Expose

by C. D. Breadner

  "Why is everyone so pissed off?"

  Buck cast a look at the arguing factions and shook his head. "Normally we'd get called right away if one of our guys got hurt. The hospital called to tell us, one of the doctors that saw him get admitted. The Deputy didn't say a word to us or the Sheriff, which is why she's pissed off. He tried to take care of everything before letting anyone else in on it, but he got caught. We'll never know if he intended to do any of it."

  "Why would a doctor tell you guys?"

  "Tracy Webber's a local. Grew up here, she knows how it is with the club. Just like Downey."

  Doctor Webber was the same young woman who'd tended to her when she'd gone in for her acid burns. All of her words came back in a rush, and they made all the more sense now. Rose sought out the Deputy in question. "Do you think he's in on this?"

  Now Buck's face grew cold. "We're going to find out, Rose. I promise."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  She woke with her head on Fritter's shoulder. She didn't know how it had gotten there, but he smiled kindly as she sat up. "The doctor's here. She'll talk to us now."

  He must have said her name to wake her up, but she didn't remember it. She just nodded and stood, following his lead to down the hall. She didn't know where her girls had gotten to, but she'd told them to go ahead back to her apartment or out for something to eat. They must have taken her advice while she'd been asleep.

  Fritter's hand was warm on her back, and the gesture was so much like something Tank would do tears welled up. She kept them in check, though, as another man approached them in a white lab coat.

  "You're Rose? Trevor's fiancé?"

  She nearly said no, but Fritter cut in, his southern accent all charm. "Yeah, this is his soon-to-be-old-lady." He smiled over at her.

  "Yeah, that's me. Tank's old lady." The words didn't sound weird. They sounded ... good.

  "He came in with a severe brain bleed. The swelling was extensive, so we had to drill into his skull to relieve the pressure. He went into seizure during the procedure but we were able to stabilize him. He also has a broken hand, but we were able to set the bones. That should heal just fine."

  Rose's legs felt flimsy but Fritter's arm was around her waist before she swayed. Or, at least it seemed that way.

  "He's in recovery right now. The next few hours are crucial to his survival." The doctor took a deep breath, looking from her to Fritter and back to her again. "They don't allow visitors in recovery, but I believe the sound of a loved one's voice can do a patient a world of good. If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you see him for five minutes."

  She gasped, she was so happy, but he held up a finger.

  "Five minutes only. Don't touch or jostle him. You can talk to him, that's all. Understood?"

  She nodded eagerly. She'd agree to almost anything just to see him.

  "I'll be right here," Fritter said, pushing her gently to the doctor. "Tell him we all said hey."

  She nodded with a nervous smile, then followed the doctor down the hallway, past a row of stainless-steel paneled doors and down an incredibly quiet hallway. The lights were even dimmer here. One room's door stood open and the surgeon motioned her in ahead of him, whispering "Five minutes," as she passed.

  Rose paid him no mind. In the elevated bed lay Tank, arms limp at his sides. The hospital gown didn't fit him well, but that wasn't what drew her attention. It was how pale he was. And ... did they cut his hair?

  She drew closer to the bedside, covering her mouth. They'd shaved the right half of his head, and from under a bandage ran tubes. His mouth was slack in his drug-induced sleep, a tube down his throat to make sure he was breathing. Another machine in the corner beeped out what could only be his pulse.

  "Oh my God," she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest to stop herself from reaching for his hand. Christ, she wanted to touch him. It was so hard to remember that the doctor said all she could do was talk.

  Rose stood right next to him, staring down on him in this viciously vulnerable state. "Cowboy?" she said softly, voice breaking as tears spilled down her cheeks. "You look good. I hope you're not hurting, babe."

  Her hands itched with the need to be on his skin but she clenched them tighter to herself.

