“Oh, she didn’t give a shit after a couple of days.I was the one locked in on my self-appointed mission.Fortunately Wild’s a hard man to kill.”
“Fortunately.”Jock waited a beat, then asked, “Why haven’t I heard this before?”
“Well, it’s embarrassing to me, the failed assassin.And it’s past history.Has no impact on the relationship today.”
“That’s why you agreed to see Maynard so fast.It was well after your closing time when Ace and me got here.You waited because you feel a loyalty to Wildman.”
“Maybe, maybe not.I stayed because he asked.Isn’t that what friends should do?”
Jock leaned against the wall again, letting that resonate inside him for a minute.“Yeah, that is what friends do.”
“She looks great.Y’all are doing a good job with her.Why don’t we draw some blood and see if we can get her to poop, but on the surface, Daisy looks good to adopt.”
“Okay.”Jock stepped up to hold the dog as Kent started the more invasive testing methods.His anxiety spiked, the smell of alcohol bitter and biting.Something I can see: Kent’s diploma on the wall.Something I can hear: Daisy’s breathing fast and steady.Something I can touch: the table I’m leaning against.
“You good, Jock?”
He looked up to find Kent studying him.“Yeah, just got pulled back into some not-so-good memories for a minute there.”
“And you’re good?Need me to go get the boys?”
He pulled in a deep breath.Admit the need.It doesn’t make you weak.“Yeah, that’d be good, actually.”
A moment later, Tank was leaning heavily against his legs, wedging himself between Jock and the table.Maynard sat in heel position, but bumped Jock with his head.The anxiety swirled down, leaving him astonished.“They really help.”
“No surprise, that.Tank’s known you a long time.From what you’ve said, from way before you had PTSD, so he knows the before and the now you.You’re his person.Makes sense he’d learn ways to help you deal, even without formal training.I bet he does that deep pressure lean a lot, and you just go with it.”
“He does.I didn’t realize what he was doing until just now.”Jock rubbed Tank’s head with both hands, petting and scratching him.“Good boy.”He dropped one hand over to Maynard’s head, caressing the tips of his ears.“Good boys, both of you.”
***
The courtroom smelledof polished wood and stale coffee, a sterile contrast to the diesel and leather Jock was used to.He sat in the witness stand, his IMC cut replaced by a borrowed jacket that felt too tight across his shoulders.It wasn’t.It just felt that way, like it had a stranglehold on him.Calder’s trial had dragged on for weeks, and now it was Jock’s turn to testify, to lay bare the bastard’s dealings with the Steel Serpents MC.The prosecutor’s questions had been straightforward, but the defense attorney, a slick guy with a shark’s smile, was circling, ready to tear into him.
“Mr.Tinney,” the lawyer drawled, pacing, “you claim Mr.Calder was colluding with a rival organization.Yet your own group, the Iron Motorcycle Club, has a history of violence, doesn’t it?Why should we trust your word?”
Jock’s pulse spiked, his hands clenching the stand’s edge.The room felt too small, the eyes of the jury boring into him.Memories of Calder’s arrogance rolled through him, that of first seeing his smug face at The Bent Anchor, the dogs in cages, and Jock’s anger flashed hot, mixing with older ghosts.He was pummeled by fists, blood, and nights he’d barely survived.Stay sharp, stay steady,he chanted silently, his mantra a lifeline.I can see Silly, I can hear this pissant lawyer, and I can smell the perfume from the court clerk.“It’s Incoherent MC, not Iron.Sir.Also, I saw what I saw,” he said, voice low, controlled.“Calder was selling and moving dope and setting up dogfights.I heard him.”
The lawyer smirked, pressing harder.“You’re a biker, not a saint.Ever bend the truth to protect your club?”
Jock’s jaw tightened, the anxiety clawing up his throat.He glanced at the gallery, where Silly sat, her green eyes locked on him, steady and fierce.She gave a small nod, her hand resting on her barely-there baby bump.It grounded him, like a tether to the present.“I’m here to tell the truth,” he said, meeting the lawyer’s gaze.“Calder turned on us out of anger because he was dropped from a club merger years ago.He’s small-time and bitter and lacks the loyalty needed for the IMC.That’s fact.”
The cross-examination dragged, each question a jab at his credibility, his past.By the time Jock stepped down, his shirt was damp under the jacket, but he’d held his ground.
Silly met him outside the courtroom, slipping her hand into his.“You did good,” she whispered, squeezing.“Proud of you.”
He exhaled, the weight easing slightly.“Felt like a damn cage up there.”
The guilty verdict came fast, the jury only needing two hours to come to a decision.The sentencing wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks, but Calder would be looking at years, no parole.
The courtroom cleared, but the prosecutor pulled Jock aside, voice low.“We found evidence showing the SSMC are not done.Word is they’re planning something.Maybe revenge for losing what they consider to be their smartest man.”
Jock’s gut twisted.“What kind?”
“Not sure,” the prosecutor said.“But watch your back.”
That night, at their small house on the edge of Hammond, the air felt wrong.Daisy, their foster fail, was restless, pacing by the door, her bent ear twitching.The other dogs growled low, hackles up.Jock was on the couch, Silly curled against him, when headlights flashed through the window, too fast, too close.Tires screeched, and a crack split the night.Gunfire.
Jock shoved Silly to the floor, his body over hers, heart hammering.“Stay down!”he yelled.The dogs went wild, barking as glass shattered somewhere in the kitchen.A roar of engines faded into the distance—SSMC, no question in his mind.Jock crawled to the window and peered out.The street was empty, but a bullet hole starred the front window, inches from where they’d been.
