One witness out of the way.Is Dad going to finish what he started last night?I try to lock eyes with Mom, but she’s studiously looking away from me. Inside, I want to shout,can’t you see what he did to me?But years of being beaten down keep me quiet. I don’t think for a moment that she believes the excuse Dad’s come up with for my injury. But that’s Mom, always turning a blind eye. And worse? She covers for him and goes along with all his lies.
“You can help your mother clean up, and then help her with Trip,” Dad pronounces. “The hospital is not expecting you today. I already called in and explained you’ve got the ‘flu.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Insolence would be punished, so instead I incline my head to show my agreement. But just as I’m standing, hands ready to collect the dishes, there’s a roar of motorbikes outside and a loud knocking at the door.
Dad looks furious at the intrusion as he stands up. “Fucking bikers. I go to them. They don’t come here.”
Mom looks concerned. “Maybe it’s not the Kings.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be anyone else.” Dad’s confident, but Mom’s suggestion worries me. What if other motorcycle clubs have heard of his services? The Kings of Anarchy have always treated me with respect, but another club might be different.
As I can’t hold back my curiosity, I follow my father as he goes to the door, hovering a distance away not to make it obvious. When I see Bullseye and Saint supporting a bloodied Short, I cover my mouth to stop the exclamation coming out of it.
“What the hell are you doing here? I come to you, not the other way around,” Dad snaps, without giving thought to the factthat he might be enraging the men who live on the other side of the law. He’s so confident of his value to them, he thinks it’s him who lays down all the terms. And he’s probably right. He holds the upper hand.
For once, their prez looks unsure of himself. He shuffles on his feet, which makes Short lose his balance, almost falling down, until Saint gets a better grip on him. “Sorry, Doc, but we were riding through, and this stupid fucker laid his bike down.” He throws Short a look of pure condemnation. “Fuckin’ accident-prone as you know. Thought, as you lived close, it might be easier for you to treat him here than for us to take him back to the compound. It was hard enough to get him riding bitch for just a short distance.”
Dad’s regarding Short, who could be my twin at the moment – blood pouring from his nose, and the beginnings of two black eyes. But there the similarity ends. There’s obvious road rash on his face, gravel embedded in the grazes. I pray Dad won’t send them away. My hands itch to provide care and comfort to Short just as he did to me last night.
“Well, you’re here,” Dad states at last, his jaw visibly clenched. “Suppose you’ve saved me the trouble of a journey.” He moves away from the door. “You better come in.”
“What’s going on? Oh my God!” My mother’s hand over her mouth and the whitening of her face isn’t put on. The sight of fresh blood makes her feel faint and vomit.
Dad’s quick to save himself from another issue. “Felicity,” he barks. “Go and lie down.”
Quick to obey, she removes herself fast.
“Bronwyn, get my kit, and Bullseye, take Short into the kitchen.” He indicates to the room he’s named. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him bleed on the furniture.”
“I’ll get towels,” I offer quickly. I get a head jerk from Dad, but no thanks.
When I return, Short’s sitting at the breakfast table, remnants of our breakfast we didn’t have time to clear hastily pushed to the side. Dad takes the towels and positions them around his patient.
“You got other injuries?” he queries.
Short speaks for the first time. “Nah, nothing to worry about. The bike slipped out from under me, and I went down, hitting my face on the pavement.” It might be just me, but I don’t miss the glare he sends the biker called Freak.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Dad waves his hand in front of Short’s eyes.
“You’re giving me the V sign.” Short smirks.
“Now?”
“Scout’s salute.” Short’s half-curved lip curls more.
Dad then looks closely into his eyes. “Your pupils are even and not dilated. Looks like the bang to your head wasn’t too hard.”
“He’s fuckin’ hardheaded,” Tempest grunts, then laughs.
“Why you bikers don’t wear helmets, I’ll never understand.” Dad’s quick to criticise.
“Not the law in Arizona,” Short replies.
Dad’s face turns red, and his body tenses. He’s fast losing patience. “Well, all it looks like is you need the gravel washed out of your wounds, then dressed. Bronwyn can do that.”
“Bronwyn looks like she’s been in the wars herself,” Bullseye states lazily. “Hey, darlin’, are you alright? What happened to you?”
Dad’s back goes rigid. “My daughter is just as clumsy as your man here. Tripped and fell into the table. She’s fine.”
