Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  I’m schooled about patches and vests, which are considered their colors. The brotherhood. Their club, Corrupt Chaos, which is actually a club for military veterans, and her uncle, by marriage, is the club president.

  Thor and Smoke, as they are known by their road names, remain quiet through the whole ordeal. As Bridget, who seems to be highly versed in the MC lifestyle, runs through the basics with their approval. I’m not sure why she is telling me all this. Though, I’m guessing it has to do with making me comfortable enough with the prospect of moving in with people I don’t know. People who are part of a motorcycle club. Which still has me freaking out a little.

  “Do you have any questions?” she finishes, and I shake my head, still trying to digest what she’d said.

  “Oh,” she adds, lifting her hand to smack herself in the forehead with a giggle, “and one more thing: Casanova found your car outside the gas station and had it towed over to our house. The only thing Dad touched was your purse, for identification purposes. It’s parked in our barn now.”

  Right now, I’m too afraid to ask about my car’s condition, so I’ll wait to see it for myself next week.

  Scrubbing my hands over my face, I yawn and sink into my hospital bed. Is it wrong that I feel exhausted already? All this talking, listening, and thinking has my brain working on overdrive. Just when I thought I’d be living somewhere in New York by now, here I am in some small, Kentucky town. My visitors are agreeable enough, which is a bonus, I suppose. Although I can’t help but wonder if all of this is just a nightmare that I’ll eventually wake up from.

  Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back, and Bridget comments, “All right, guys, I think it’s time for you to head out. Magdalene’s getting tired. I’ll take tonight’s shift.”

  Tonight’s shift? Opening my eyes, I tilt my head to the side and regard her with pinched brows.

  She catches my questioning look and explains, “Dad’s been staying most nights when he’s not working. But, a nurse last night kicked him out, so I came up here instead. He’s not much company now that you’re awake.”

  Lachlan scoffs under his breath, and she continues, undeterred. “He’s quiet ‘round most people. I’ll stay if that’s all right with you?”

  Someone to stay with me in the hospital? I’d much rather have Bridget here. Her dad. . .he’s. . .he’s not someone I want staying the night with me. I know that much. I’m just glad she offered instead of inviting herself; even if they’ve been doing it since I was first admitted. Not that one can complain when comatose.

  A single nod is my reply to her before I reclose my eyes, trying to become invisible. Or, for it to convince the men to leave without me having to be rude.

  What I really want to ask is why they're so nice to me, and why are they trying to take care of me? I just don’t want to ask with either men present. I’ll ask Bridget later when both large, room-swallowing men aren’t present.

  The longer I quietly lay here, listening to their heavy breathing and inhaling their distinct scents, the quicker the walls close in. Suffocating me. Making me antsy. Claustrophobic. I’ve never been this way before.

  Their presence is making my skin tingle and my insides squirm. I can feel their eyes pinned on me. Staring at one hot mess.

  Why won’t they leave?

  Minutes slip by, and the heat from their stares begins to scald my flesh as I pretend to be asleep. Keeping my breathing even is the hardest part, when all I want to do is pant for breath while my heart continues to hammer uncontrollably in my chest. The knot that forms in my throat . . . I can’t even swallow, in fear they’ll notice I’m awake.

  “Dad,” Bridget whispers.

  “Aye?” he replies just as quietly.

  What is it with his voice, his tone, his accent? It’s different.

  “You both know you can leave me with her.”

  “I’m not leavin’ till he does,” Thor whispers.

  “Nothing is going to happen to her when you’re gone, Dad. The worst is over. You stopped the bleeding. You plugged the hole in her neck. You saved her life already. There is nothing left to save. Go home. Get some sleep. Let the dog out. Mom should be home by now.”

  Plugged the hole in my neck? Stopped the bleeding? I can’t even imagine the sight he must have seen. Maybe I’ve traumatized him. Although, I highly doubt that. He doesn’t seem like a man to be easily traumatized.

  And Bridget’s right; there is nothing more to save. Physically, I will heal, and emotionally, I’m not troubled by the damage inflicted. I’ve been through much worse. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Right? Just another bump in the road. Another shitty hand dealt. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

  All I know right now is that Lachlan and Thor need to go home. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep until they do.

  “Dad.” Bridget’s voice is firmer this time.

  “I know, I know, wee daughter,” he mumbles.

  Wee? Where do I remember that from? The angel who touched me that night. Whoa, wait, that was him? He caressed me? No! That can’t be right. Can it?

  Crap. . .

  Quickly, I toss those thoughts over the ledge before that strange feeling in my stomach gets any worse. It’s bad enough with them staring. Knowing, thinking, guessing that he might have. . .you know. That’s. . . I don’t know what that is. But it’s not helping the sensation in my stomach, I know that much. I’m just going to pretend it was a real angel.

  Couch groaning, heavy feet shuffling, and a bunch of hushed whispers say their goodbyes. My hospital door opens and closes, then a single pair of feet stride across the linoleum.

  The couch groans for a second time. “I know you’re awake, Magdalene,” Bridget comments playfully.

  Not wanting to open my eyes or acknowledge her keen senses, I continue to pretend, and soon my pretending slips into the real thing.

