“Did it help, at least? Being a cop,” she clarifies.
I glance at the skylight as I ponder the question.
“In the beginning, I was convinced that helping as many people as I could would finally fix this void inside of me. Instead, there was no way to fight the tide of sadness and horror that came with being a police officer. Every day meant another overdose, another mistreated kid, another battered woman, another acquitted rapist, and before I knew it, I was a high-functioning alcoholic with PTSD. When I drank, I no longer had to feel all that anger, anxiety, frustration, disappointment, guilt, shame, worry, self-pity…”
I’m on edge as I wait for her to say something. Anything.
“And after you got sober? How did you handle it?”
“I left the force. I had to learn how to cope with negative feelings without alcohol, and my job was making that very difficult. I went to meetings, surrounded myself with like-minded people... I still get the urge to drink sometimes, but now that alerts me there’s something I’m not dealing with the way I should. So I handle things differently now. ”
“By blowing up meth labs?” She teases, and I chuckle through the pain.
Why not tell this kind, stunning woman the truth, on what might be my last day on this Earth? “I’m part of an MC. We’re not like your ex’s club, though. We’re a sober club first, bike club second. We try to find ways to serve the community, help those in need, and overall, we’re about giving people second chances.”
Thinking of my brothers and sisters overwhelms me. The homesickness is almost a tangible lump in my throat.
“I’ve never heard of a motorcycle club like that.”
“There’s many different types of MCs,” I say, wishing I could sit up. “Sober clubs, Christian clubs, clubs for firefighters and their families, and Native American MCs, like the Rez Riders.”
“Wow. I had no idea. I’ve always had this stereotypical, bad-boy view of MCs. Granted, the Gray Wolves are the only MC I’ve had any real contact with, and that was always as somewhat of an outsider.”
“And for some of them, you’d be right. But the essence of every club is social; it’s a brotherhood centered around riding, and if they share a common overarching goal other than that, that’s even better. For some clubs, that’s faith, for some, that’s business and making money.”
“And for you guys, it’s, what, doing good in the world?”
“More like undoing the bad.”
“And you tried undoing your bad by blowing up the meth lab?”
I bark a laugh, but the pain in my ribs turns it into a groan.
“Watch it, Marissa Johnson.”
“Fine, Mister… Hawk? Not fair. I don’t even know your name.”
“You know the one that matters,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.
She hisses as she tries to stretch her upper body.
“Everything alright over there?” I ask, and she looks embarrassed.
“Well, when not nursing my son, I’m supposed to pump or express milk in order to prevent a milk duct blockage, and I obviously haven’t been able to, so now my boobs kind of hurt. The corset isn't helping, either.”
It takes all my strength not to look at her chest right then.
“I feel like such an idiot.” She laughs bitterly as she shakes her head at herself. “You have no idea how long it took me to decide what to wear to impress Dylan the most. And it’s only brought me pain, literally.”
I want to tell her she looks more beautiful than anything or anyone I’ve ever seen in my life, but it doesn’t seem appropriate.
“So… the meth lab?” She speaks up after a while.
“Right. My club caught wind of some lowlife dealers targeting high school students in our area, so a few of us drove out to their lab and blew it up.” I try shrugging and regret it immediately. “I guess someone saw us, because I was ambushed and tased in a grocery store parking lot three days later.”
“What happens now?” Marissa asks in a small voice.
“Now, the boss of that meth operation gets here and he either ransoms or kills me,” I say bluntly, and she shudders.
