need to get back to my husband.”
Turning to Rags, the deputy said, “Didn’t it fuckin’ piss you and your gang off that another biker gang was wearing the Colorado bottom rocker?”
“They were? Fuckin’ news to me. My club’s busy planning fundraisers and running our businesses in the community.”
Both badges stared at him, but he held their gaze until the chubby one looked back down at his tablet.
“We know the Insurgents were involved with the shit that went down at that clubhouse,” the lean badge with the crew cut said.
Rags didn’t say a word. He just kept staring.
“We got all kinds of evidence. We’re going to nail your asses,” he said, a smirk curving his lips.
“What do you have to say about that?” the chubby one asked.
“Nothing. We weren’t there. If you think you got proof, then let us know.” He pushed off the wall. “We’re done here.”
“You smug sonofabitch,” Crew Cut said. “You think ’cause your gang’s got the sheriff wrapped around your fuckin’ fingers that you’re immune to paying for what you did tonight?” Red blotches flared across his cheeks.
“I don’t think anything,” Rags said.
“You think you’re so fuckin’ cool, don’t you? You’re nothin’ but a dirty, loser outlaw misfit.” Crew Cut leapt to his feet.
“Calm down,” the chubby badge said to his partner.
“Don’t think you’re cool ’cause you can intimidate half the population by violence, illegal shit, and not givin’ a fuck about anything decent. You’re nothin’ but a damn lowlife.”
Rags stood, his stare still locked on the badges, but inside, a battle raged. The urge to beat the shit out of Crew Cut was intense, but he shoved it down, not a flicker of emotion showing on his stoic face.
“What the fuck do you have to say?” Crew Cut yelled.
The door opened and a man in scrubs walked in.
He glanced at all of them before fixing his gaze on the two officers.
“Sir, this is a hospital with sick people and worried family members. You cannot carry on like this. We can hear you clear down the hallway. I reviewed the report, and it doesn’t appear that anything is out of the ordinary with Mr. Reynolds. ”
“Who the fuck are you?” Crew Cut asked, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
“I’m the ER doctor in charge. I’ll have to ask you to leave. You can conduct whatever this is at the station another time. I have to speak with Mrs. Reynolds,”—the doctor’s gaze flicked to Rags—“and to Mr. Reynolds’s brother about private matters.”
“We’re done here,” Rags said. “Come on, Kimber.”
“You’ll be hearing from me again,” Crew Cut said.
Rags glanced over his shoulder. “I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”
The three of them stepped out of the room.
Rags inhaled the crisp air as he crossed the parking lot.
Kimber told him she’d call if anything changed in Throttle’s condition.
The ER doctor had admitted him. At least he was stable and getting the attention he needed.
He revved the engine, then blasted out of the lot.
He’d text Banger and Hawk with an update, but he didn’t want to go to the clubhouse even though the brothers would be expecting him. All he wanted was to see Casey.
It was well past one in the morning. He stood on her porch and pressed the doorbell. Footsteps muffled inside, followed by a short silence, then the door swung open.
And there she was. Soft. Warm. Real.
He stepped inside and pulled her into him.
Her arms wrapped around his neck without question, without hesitation.
For the space of a long breath, they just looked at each other.
Then he kissed her—not hard, not rough. Just deep and claiming.
Like he needed the heat of her, the pulse of her, the solid reality of her skin against his. Like he needed something steady.
Later, thin wisps of light from the streetlamp filtered through the blinds, casting long skeletal shadows across the bedroom floor. He held her close, her weight a grounding pressure against his chest as she nestled into him. The familiar scent of vanilla and caramel hugged him.
For a long time, the only sound was the jagged rhythm of his breathing slowly leveling out.
“Are you okay?” Casey whispered, her voice a faint vibration against his skin. She didn’t move, didn’t pull away to look at him. She just stayed there, a steady heartbeat he could hold onto.
He stared at the wall, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second. “Throttle’s in the hospital. I can’t say anything more.”
“I know.” She burrowed deeper into him.
“One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me how you know.”
“I will. How is he?”
“Stable.”
She pressed a kiss to his chest. “He’s alive. And you’re here.”
“I’m here,” he rasped, tucking his chin over her head. “Right here.”
“And so am I,” she whispered.
Rags pressed his mouth to her hair and let the noise of the night finally fall away. For the first time since the blood hit his hands, the tightness in his chest eased.
He still didn’t know everything about her. But he would.
Holding her close, he let sleep take him.