CHAPTER THREE
SHORT
Fuck, but it’s great to be back at the club. Being around civilians always unsettles me, but then I suppose, nobody likes being stuck in a hospital bed, having needles stuck into them, and being prodded and poked. As for the food, it’s exactly what it’s cracked up to be –bland, unappetising, and in far too small portions for a man my size.
Piston and Stalker cheer as I step inside, and beckon me toward the bar where I eye the spirits and beers with remorse. I’d gotten a lecture from the doctor before I discharged myself – in spite of her advice I needed another night on the ward – on the interactions between the antibiotics she’s prescribed and alcohol. It was when she’d gone on to list the ramifications that I’d started listening to her. While I usually show someone the finger if they warn me against doing something, the idea of spending the night praying to the porcelain god, risking tearing the stitches in my lung while I’m at it, is enough to put me off having a drink for now.
And damnit, I can’t even smoke a joint to take the edge off.
Still, fed up with lying in bed, I limp my way over to where they’re sitting and gingerly perch myself on a stool, one hand on the counter to support me.
“Good to see you back, Short,” the prospect, Heathen, tells me. Apparently, he’s the bartender for today. Knight, our other prospect, had been the one to collect me from the hospital and bring me home. “Whatcha having?”
“Soda,” I growl, then scowl to make sure no one’s going to comment about my choice of refreshment.
Footsteps sound behind me as I’m reaching for the drink, then a heavy hand lands on the back of my cut, and kid you not, to my embarrassment, I scream like a fucking girl. Which isn’t great, as my lungs still hurt when forced to expand. I double over, my leg buckles, and to add insult to injury, I fall to the floor.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Rattler’s voice sounds from my rear. Even turning around is currently beyond me. “Here, let me help you up.”
“I got it,” I growl, not trusting him to not drop me on my ass again. Slowly, I get my good leg beneath me, and with the help of the rungs of the stool, slowly make my way up until I’m in a standing position.
“Rattler!” Bullseye storms out of his office. “What the fuck are you doing? Short’s only just out of the hospital, and against medical advice.” Then, to me, he asks, “Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy and lying in bed?”
“I’ll rest when I have to, Prez.” I look toward Piston. “You think you can do me a favour and beat the fuck out of Rat for me?”
Piston flexes his hands, cracking his knuckles in the process. “Would be my fuckin’ pleasure.”
“For fuck’s sake, I just got this man out of the hospital, and now you’re suggesting you put another back there?” Prez rolls his eyes.
“Hey, I can take him,” Rat comments.
Piston snorts. “You and whose fuckin’ army?”
Rat’s moved where I can see him. My glance bounces between the two men. Piston’s got a hundred pounds or so more on him. He’s not fat. He’s solid muscle. Even I would think twice before upsetting our secretary, and that’s without the knowledge that, back in his day, he was an MMA champion. Rat, on the other hand, while fit, is lean, a featherweight who’d definitely be in the wrong league.
Bullseye shakes his head. “If you have to kill him, you’ll have to schedule it later. With Short back with us, I’m going to call church. Unless you think avenging Short’s vulnerability is worth more than addressing what we’re going to do about the Mojave Devils? Which, I’d like to remind you, we’ll probably need all hands on deck for, and preferably healthy.”
“Step down, Piston,” I sigh as I tell him. “Rat might not be worth much, but he can handle a gun. Now, anyway, perhaps not so well if you put hands on him.”
Joining us, Stalker snorts.
Rat throws his arms up, palms in the air. “Why does everyone think so little of me?”
“Because you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.” Piston deliberately bumps into him, causing Rat to stagger. “And because you’re a pain in the ass.”
Raising my soda, I salute our secretary. “Made a good point, there.”
He clinks his beer bottle with my glass.
“Fuck’s sake.” Prez rolls his eyes and wears an expression that suggests he’s corralling children. “Heathen, call the rest of the brothers in. Church in an hour, and you,” he deliberatelypoints his finger toward Piston, Rattler, Stalker, then me, “better fuckin’ behave yourselves.”
Stalker speaks at the same time I do, and says exactly the same thing. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Bullseye sighs heavily, flicks his middle finger at us, and leaves.
Rattler huffs. “An hour? Well, I’m off to get a sweet butt to sink my cock into.”
My eyes roll to the heavens as I remember another of the doctor’s warnings. She’d issued dire threats about the damage any strenuous activity could cause. She can certainly describe shit in vivid detail.