  "I only have five minutes, Tank. I want to say I'm sorry I walked away from you. That I didn't hear you out. I was scared, but that only meant I should talk to you about it. Because I know with you I have nothing to be scared of. The only thing scarier than what happened last night would be not having you anymore. I couldn't take that. And I promise I'm never running from you ever again, Cowboy. That's a shitty thing to do to someone you love." She let out a sob at that. "I love you, Tank. I love you so much. So please come through this. I want to marry you. I want to give you fat, hairy babies. Please, please come through this."

  No reaction, no stirring, but her heart felt lighter for having said all that. When her time was up she just repeated that she loved him, and the doctor led her back to the waiting room.

  Fritter looked worried when he saw her. "How'd he look?"

  "Like he was sleeping. There's a machine breathing for him, and they're draining fluids from his head."

  Fritter nodded. "Yeah, they had to do that for Gertie when she got beat up." Then he looked concerned. "They shave his head, too?"

  She nodded. "Half of it."

  Fritter smiled, covered it, then smiled again. "Fuck, he's gonna be pissed they cut his hair off."

  Rose stared at him, stunned. "What?"

  Fritter chuckled, then tried not to. But it was hard for him to do. "He loves his hair. He's surprisingly vain about it, especially when you consider how hard he tries to look like he doesn't give a shit. He's gonna be pissed."

  Rose stared at him for a moment, and then she surprised herself by laughing. She had to slap her hand over her mouth, but that didn't stop it. Fritter was laughing along with her, but the difference was he didn't have tears rolling down his face like she did. While she laughed and cried, he pulled her into a hug, rubbing circles on her back.

  "Tank will be fine," he assured her when she quieted. "He'll be back for you. Just wait and see."

  -oOo-

  After ten hours in recovery, Tank was transferred to a regular room. That was a good sign. It was also a good sign when, three days later, they removed the breathing tube and he began drawing air on his own.

  Now they just had to wait for him to wake up. No one would know what the impact of his injuries would be until he did and they could assess him. They talked about nerve damage, neurological injuries, all kinds of scary shit like that. But Rose refused to be drawn into despair. He'd wake up, she knew it. He'd be fine.

  She went to the apartment once to pack a few things, and after that she was in his room all the time. It had its own bathroom, so she could shower and use the toilet when she needed to. The nurses brought her a cot to sleep in at night. She wasn't going anywhere until he was ready to go home from the hospital.

  There were police officers watching his door. He was, after all, still under arrest for assault. Not to be outdone, Jayce assigned a Red Rebel to also be outside the door. Rose had heard him snap something at Sheriff Downey about not intending to offend her, but lately the PD track record of protecting prisoners was severely lacking. His tone hadn’t been kind, and Buck had said something about watching what he said, and even Fritter had jumped to the Sheriff's defense, saying that all this was unnecessary bullying or something like that.

  Rose had never seen Jayce so agitated, but she knew it came from a feeling of helplessness. Like shouting at people and getting angry was making it up to Tank for not being able to keep him safe. But it seemed no one had taken the arrest seriously. Even Knuckles had told her this was pretty basic and that he was sure nothing would come of it.

  Rose didn't know all the intricacies of the Rebels' relationship with local law enforcement, but she was starting to get the sense that there was a bit of an alliance there that someone was tr
ying to tear apart. Rose was confident that Downey wasn't in on that, but she wasn't so sure about that Deputy. He was a hardheaded man, and the exchanges she overheard gave her the impression he knew he might have been wrong, but he'd never admit it.

  She let these discussions happen around her, like snippets from a soap opera on a television set she wasn't watching. She sat at the bedside, leaning on the thin hospital mattress, her hand resting on his wrist above his cast. She would run her thumb over his skin and think out loud, just for some kind of sound in the room other than beeping monitors.

  At her request, Fritter had gone into Tank's dorm and collected some of his dog-eared paperbacks. She sat there and read the stories out loud to him, and when her voice became raw she'd stop and sob into those yellowed pages.

  He needed to be okay. She needed him to be okay, to look at her and tell her he was okay.

