I turn to the last page and see a blank page that was tucked in at the bottom of the file with a messy scrawl across it.
Fair warning:
HE’S AN ASSHOLE.
Ice
Rolling my eyes, I wonder why all men become giant babies after they experience some pain. Well, this Hammer guy can be an asshole all he wants. He is about to meet the one person who won’t put up with his shit: me. Or as Tank likes to call me, Drill Sergeant Bust My Balls.
Chapter
7
~Hammer~
“Dammit to hell!” I scream, launching my coffee mug across the kitchen. “Fucking crippled ass can’t even make coffee.”
This is what life has become: a prisoner in my own body. Sure, I can feel. I’m not paralyzed, so everyone says how this could be worse.
Fuck everyone and their opinions. I’m only human. I crash. I hurt. I burn. I fall apart.
Yes, I feel every bit of pain. The metal holding my hip in place is just as cold on the inside as it would be on the outside.
It takes time they say.
Fuck that, and fuck them.
I’m trying to keep my eyes on the prize, my mind on my new mission: build up my tolerance then be free of my chair. I’m a motherfucking soldier, a green beret, not an invalid. Yet I’m dying inside. Slowly, this is killing me.
I yank the machine, pulling the plug from the wall. However, the knock on my door stops me from having the machine in pieces on my floor.
Placing the coffee brewer back on the counter, my hands come down on the cold metal of the wheels to push.
Wheeling myself to the door, I pause.
Breathe in. Put myself together. Show no weakness. Breathe out.
As soon as I open the door, my brother barrels in, causing me to automatically wheel backward.
“I’ve gotta clean this dump up,” Evan says, dropping a bucket filled with rags and cleaning supplies in front of me. He looks me up and down slowly then smirks. “I’ve gotta clean you up, too. The scruff really isn’t your style, bro.”
I run my hand over the shadow I’m sporting. It’s not my usual, but the damn sink is higher than I can maneuver around, as well as the mirror. Pedestal sink. The realtor said it was a selling feature in my condo. Pain in my ass is what it has become, just like everything else in this place.
I used to love taking the stairs to my fifth floor ocean view with its two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Now I can’t even stand to look at the steps, much less think about taking them.
The bathroom sink isn’t my only challenge now that I’m home. I have a chair in my walk-in shower so my broke ass can wash my balls by myself. I also had someone buy me one of those elongated grab tools so I could reach shit I had no problem taking out of an upper cabinet before. My apartment, apparently, isn’t very handicap friendly.
I have to park my chair at an awkward angle to get the dishes out of the sink and put them in the dishwasher. My chair barely fits through the bedroom doorways, and sometimes, I scrape the paint off the doorframes, which surprised the fuck out of me the first time it happened, because the realtor told me since the apartment was a “bit upscale,” it came with a few rare touches like a higher ceiling, a wider hallway, and bigger doorways.
I am thinking of calling my old realtor and telling that bitch the doorways aren’t big enough.
The other day while I was drinking a beer I wasn’t supposed to have, I gave in to the morbid curiosity of looking up what wheelchair accessible apartments look like. I probably shouldn’t have done that. It only pissed me off more.
Open spaces underneath sinks, lower countertops, wider doorways, and nothing but lower cabinets looked super fucking convenient to a guy who has struggled with a $19.99 late night TV special Grab It and Go piece of shit to get his cups and other shit out of the upper cabinets.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about how much easier life was when I had the use of my legs. No slippery chairs in my shower to drag my useless ass on and off of. No worries about sinks or cabinets. Not to mention, it would be nice to have a warm, wet pussy to lose myself in instead of abusing the alcohol I bribed the college kid across the way to bring me. Now I have to find a way to get rid of all the whiskey and beer bottles before Evan sees them.
What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. If that isn’t the biggest crock of shit I have ever been sold in my life.
I have watched my brothers-in-arms die painfully and far too young. The things that will bring a man to his knees.
