21. Vandal
VANDAL
This doctor’s office doesn’t look like the kind of place an outlaw biker should be caught dead in.
There’s a stupid little fountain bubbling in the corner like it’s trying to convince me to relax.
And there are more plants in here than a greenhouse.
On the shelves are little stone ornaments and words carved into them like breathe and healing and some other bullshit.
And yet, I’m sitting here, so grateful for what Doc has been able to do for me. Doc. No last name. No first name. She doesn’t know my legal name either. Just my road name. She keeps no notes, so there’s nothing to subpoena. There’s barely a trace I was ever here.
She leans back in her chair, crosses one leg over the other, and smoothes a hand over her hair. She’s older, not gonna guess how old, but there’s no bullshit in her eyes, and that’s probably why Switch and Spark, the medic and sergeant at arms of the New Jersey chapter, trust her.
Switch had his skull bashed in by an enemy to the club.
It left him with temporary amnesia and some lasting challenges, so he’s probably the first person I’ve met who properly understands what I’ve been going through.
Havoc and I met him and his wife, Sophia, who is seven months pregnant.
She permanently lost her memory and eye in an accident, but not her sense of humor.
Hearing their perspective on trauma and loss and injury and recovery made it sound possible.
As Sophia pointed out, it’s easier for those who have never experienced lasting injuries to think trauma is a stage, something to get over, rather than a permanent change to who you are.
She told me she still has days where she’s furious she lost her eye.
But now she has tools to catch and contain her emotional reaction to it.
Switch still has problems with his grip strength, making long runs out of reach.
I feel that frustration right now.
“I’m serious,” Doc says, bringing me back to the moment. “You keep talking about the attack like it revealed some fundamental weakness in you.”
I stare at the floor, and the scar tissue around my ribs aches from the deep breaths I’m taking.
“You were ambushed,” she continues. “Tortured and isolated. The shame belongs to the people who did this to you. Not you.”
Spark assured me before I went to meet her that she had a flexible moral code and a deep interest in helping men like us.
He assured me that King gave his permission to speak freely with her.
Spark was seeing someone else before Switch met her.
I’ve got to be honest, I don’t think the New Jersey way of doing things would fly in Florida.
They’re too progressive, too open, and everyone seems to be sharing their feelings and pronouns.
But I’m also starting to see why it might be good for the club.
“Those things are easy to say when nobody held a cattle prod to your ribs while they tried to break you apart.” I rub my hand over my jaw.
“Shame is how abusers keep power,” she says quietly. “They make victims carry the humiliation because if you’re ashamed, they still own part of you the next time you meet. And if this becomes about your humiliation, they never have to carry the guilt themselves.”
I roll my eyes at that.
“Can you explain that reaction to me?”
I roll my eyes again. “Victim. I fucking hate that word.”
“Survivor then,” she says. “You survived something horrific, Vandal. Your brain adapted to keep you alive. Hypervigilance. Flashbacks. Disassociation. Anger. None of those are signs you’re weak. They’re signs your nervous system is trying to do its job and keep you alive.”
“But it all feels like the same thing. I still feel broken.”
Doc leans forward. “That’s because you keep measuring yourself against the version of you that existed before. You’re allowed to become someone new.”
That last sentence hits something in my chest hard, because I don’t know who the fuck that is yet. But for weeks, it’s felt like everybody else has been waiting for me to become the old Vandal again. Violent. Unshakeable.
“Why does that scare you?” she asks.
I owe it to her to think about the answer, but even as I give myself time, I realize I already know what I need to say. “What if the club doesn’t like or need what I am now?”
Doc tilts her head slightly. “And what are you now?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out because I don’t fucking know.
“That uncertainty you’re feeling,” she says gently, “that’s not weakness.
That’s transition. People panic in transition because identity feels safer when it’s anchored.
” She leans back slightly in her chair. “But I assure you that every single man in your club has been changed because of something. Violence. Prison. Loss. Parenthood. Addiction. Injury. Nobody stays the same forever, Vandal. And it’s unfair of you to put that pressure onto yourself.