  Brandi loaded up her iPod with dozens of songs that could only be called "Tank's kind of music." She put one ear bud in his ear and listened to the other one, resting her head on his arm. When she knew the words, she quietly sang along with it.

  God only knew where these ideas were coming from. She just wanted to surround him with all the stuff he liked so he'd wake up. Decide this was where he wanted to be. And by rehashing everything he liked, it was becoming incredibly apparent she'd be a disaster without him.

  The club didn't try to dissuade her from this, which she appreciated. They checked on her, asked her if she needed anything. Asked when was the last time she'd eaten, reminded her that she needed food, too. Then they'd bring her something edible so she wouldn't have to leave the room.

  Her girls came as a group, and they were supportive, but they could only stand to sit in a quiet room with her for so long. Gloria sometimes came on her own in the evenings to sit a while. Rose knew they were worried about her, but they only thought they understood what she was going through.

  Gertie and Jolene absolutely understood. When they came by they asked if he'd moved, tried to talk, what the doctors were saying now. It was all about Tank during their visits because they got it. They madly loved their men too, and when they saw Tank like this they could only imagine their own men in the same state. They did her laundry for her, brought the clean clothes by and made sure she had reading material for herself as well. But she pretty much stuck with Tank's books.

  In a weird way it also made it feel like he was still here. Somehow.

  When the hospital got quiet and visiting hours were over, she would rest her head on her arm, along the edge of his mattress. From that angle she'd stare down the length of his slack limbs, tracing her fingers up and down the veins under the skin of his arm. When his hair would stand on end and gooseflesh popped up she had to smile. That and the sound of his breathing gave her hope he was coming back.

  Sometimes she fell asleep in that position and woke up with an aching back. But usually she'd wait until the lights dimmed in the hall and the nurse came by to wish her a goodnight before retiring to her own little cot. But not before kissing his cheek and saying goodnight to him as well.

  Then she'd curl up on the cot on her side so she could watch him until her eyelids got too heavy to keep open. Her sleep would be deep until it was time to get up and start all over again the next morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Rose sat in the chair at his bedside, like always. She guessed it to be about two in the afternoon. Visitors were coming and going in the corridor. Knuckles was standing guard in the hallway, and he came through the door with a vase of flowers, frowning at them like he'd never seen anything like them before. It made her laugh.

  "Who are those from?" she asked.

  "No card," he answered, setting them down and searching amongst the stems to confirm it. "That's weird. A nurse came by and asked me to put them in here. Said someone dropped them off."

  "It’s pretty."

  It was, made up of bright daisies and carnations with baby's breath spilling out between the blooms. They were both staring at the flowers; maybe that was why it took them so long to realize they weren't alone.

  Rose only jerked when the door shut. Two men were in the room she didn't know, and as she watched, one reached into his kutte while the other headed for Knuckles, who was already striding forward as well. In a stunned impression of a statue she watched the men silently engage in an actual physical altercation that upset the table behind Knuckles, knocking the flowers to the floor with a smash.

  It startled her, and before she could get up, the second man had her arm and was pulling her to her feet. She couldn't move, she was frozen. Again. Just like in the grocery store. Just like when that kid grabbed her.

  The man was talking; she just took a moment to put it together. "Looky here," he growled, turning her and pulling her against his chest. His arm cut across her stomach tightly, and her hands lamely tried to peel it away. "Another little Rebel gash to play with. Little darker than I usually like 'em, but lucky for you I'm such a giver."

  She knew what he meant to do to her, and the way he used the word another made her cringe. These were the same group of men that hurt Gertie. The clarity of that revelation did something to her.

  "Now let's watch your old man finally kick it, and we'll have a little fun. Alright, darling?"

  His arm came up beside her. There was a gun in his hand. She knew nothing of guns, she couldn't identify it. But he cocked it, that was a term she knew, and before he had a chance to pull the trigger she ... Well, she snapped out of it.

