1. Vandal #2
But also knowing I haven’t been out since that night nearly a month ago, since the club brought my motorcycle back here and fixed it up for me, is another good reason not to go.
My blurred vision is fucked, I have chronic lack of depth perception, and my hands shake.
But I still find myself saying, “Good girl. You stay there, or even better, go run to the bathroom and lock yourself inside. What’s your address? ”
She tells me enough of an address and description that I recognize the small apartment building about ten minutes away.
“My name’s Vandal. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Daisy.”
I think about how I’m going to be able to let Elsie know it’s me when I arrive. “What’s your favorite teddy or doll called?” I stumble out of my room and head toward the emergency exit.
“Sir Bearington Boo Boo Bear.”
Of course it fucking is.
How the hell am I supposed to keep that straight in my whiskey-addled state?
“Are you coming?” she asks, and the hope in her voice is like an adrenaline shot to the heart.
“Yeah, Elsie. I’m on my way.”
I grab my keys and head to the rear door of the building. The fewer people I see, the better this will be. Although, using the word see takes on a whole new meaning when the input from one of your eyes is utterly fucked.
“Where are you heading off to?”
I recognize Havoc’s voice before I turn. Our rooms are opposite, and he’s wearing just his jeans, smoking a cigarette, as he shoves the door open and Steffi dips beneath his arm, clutching half her clothes to her chest.
“That was fun, Havoc,” she mutters, but he simply nods once, his eyes on me.
“I gotta go,” I say, thinking about the guy banging on Elsie’s door. That little kid was scared, and I sure as fuck know what that feels like.
Havoc’s face lights up. He knows this is a big step for me. “I’ll come with you. Give me two seconds to grab a shirt.”
He doesn’t remind me I’m not supposed to be driving, but I don’t have time to wait. Not even for my best friend. “I can’t wait. Catch you later.”
It’s a mistake to turn down his help when I don’t know what I’m walking into. But if I fail, if I get there and I can’t bring myself to engage, if I find I can’t ride anymore, I don’t want my best friend to witness it.
Reaper took me to a guy he knows, got me into the hospital system where we told everyone it was a bike accident, that I wasn’t wearing a helmet.
No one believed me. My injuries were too severe, and it’s hard to hide the burns of a cattle prod, but they took one look at the leather cut and didn’t ask any more questions. Especially when Mom arrived and took over advocating for me.
Only the surgeon who put my skull back together asked if I was having dreams in the days after the attack.
I told him no. What would it do to the Iron Outlaws’ reputation if it ever got out that any of their men were scared?
So I kept it to myself. And when Mom begged me to come stay with her while I recovered, I refused.
My walk turns into a jog, and before I know it, I’m racing down the stairs like Alvarez is on my fucking heels.
“Fuck,” I mutter. My truck is blocked in given I haven’t driven it since before that night. So I can’t get my truck out, but my bike…
It’s right there. By the garage where it’s sat since Knox told me it was repaired and encouraged me to get back on it. At first I had good excuses. Ribs that were thankfully only finely cracked and bruised were the biggest. But even those don’t hurt as much today.
Someone has placed a new helmet on the seat, Havoc or Knox would be my bet, making sure I have everything I need for the first time I sit on it.
I stop walking but then remember I’ve known Havoc since we were both six years of age. Thirty years of brotherhood. If I know him, he’s pulling on a shirt and will be right behind me.
I make the split-second decision to pull on the helmet, get on my bike, and ride. Which means my body is steering me out of the parking lot on muscle memory, long before my mind has caught up with the decision.
I blow out a breath as I try to orientate myself. I can’t get comfortable on the seat, and there’s still the itch beneath my skin. My ribs burn, and unused muscles pull as I try to keep my center of gravity in the correct place.
When I take a turn in the direction of their apartment building, a car pulls out of a parking lot and pulls into the road behind me. My heartbeat is so loud, I hear it, a whooshing sound echoing through my helmet.
The headlights reflect in my mirrors.
Are they coming closer? I can’t tell.
No one has been attacked by Alvarez since I was. He’s been quiet since the club bested him. But that doesn’t mean the peace is permanent.
Constant thoughts of hypervigilance flood my skull. Who’s around me? Who could be following me?
The lines on the road are a blur.
Elsie needs me to ride fast, but I’m like a fucking racoon on this thing. I wobble.
Fucking wobble.
Like a kid who has never ridden on a bike before.
My hands shake. My whole body sweats.
I’m too drunk and too unstable in every use of the word. I swerve a little, and the action sends waves of revulsion and terror swirling through me. Coming off my bike would be the absolute worst thing that could happen to me.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my cut, but I’m too terrified to release the handles of the bike to answer it.
The turn toward my house approaches, and for a moment, I think about abandoning Elsie and turning into it, but then…
Are you coming?
Yeah, Elsie. I’m on my way.
So, I keep heading straight until I reach the building Elsie described.
It’s sort of motel style. External concrete corridors leading to rooms. And when I kill the engine, the pulsing beat of some hip-hop song and the sound of raised voices aren’t enough to stop me from bending over and throwing up.
Who knows if it’s the alcohol or the rattle of pills in my gut or PTSD, but on the bright side, it’ll help me sober up. I grab a couple of mint Life Savers from a roll in my pocket and pray they stave off more puking.
On the second-floor corridor, I can see a tall man hammering on an apartment door.
“Come on, Daisy. It’s Chris. Stop playing hard to get. I just want to talk.”
Daisy.
Elsie told me her mom was called Daisy.
There’s a nasally whine to his voice and that alone is enough to make me want to punch him in the face. I see what I think are two people sticking their heads around the door to an apartment a little farther down the open walkway. It’s blurry, but their idiotic laughter sounds masculine.
I look for the stairs up to the second level, and of course, they’re across the lot. I jog flush to the ground floor apartments that open out onto the parking lot, making the most of the darkness. I don’t want this guy to get away, because he strikes me as the persistent type.
The concrete stairs are cracked in places, revealing the rebar beneath. And there’s a distinct stench of piss in the stairwell.
I disregard both for now as I run up the stairs, but it does strike me as a shit place to raise a kid.
My boots slap the concrete, each step vibrating through my sore bones. The doctors said it was important to watch my blood pressure while dealing with the issues with my eye, and now I’m torn. I shouldn’t do this. I should have brought Havoc.
It’s a mental battle that I can’t stop. A little girl and her mom are dealing with a guy I intellectually know I can take in a fight because I’m a mean motherfucker.
But what if…?
What if he gets one over on me?
What if he has a Taser?
What if the other men get involved?
Even though I have my gun, I almost stop at the very top of the staircase.
Then I hear a demanding little voice cry out, “Leave us alone.”
And all the things I’m worried about fade, replaced with fury.
“Get the fuck away from that door.”