Yes, you built your identity around being useful through violence.
The strongest or most dangerous man in the room.
But that isn’t the only value people have.
And honestly, if the price of membership to your precious Outlaws is destroying yourself to stay recognizable to other people until there’s nothing of you left to save, why would you even want to be a part of that club? ”
A shift starts to happen at her words. She makes it sound so simple in the way she says it. Everyone changes. I’m more than my physical strength. I can almost see a future where I get comfortable with the idea.
Doc stands and comes around the desk, stopping just close enough to offer a hug instead of forcing one on me. It’s funny how much that choice matters after somebody takes enough of it away from you. So I stand slowly and return the hug she’s offering.
“You’re doing better than you think you are, Vandal. You’ve already taken huge steps getting sober.”
“I’m still a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” She steps back from me.
“When I first started in addiction work, I thought abstinence was the only answer. Black-and-white thinking, joining groups that would give you tokens to show just how far you’d come.
Never drink again or you failed.” She shrugs lightly.
“Life in a motorcycle club is more complicated than that. Beer is practically currency, and so you’re going to need to use some of the strategies we’ve shared to avoid the shame when you choose to not pick up a glass.
Remember to set limits before you start drinking.
Then keep a tally on your phone of how much you’ve had. Delay the impulse when it hits.”
I frown. “I can’t remember the last one. Remind me…delaying it?”
“Delay everything to do with drinking. If the party starts at seven, don’t have a drink till eight.
When you decide you’re ready to go to the bar to order, see if you can sit with that impulse for another ten or fifteen minutes before you get up.
And once you have a drink in front of you wait five minutes before you take the first sip, then five before you take another. ”
“What’s five or ten minutes gonna do?” I ask.
Doc smiles. “It’ll prove to you that you can wait.”
I think about all the times lately I’ve reached for the whiskey before I even consciously made the decision to drink it. I’ve been on autopilot. Numbing before the pain can crack through. Running from what happened that night.
“What if I still want a drink after the ten minutes?”
“In an ideal world, you’d say no and walk away, but I also understand that the world you live in means that may not always be feasible. So then have one, but consciously, and remember that your recovery cannot become another performance for everybody else.”
Earlier in our conversation, Doc called me out because I’d said things like I owed it to Knox or my best friend to have a good life, or that I want to get better for Elsie and Daisy.
She reminded me that I didn’t owe anybody anything.
Not my club. Not my mother. Not my president. And not Daisy and Elsie.
“Understood.”
“We’ll talk some more when you get home,” she says. “I’m very glad that Knox thought it was a good idea for us to meet in person. It’s a good start. Should we do the same time next week?”
That’s the other thing that’s weird about this whole meeting. It’s midnight when we’re done. Dark outside. Apparently, once a week, Doc holds a late-night clinic for people Switch knows.
I nod, because I don’t know how to express my gratitude. She opens the office door for me to leave. “You didn’t lose because somebody hurt you. You won because you came through it.”
I’m still thinking about her words when we pull up to the Jersey clubhouse an hour later.
Havoc drove the truck we rented at the airport and seemed to understand without me telling him that I needed to process what Doc had said.
Coming from a small town, I think it’s always good to see how these city clubs function, but once I step inside, I realize it’s just the same as any other: Music blasts while prospects shout over each other. Smoke lingers near the ceiling.
“There he is,” yells Clutch as he gets up from the sofa. “The man. The myth. The legend.” When he reaches me, he pulls me in for a hug. “I think I could probably take you now.”
I laugh at that. The vice president of the New Jersey chapter is a fighter, like me. We’ve come up against each other many of the years at Sturgis during inter-club fight nights. He hasn’t beaten me yet.
“You wanna test that theory?” I ask with more confidence than I actually feel.
“As hilarious as that would be,” Bates, the club’s enforcer says, “there’s enough blood spilling outside those doors right now—we don’t need to be bringing it in here.”
He shakes my hand enthusiastically. “I’ve long said you guys should come visit. Sorry these are the circumstances, but we’re glad you’re here.”