  She rammed the heel of her flat into his instep. When he howled and leaned forward, nearly toppling her over, she grabbed his arm and slammed it downward, connecting with her thigh. His elbow made a weird noise and the gun slipped free.

  He stood upright, pushed her off of him then backhanded her across the cheek. It stung, but they were here to kill Tank. She couldn't let that happen.

  He was scrambling for the gun. She leapt onto his back, surprising him, and they hit the ground next to the bed, upending the tray table that the doctors and nurses set all their shit on when they came in to check on him or administer medications. It hit the ground, incredibly loud, but she went into full attack mode.

  There was no sound, no fear, no pain. She was strong, she was brave, and she kept repeating that to herself as she grabbed two fistfuls of this asshole's hair and began beating his face against the ground.

  One of her knees had managed to pin his hand down, leaving only one free to try to roll out from under her or toss her off. She didn't realize any of that until later, when Knuckles was helping her up, talking softly and trying to calm her down.

  When she was standing, Knuckles' arm around her waist as he spoke to her, she saw that the man had gotten hold of the gun. He just hadn’t been able to get an angle on her to shoot her. And now he wasn't moving, and there was a lot of blood.

  A lot.

  "Rose?" Knuckles' voice finally broke through, like the radio finally hit the frequency just right.

  She blinked at him.

  "Rose, talk to me. You've gone all silent on me. Are you all right?"

  She nodded.

  Now he smiled, looking slightly dazed. She noticed his eyebrow was split, but he was otherwise unhurt. "Fuck, Rose. I don't know whether to hug you or keep my distance."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but she was again in that paralysis state that left her feeling stupid and vulnerable.

  The door opened behind them. It happened swiftly enough that the shifting air moved her hair, tickled her arms. In slow motion Knuckles was telling someone to fuck off, demanding to know where they were when two assassins had come into the room.

  Ah, the sheriff’s department then.

  Someone took her by the shoulders, pushing her around to the wall beside the door roughly, shoving her body against it. Her hands prevented her face from hitting the wall, but she doubted she would have felt it.

  "Get the fuck off of her! She was defending herself, you fucking moron!"
<
br />   Slow motion playback stopped, and real-time suddenly seemed too fast and vivid. She turned her head to see Knuckles being manhandled out into the hallway by two of the officers she recognized from guard duty.

  Knuckles was straining, fighting to break free of them. She'd never seen him like this, red-faced and raging, furious, like a bound animal being tortured. She saw one of the officers punch him in the stomach, the other knocking him a good one in the jaw to take him down. There was another hit before she cried out, telling them to cut it out.

  But they wouldn't, because he was still fighting, and slowly she realized why.

  The cops were taking her and him away, which left no one here other than nurses and hospital security.

  The officer behind her pressed on the back of her head, forcing her face into the wall painfully. "That's enough, honey," the man said, not entirely unkind. "He's doing it to himself."

  Knuckles was bruised and bloodied before the fight left him. By then, Rose was handcuffed, being led out of Tank's room. A bubble of panic nearly choked her before she noticed Doctor Webber by the nurse's station. The woman was on the phone, and as she caught Rose's eye she mouthed "I'm calling them" with a nod.

  Water rose in her eyes as she nodded back her thanks, then let the officer behind her lead her out of the hospital to his cruiser.

  -oOo-

  Rose guessed this room was about five feet by five feet, the table likely two and a half by four. Ridiculously oversized for the space, especially once three folding chairs were added to the mix.

  No personality, other than marks and gouges in the walls. No mirror either, which was disappointing. TV shows lied about everything.

  She had the creeping belief she might be losing her mind. In the car she'd started shaking, not from cold but just from ... she didn't even know. Now she felt anxious, fidgety, and her palms were itchy. She kept rubbing them on her leggings, but there was no relief.

  She'd been tossed in this room about twenty minutes ago. Or so she thought. It could have been longer, or shorter. No clock in the room, either.