I slip inside and find him laid over tables that have all been joined together. His breath is raspy. He coughs. Fails to get rid of the grime clogging up his throat.
The clubhouse has a registered doctor who is on his case. With help, they extract both bullets and pour something over the wounds that has Carter roaring with pain.
Guilt stabs me in the chest again.
Skipper catches my attention. He’s stepped aside and is focusing on rocking Otis to sleep. Is that the best thing to do right now, when the nightmares will be waiting for him? A two-year-old’s brain doesn’t function like an adult’s. We need to act and find a way to wipe the last twenty-four hours from his mind.
Can the doctor remove memories the same way they remove bullets?
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” mutters the doctor to his helper. The two of them share a concerned glance and return their attention to Carter.
Guilt stings my chest. Again.
And again.
Until it hurts way too much for me to be in here.
I rush back out onto the veranda and stare at the sun. If if blinds me, I won’t ever have to look at the men’s broken faces again.
I won’t be able to see myself.
Men died today because of me. A new day is here, but their bodies are still rotting miles away from here in the warehouse, stuck in last night. Forever frozen in the past.
The bikers will never say it to my face because, despite all of this, they’re still fond of me. But they’re hurting. They lost men they couldn’t afford last night. Friendships have been broken up. Beloved bodies are wasting away as the sun rises without them.
I want to hide in the darkness and deal with the guilt until it eventually passes. But it will never pass. I deserve to be punished for bringing chaos into good mens’ lives.
The door flies open behind me, revealing Skipper.
“How is he?” I ask.
“He’ll live.”
“Live-with-one-leg live?”
Something ticks in Skipper’s jaw. “We don’t know yet.” He closes the gap between us and brings me into a hug. “Otis is asleep. I put him down to rest in the next room. Don’t worry. Everyone’s keeping a close eye on him.”
“He’s my son.” I push past Skipper in a feeble attempt to make it to the door. Of course, my strength is nothing compared to his. He pins me to the balcony and rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let us take care of him. Do you trust us?”
“Yes,” I spit out. They saved mine and Otis’s life—I think I can trust them.
But it’s not their actions I’m worried about. It’s their kindness. I don’t deserve it. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Come inside. Let me make you some tea. You look dehydrated.”
“And Carter got shot. Twice.” I crawl out of his grasp. “I gotta get out of here.”
“You’re hurting.”
“You can’t keep protecting me. I won’t allow you to die for me.”
“You mean a great deal to me.”
The strikes of guilt are getting more painful.
Skipper has me caged against the balcony, but I manage to escape under his arm and make it back into the clubhouse.
“Carmen?!” he yells after me, through the crowds of men who are all gathered around Carter.