I glance over to the bar and…
It’s empty.
Every single bottle is removed from the shelves. Then I notice no one has a beer in their hand. Instead, there are two large coffee thermoses and a shit ton of baked goods.
Switch slaps me on the back. “Niro got a bee in his bonnet about making pastelito de guayaba for you. Said something about them being popular in Florida.”
He doesn’t mention the lack of alcohol. I have to admit to myself I was looking forward to my first drink in ten days, but as I remember what Doc said and sit with it for a couple of seconds, I realize I don’t really need one.
“It’s pastelito de guayaba y queso, fuck-nut,” Niro says.
“My favorite,” Havoc says, heading over to the bar to grab one. “There’s a little bakery in town that sells them, but these look better.”
Niro turns around and starts hammering his arms up and down with his middle finger elevated like he’s firing a semi-automatic in a crowded room. “Told you they’d fucking love them.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t like guava, and I’m gonna force at least three down my throat to show my appreciation.
King, the national president, appears from the corridor I assume leads to their rooms. He looks…happier. Content. Like a man finally comfortable in his own skin.
And I envy him that.
“Vandal,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Hope spending time with Switch and Sophia was useful.”
“Yeah. More than you know.”
He puts his hands on my biceps, steps back a fraction, and stares into my eyes. I’ve got an inch or two on King, but those ice-blue eyes unnerve me every time. Makes me think of Storm from the X-men when she’s calling the weather in.
“And you know I’ve still got my eye on you for Florida VP one day, right?”
I huff at that. “I’ll be wheeling Knox around in a wheelchair when I’m ninety and he’s a hundred.” I approximate the age gap for effect, but King laughs. “Then it’ll be North’s turn.”
King shrugs. “Might start a new chapter up before then.” He tips his chin in the direction of Havoc. “Could send the two of you as a pair. Ready-made Prez and VP.”
I like the idea of us doing that. I hate the idea of leaving Florida for us to do it. “That’d be quite the sight.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe me.”
I shake my head. “Can barely ride my bike right now. Certainly can’t risk a fight when my face is patched up with bits of plate.”
“You think I invest in people just because they can fight? Any useless fuck can throw a punch. I get shit all the time for being the only president of a true one-percenters motorcycle club to have a woman patched in. I invest in fucking talented people. People who are willing to do the hard stuff. To make difficult decisions. They don’t come harder than what you’re going through right now, but you’re doing the work. ”
“You’re just saying that.” I don’t know why that’s my response to everything he just said.
King smiles. “Never once said anything I don’t mean. Except perhaps when I kidnapped my now-wife and pretended I hated her so she wouldn’t know that she’d pole-axed me.”
“Heard you had a little girl.”
At that, King pulls his phone out of his cut and opens the lock screen. The wallpaper is a striking woman with dark hair; she’s holding a baby with hair almost as black as her father’s. “Her name’s Imogen. And that’s my wife, Rae.”
“You got a beautiful family.”
He touches his finger to the screen, and his whole face changes. “Yeah. One in a million. It’s amazing how the right woman can change you in ways you never expected.”
I think about Daisy and Elsie, wondering how it would feel to have a picture of them on my phone to show other people how fucking lucky I am.
I haven’t contacted her in days. Not because I haven’t missed her and Elsie with a bone-deep ache that hurts almost as much as my skull fractures. But because I knew I’d lose focus on what I was trying to do to be better.
One word from Daisy…if she sounded scared or worried or lonely…and I would have given up on everything else to make it right for her.
But now it’s time. As King drifts away, I tug out my phone and type.
Me: I missed you so much, Daze.
Me: On a scale of one to ten, how much did you miss me?
I don’t ask the important question: Are you ready to fall in love with me?
My phone reminds me it’s one in the morning, so I figure she won’t respond for a few hours. But as I’m about to slide my phone back into my cut, it buzzes in my hand.
Daisy: Ten.
And there’s a little row of kisses.
“Hey, Niro,” I say. “Do you still do tattoos?”