4
Hound
IHAD AN interview scheduled with Morse at eight a.m. sharp, and I couldn’t be late. I’d set my alarm for six-thirty, but must have slept through it, because sunlight was flooding my room when my eyes popped open. Panicking that I’d missed the opportunity I’d been waiting for, I checked the time. It was seven-thirty-eight; I wasn’t late yet, but if I didn’t get my ass in gear, I would be.
The lingering effects of last night’s back spasms and subsequent lack of sleep were kicking the shit out of me. My body begged for more rest, but staying in bed wasn’t an option. Feeling wrecked, like I’d been run through a meat grinder and dipped in vinegar, I got up and hauled ass down the hall to take a shower. Once my teeth were brushed and my hair was combed, I threw on a pair of slacks and a collared shirt, giving myself the once-over in the mirror. The result wasn’t pretty—the circles around my eyes had darkened and I could use a haircut and a shave—but I didn’t have time to deal with any of that shit now. Hoping for the best, I headed downstairs.
The second and third stories of the old fire station that served as our club headquarters housed sleeping rooms and locker-style bathrooms. My room was on the second floor, positioned halfway between the stairs and bathroom. The ground floor was made up of a large common area, an industrial kitchen, six offices, more bathrooms, and a meeting room we called the chapel since it’s where we held our weekly church meetings. On a good day, walking from one end of the building to the other made me feel like a ninety-year-old man in need of a full body transplant. Today, it made me want to drink antifreeze.
Hurrying past the common area, the smell of freshly brewed coffee tempted me to pop into the kitchen and grab a cup, but I was cutting it too close already and couldn’t risk being late. Link’s office was the next room I passed. His light was on, but I didn’t see him. The other three offices—shared by members conducting club business—were dark. Passing them all, I set my sights on the door at the end of the hall.
Morse rented the space for his personal business, and the club gave him a fat discount in exchange for his services. I wasn’t sure what all he did, but knew it had to do with internet security and hosting. By the time I knocked on his door, my legs were trembling, and my head was throbbing. I needed a gallon of coffee, a comfortable chair, and about a week of uninterrupted sleep, not necessarily in that order.
“Hey, Hound,” Morse said, opening the door and stepping aside so I could enter. “Good to see you, brother.”
Since I’d only been out of rehab for a few weeks, I hadn’t gotten to know any of the brothers all that well. The Dead Presidents had a strict no drug policy and Link made no bones about tossing me out on my ass if I fell off the wagon. I couldn’t blame him. The club was far too important to let one prospect’s addictions jeopardize it. Everyone knew my history, and I caught their concerned glances whenever I got the shakes from muscle fatigue or struggled to keep my balance. I could almost hear them wondering if I was using again. Hell, I was surprised nobody had made me piss in a cup yet.
Sometimes it felt like the whole world was waiting for me to fuck up.
Morse wasn’t like that, though. From the moment I met him, he seemed to accept me. Encouraged me, even. He didn’t make me feel like I had shit to prove, and I appreciated the hell out of him for that.
“Good to see you, too. Thanks again for this.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know what the job is,” he replied with a smile. “Here, let me show you around.” He led me past a row of computer servers to a desk with an ergonomic chair. “This is where you’ll sit. If the chair doesn’t work out for you, let me know, and I’ll get you another one.”
I was confused as hell. “Where I’ll sit? You mean for the interview?” Why would he care if a chair didn’t work out? How long was this interview gonna take?
His brow furrowed. “You want me to interview you?”
“I thought…” I scratched my head, trying to figure out how to word what I’d thought and why. “Link said…”
Morse grinned. “Ah. That’s the problem. Link’s one of those guys who likes structure and order. He has his way of doing things, and I have mine. I’m not asking you to perform brain surgery here. There’s nothing you can fuck up that I can’t fix. Link said you took a coding class in high school.”
“Yes. HTML. I’ve forgotten more than I remember, though.”
He waved off my concern. “Doesn’t matter. You learned it as a kid, you can relearn it. And I need the help now. I was gonna offer the job to Stocks, but my computers are too valuable for that loose cannon.”
Apparently, Stocks had lost his shit at an office job and destroyed his company issued computer, landing his ass in jail for destruction of property. All the guys flicked him non-stop shit about it.
“Besides, Stocks has his hands full helping Monica run that halfway house now. You need a job, you’re a brother, which means the club already vetted you, and I need someone who can start today. I don’t have time to dick around with interviews and references and bullshit. If you want the position, it’s yours.”
He was hiring me on the spot.
I couldn’t believe it. I must have applied for at least thirty jobs after the Navy sent me home. A few of them called me in for interviews, but I didn’t get one goddamn call back. Nobody wanted to hire a cripple who couldn’t lift shit or sit still for too long. And I couldn’t blame them since my body was unreliable as hell. I knew Link had shared my limitations with Morse, and the brother was taking a chance on me anyway. Gratitude threatened to choke me up. Clearing my throat, I answered quickly before he came to his senses and changed his mind. “Yes. I want the job. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”
Morse waved me off again. “Like I said, it’s not like you’ll be saving lives. Most days, you’ll probably be bored out of your ever-lovin’ mind, but the work is steady and the hours and pay are good. I can’t offer benefits yet, but you have access to the VA anyway.”
Still struggling to accept what was happening, I nodded.
Morse met my gaze and his expression grew somber. “Listen, I’m sure after your injury and your stint in the slammer and rehab, you have plenty of doubts about yourself, but I don’t. The minute you put on that vest, you became my brother. This club is the only fuckin’ family I have, and I refuse to let any of my brothers fail. Not if I can help. I wasn’t physically injured, but I have some experience with what you’re facing.” He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a gentle shake, mindful of my back. “You’re more than a fuckin’ injury, a record, and an addiction, Hound. You’re a Dead President now, and we’re gonna help you get through this.”
The conviction and faith in his words choked me up. Swallowing around the sudden lump in my throat, I croaked out, “Thanks, brother.”
Brother.
That word still felt foreign to me, but it also felt right.
Giving me another nod, he released my shoulders. “Back to the tour. We have a private bathroom through that door.” He pointed it out before leading me past a divider wall and into a kitchenette. “Fridge, microwave, coffee pot. Cups and plates are in the cupboard above the sink. You’re welcome to use whatever you need, just wash it and put it away. We don’t have maid service and I sure as hell won’t clean up after you.”