This is a torture worse than any enemy could ever give me. I’m helpless.
I was strong. Now I am weak.
Life’s a cruel joke. I can’t do shit.
“Hammer,” Evan calls out, distracting me from my wallowing. “Get with it, brother.” He tosses a rag to me, and I raise an eyebrow. “Mom taught us to clean, so get to it. Chop, chop.”
“Look here, Chipper Chuck—”
“I prefer Chip and Dale, but whatever.” He laughs.
“Why the fuck are you worried about the state of my place suddenly?”
He smiles the smile that wins all the ladies and gets him the most tips at the club. “Ice has someone coming to stay with you.”
Anger boils inside me, and I throw the rag at him. “I don’t need a damn babysitter. What is wrong with you people? I’d rather be dead than have someone in my house, watching over me and wiping my fucking ass.” I am screaming while my brother stands in front of me with shock on his face. “I wish the car would have plowed over me, not just damaged me.” I move to wheel away, but Evan moves in front of me.
“Stop that shit right now!” He leans down and gets in my face. “This is not who you are! This is not the man who brought me from the edge and gave me a reason to dig myself out of the depths of my own hell. You will not die! You should not be in this fucking chair, but you are, so we deal. What you do not do is wallow! You understand me, McCoy! We are better than our lowest points. You taught me that. Don’t show me your actions don’t back up your own words. Don’t give any doubt to all the things you told me to get me through my lowest. Don’t do it, Ethan. You are better than this, stronger than this, and together, we can move mountains, remember?”
I want to punch him. I want to yell. I want to do something, anything: run, feel the burn through my legs, feel my lungs fight for air. I want to push my body to its limits and beyond.
And then I want to cry, wallow, drown in my despair.
I remember when Evan faced his addiction. He was going through withdrawals and begged me to end it for him. At the time, I ached for him. His pain was my pain.
Looking at the man in front of me, the man whose face mirrors my own, I can see he feels my agony. He is on the brink of my defeat. And I can’t do that to my brother. I can’t drag him back down. He is solid now. He has found his footing in life. I won’t take him to hell beside me.
I break eye contact and hang my head. “I guess we better clean up, then.”
Grabbing a rag from the bucket, I roll into the kitchen and start cleaning the countertops. I don’t care if it kills me; I will push through. I will put on a happy face, even as I die inside. Anything to keep my baby brother on the right path.
~Desirae~
The ride was exhausting both physically and emotionally.
Have I completely lost my mind? I mean, I’m leaving everything I know behind to help a complete stranger.
You left everything you knew behind to help Tank. Ride or die, he and the Hellions have your back through everything. They wouldn’t send you somewhere unsafe. You asked for this. You asked for an escape, a new chance at life. They are giving that to you. No cold feet allowed, Desirae Blanche Shythe.
I almost laugh to myself at my inner pep talk. Desirae Blanche Shythe, white desire in French. My parents and their need for a white powder and peace, love, and sunshine; hence, my sister, Suzie Sunshine. If only life could have been the carefre
e way they desired, maybe Suzy would still be alive.
I can’t play the game of maybe, should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. It doesn’t change a damn thing. It is time to suck it up, buttercup, and face my new reality.
It takes a few minutes after we stop to get me out. I stretch as Tank and Tripp do the same. I had water and snacks, but limited myself to make sure I contained any needs until we stopped. I’m not a classy chick, and I find fancy stuff to be for overindulgent people, but I am still a lady—well, I’m a chick with just enough dignity to get by. As much as I love the guys, I don’t just pee anywhere like a man would.
Oh, to have a penis for a day … The things I would do.
“Whatever you’re thinking can’t be good,” Tank says, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“I’m thinking of how much fun it would be to have a dick for a day.”
Tripp laughs. “Gotta pee, I take it?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m a chick, and we stopped the car, so of course I have to pee.”
“Let’s get inside, then.”
