Page 8 of Psycho

Barrett nodded and released my elbow.

“Watch your back out there, Bobbie. And I hope your friend is worth it.”

He is, I thought. He’s worth everything and more.

Chapter three

Psycho

“Go home, Psycho,” Pretty Boy said. “Get some rest.”

I drained the bitter dregs of my coffee—my third cup in the past hour. After my shift at the garage was over, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for hours.

But Huxley and The Filthy Rebels probably wanted my head on a spike. And home…well, home would be too quiet. Too lonely.

The clubhouse was a welcome distraction, with bikers coming and going around the clock. A pleasant hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by laughter, and the clink of whiskey glasses and beer bottles. The main room buzzed with activity, and it kept me grounded in the here and now, instead of drifting off into the flashbacks and dissociation of my mind.

“I’m fine,” I said, setting my empty mug on the bar.

Pretty Boy frowned.

“You’re chugging coffee at eight o’clock at night, but you can barely keep your eyes open.”

I shrugged.

“It’s been a long day.”

He surveyed me for a moment with an assessing look. Then he propped his elbows on the bar and leaned in, lowering his voice.

"Is there something we need to talk about?"

I fiddled with my mug, turning it around and around. For the most part, I knew it wasn't my fault that I had post traumatic stress disorder. And I knew I wasn't to blame for the struggles that came with it.

But I still didn't like talking about it.

After riding with these men and living alongside them for eight years, I trusted them with my life. They didn't care about my past as long as I showed up to watch a brother's back when he called for help.

They knew…a few things about the state of my mental health.

They knew about my brief stay in a psychiatric hospital in my early twenties, where I ran into Bobbie again after leaving foster care.

They knew about my nightmares, when I was asleep in a back room of the clubhouse and it took four men to wake me up while I fought against them like a rabid dog.

Sometimes, it seemed as if I walked a thin line between sanity and madness and it was difficult putting that into words.

"I'm just battling some personal demons, Prez."

Pretty Boy’s eyes narrowed with a skeptical look. He rapped his knuckles against the bar.

“Well, Hillbilly’s snitch reached out. She has some information we can use on Huxley’s whereabouts and we’re meeting within the hour.”

A jolt shot up my spine and I rose to my feet.

“I’m coming with you.”

Pretty Boy gave a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Sit your ass down. You’re staying here.”