“Count me in,” Tempest and Saint say simultaneously.
“Yeah.” Prez nods slowly. “Might need some backup to get this plan in place.”
“What fuckin’ plan?” I growl.
“One in which you have a starring role,” Bullseye states ominously. “Looks like you’re going to show off how accident-prone you are, and somehow end up needing emergency attention, right near Doc’s house.”
As my mouth drops open, Freak jumps in, clearly relishing what Bullseye has laid out. “He could come off his bike.”
“Firstly,” I object. “I ain’t no stunt rider, and secondly, my bike’s only just back on the road.”
“Rideable, yes,” Prez says casually. “But the scrapes and dents haven’t yet been knocked out.”
I’m not liking this suggestion. Nothing is appealing about it at all. “To convince Doc, I’d have to have a real injury.”
Bullseye nods. “Maybe a bad case of road rash? Nothing permanent or disabling.”
“No way, no how.” I’m not prepared to entertain the idea. I suppose some people can manage the way they fall off a bike, but not me. My skills lie keeping it upright.
“Got some sympathy with Short,” Saint reenters the conversation. “How about one of us knocks him out, gives him a concussion, and just say he’s come off his bike.”
“I’ll hit him,” Freak’s quick to volunteer.
Prez stares at Freak then nods. “That will work. Of course, you don’t actually have to give him a concussion, just make it look like you could have.” He turns that unemotional stare on to me again. “You up to take a little pain to help the girl you’re so interested in?”
“Not interested in her,” I growl but fuck me if I don’t find myself agreeing. What’s a fist to the face if it gets us answers on what exactly is going on in Doc’s house? I’d rather it were me who was punched any day if it could save Bronwyn from taking a similar punishment again.