I take in the fresh air, breathing deeply as the sunlight hits my face. At least I get to be some place warm and not hiding out in the frozen tundra somewhere.
I lift my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. Sunshine … Suzie.
Warmth washes over me, making me feel like my sister is with me. I can do this. I can find a way to make a new life … without her.
I sigh. No, she’s with me.
I touch my thumb to the underside of the ring on my right pinky. Her ring. It was hers, anyway. I found it in my belongings when I was going through everything after the Hellions moved me to the compound.
It is a simple white gold band twisted into the infinity symbol. She had such tiny fingers. It fit her ring finger, but for me, it slides on my pinky.
Infinity. Forever, I will keep her with me.
Tripp and Tank look around. I am surprised when I see Boomer and Shooter climb out of a car parked not far away. Reality hits me again …
I put Tank in danger. Tripp and Tank had to have Boomer and Shooter followed since we are all at risk. Mob guys, drugs, and a kingpin make all of this feel like a bad action movie. This mess keeps getting bigger and bigger, which also makes me wonder if it will ever stop so life can return to some kind of normal.
Glancing around, I see we are parked behind a large building in what appears to be a fenced in parking lot. I can’t stop my eyebrows from shooting to my hairline when I realize there is barbwire on top of the fence. Are we at a prison of some sort?
Looking back at the building, I catch sight of a black sign with bright pink wording.
Alibi
Alibi? While I doubt it is a last chance sign for prisoners to think up theirs, it certainly does make for an interesting advertisement. I know the Regulators own clubs, but I didn’t expect to be taken here.
More confused than ever, I turn to Tank. “Am I allowed to ask where we are?”
A devious grin spreads across his face. “Strip club.” He gives me a wink, and my jaw drops open in shock.
Why in the hell would they bring me to a freakin’ strip club? Does Sass have any idea that Tank is eye fuckin’ tits and ass when he is away from her? I thought I would be at a home with my patient.
My mind races. I hope like hell he doesn’t live in the back of the club or something crazy like that.
Suddenly, I want nothing more than to punch Tank in his smug face. Unfortunately, I helped nurse that man back to health, and he is nearly as big as his nickname. I would need brass balls and a step stool to accomplish that feat.
Tank laughs as if he can read my mind and then grabs me by my shoulders and turns me around to face Boomer and Shooter. They wave for me to follow then lead the way with me in the middle.
We reach the front door of the club, and I cringe. I read his file. Ethan ‘Hammer’ McCoy. I am here to help him. I won’t have to work a pole, will I?
Suzie, what the hell did you get me into?
I want to hate her and be angry with her. Except, she’s my sister, my now very gone sister. I refuse to taint her memory with the bad, even if the bad is the utmost worst since my life and people I care about are in danger, and we don’t even know why.
With a building sense of dread, I follow the men until we stop at a steel door. Boomer pushes the button on some sort of security system. A small screen above the keypad lights up, and I see a man with dark, curly hair, glasses, and his face to close to the camera when he barks, “What?”
“We’re expected by your prez,” Boomer responds.
Geeky camera guy raises an eyebrow. Then the screen goes black. A minute later, his voice crackles through the speaker system. “Unlocking the door now.”
A buzz sounds, and then I can hear the click of a heavy duty lock sliding out of place. Boomer grabs the door handle and pulls the solid steel door open, waving for Shooter to take us in. I stay right behind Shooter, making it two steps through the doorway before I hear a deep voice speak from ahead of us.
“Shooter, long time.” A man with short, dark hair comes over to greet us.
“Ice.” Shooter smiles, and the two embrace in a half-handshake, half-hug thing with a back slap. He follows that with the same greeting to Boomer.
As Boomer steps back from their greeting, I finally get a chance to take in our greeter. Besides his dark hair, he is wearing a black leather cut like the Hellions do, but his patches are different. I also take note of the “president” patch on his chest. The delicious but scary-looking guy in front of us must be the man expecting us.
Shooter introduces Tripp, Tank, and then me to the Regulators MC president, ‘Ice.’ I can’t help thinking that’s an interesting name as he shakes my hand firmly while the guys step back after sharing a nod amongst them. I am going to assume that nod has to do with me since Ice has been informed of my situation and the need to keep me protected while I help their guy.
Jerking his head to the hallway behind him, he says, “Let’s go out into the main room.”
We follow Ice down a short hallway before entering the main room where Ice walks to a couple of tables in a corner. After a quick glimpse around the club, it finally clicks that we entered the back entrance.
There is a male bartender moving around behind the bar and a woman wiping off tables toward the front of the room by the stages. Besides those two, we are alone.
Waving his hand to the chairs, Ice orders us to sit. Tired and completely over the crate I had to curl myself into, I plop my butt down on the plush-looking chair and give a sigh of relief. My ass has never been more thankful for a good cushion in my entire life.
The men speak some gibberish about rides and runs that I tune out. Instead, I take the opportunity for a more in depth inspection of the club.
Part of me is still terrified they might ask me to dance on a pole for them. I might be fit, and I could dance a little, but the idea of taking my clothes off for men to drool at my girly bits makes my stomach churn. To my surprise, though, I don’t see one stripper pole. Is this some sort of new kind of strip club where the women don’t use the sturdy, shiny poles I have seen in movies and shit?
I keep scanning for some kind of hint before grudgingly admitting to myself that the place is gorgeous. The décor is more than likely totally lost on the men who file in here to throw dollar bills at women who have bigger cojones than I do.
The white lights are dimmed, and in their place are colored lights. Blue and purple accent the seating areas, while pink and red bring customers’ attentions to the brightly lit hardwood stage.
The mirror covered walls on either side of the stage are lined with black leather booths. In the middle sit several cloth-covered tables with the same comfy, black leather chairs. There is a black drop ceiling over the club to probably help keep it cool when the place is packed, and the floor is covered in a paisley patterned carpet. Besides there being no poles
in sight, the carpet also surprises the shit out of me. Not because the club had carpet at all, but because it has hot pink, orange, turquoise, and purple patterns with a black background. Not exactly something I expect to see in a gentleman’s club. Suzie would have loved it, though.
The thought sends a shot of pain through my heart. Everywhere I turn, I see her … even in places I never expected to see her. She really would have loved this carpet, though.
Now is not the time and place to wallow in my misery over my sister. Therefore, I force my mind to think about the task ahead of me.
The men are still speaking in low tones, presumably about more biker gibberish I don’t want to know or hear, while I sit here like a good girl, on the lookout for this Ethan “Hammer” McCoy.
Maybe it is because I’m about to jump out of my skin paranoid, but it feels like I’m sitting there forever, waiting for my patient to show up. I don’t need a full gym, but more than a few tables, a bar, and a stage will be necessary. Hell, even that damn stripper pole I can’t find would be better than nothing for a bit of PT workout.
“Hammer is gonna be tough,” Ice explains, breaking my bubble of concentration, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on the table.
“Drill Sergeant Bust My Balls can take it,” Tank praises me.
“I don’t doubt it under normal circumstances.” Ice pauses and studies me. “Hammer is angry. He has every right to be.” Sadness washes over Ice’s face. “The mission went bad, and he paid the price. He’s gonna give you hell.”
Feeling like I’m under some crazy military scrutiny, I lean forward so he can see the sincerity on my face when I reply firmly, “Sir, I am prepared.” I stop myself from adding an additional sir on the end, just barely.
“We’ll see,” Ice says calmly while adding cryptically, “You’ll either make it, or he’ll break you.”
A tall, bald man with a beard steps out of the back hallway and walks our way. His eyes are dark and his demeanor threatening. Regardless, Shooter and Boomer greet him happily while I silently pray Hammer is nothing like him.
Hammer (Regulators MC Book 2) Page 8