  “Goodnight, Magdalene,” are the last words I hear before I drift into sweet oblivion, where those cunning teal eyes are sure to follow.

  Goodnight, Bridget.

  I’m. In. Hell. And, about to break free.

  There're no butts about it. I’m living in the undeniable, bedridden-depths of flesh, eviscerating hell. Shimmery golden flames lick the walls while the Devil cackles in the background.

  This dream I thought I’d waken from isn’t a dream at all; it’s my afterlife. Where I’m damned to an agonizing eternity in. . .what again?

  You guessed it. . . . H.E.L.L.

  Or, like my grams used to call it, H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

  Do you wanna know why I’m here?

  You nodding?

  Good.

  Other than the fact that God has decided to make me pay penance for whatever reason by being tormented daily. The executor? A singular, room swallowing, broody, self-confidence murdering, gargantuan, who openly refuses to take a hike in order to give my mind, body, and soul, a moment's rest.

  The worst of it all?

  He’s here every single gosh-frickin’ day, almost all day. In the mornings when I wake up, he’s always sitting on the couch in my room, sipping fragrant coffee from a white Styrofoam cup, looking grouchy as he stares a hole through my head. On a rare occasion, I catch him playing with his phone, which never lasts long. Then, if he doesn’t have to work, he spends every waking moment in my room, never leaving, as he slowly kills me with his soul-sipping silence.

  Have you ever peed in a bedpan with a stranger in your room? It’s bad enough doing it with a nurse present. Add Lachlan, and I’m in H.E.L.L. Or, how about changing out of your hospital gown while your nurse helps you wipe down with baby powder scented wipes? Then washes your hair in this weird contraption that you know they must use in old folks homes. It takes embarrassing to a whole new level. Sure, he is polite enough to close his eyes and turn his head without me having to throw a paper ball at his thick skull and reminding him to do so. But he’s still present, still listening to me pee, change, and wipe the bed-ick off my dry skin.

  I can�
��t wait to slather myself in coconut scented body butter again, or brush my teeth in the sink, or shave, or roll on quality deodorant again. Those small things that you take for granted are definitely things I will never take for granted again. Peeing in a toilet is a luxury I can’t wait to partake in. Two-ply toilet paper—another luxury I’m dying to use. This bedridden stuff is no joke.

  Oh...and god forbid the tattooed, rusty-haired ginger has to speak to lowly ol’ me. Well, aside from listening to me urinate. I’m pretty sure I’ve yet to see him staring without his eyebrows pinched in a scowl. And, just when you think his face is permanently frozen in that position, Bridget shows up and washes the scowl clean off his face. Oh. . .I’d also like to point out—I don’t even think he knows how to smile. Which is odd, considering how much his daughter is smiling all the time, day and night. Smile, smile, smile—It’s as sweet as pie.

  Bridget. That girl. . .she’s a godsend. My saving grace. A guardian angel. She also visits the hospital every day and inadvertently keeps my sanity intact. Especially since mind-numbing TV isn’t really my thing.

  I can’t tell you the last time I watched a movie or TV show; it’s a hard thing since technology has never grown on me. It’s too disconnected.

  All I ever had growing up was farmer vision on my grandma’s old box TV. You know the one where you had to get up and use a dial to change the channel? That’s the one. Our phone, too, was an ancient, cream rotary that hung on the wall in the kitchen. Heck, I’d never been to a movie theater till Brian took me when I was sixteen. Even then, it didn’t hold much appeal. We made-out through most of it, anyhow.

  To put it plainly, my grams was old school. We baked, canned, raised chickens, and grew our own fruits and vegetables. When the housework wasn’t keeping me busy, I was reading. Classics, cookbooks, romance novels—you name it, and me and my grams devoured it. Stephen King was her favorite author, while I could never settle on just one.

  Then, when I got older, you know, after Brian came into my life, cars, and more specifically, their engines, became my new passion. Still are to this day. There’s nothing sweeter than the scent of grease as you rebuild a transmission.

  Put it this way: there are some women who use Yoga to achieve their Zen; then there’s me. Where jamming to classic rock or country music while bent over the hood of a car, wrenching, gives me that same peace.

  I’m not really sure why I’m rattling off all this nonsensical crap to you. Guess I’m just trying to pass the time in the elevator on the way down to the car before I can break out of this joint. And more importantly, so I’m not stuck in a room with him, nearly twenty-four hours a day. The first night awake was my reprieve. Since then, I’ve been accosted by his presence, his manly scent, and more disconcertedly, his shrewd, calculating eyes. I can’t wait to have some alone time away from them.

  Ding. The elevator doors chime open.

  Bright light casts through the tall, hospital windows as a nurse wheels me across the tiled lobby. Mechanical doors slide open, granting us exit to the fresh outdoors. The final door zips shut behind us, allowing me to fully inhale a deep breath of crisp summer air. The hint of fresh-cut grass and flowers drifts on the slight breeze, wafting through my hair. Closing my eyes for a moment, I relish in my newfound freedom.

  “You ready?” the nurse asks.

  I nod my reply for the millionth time this week, and she rolls me forward.

  Straight ahead, Lachlan stands next to a black SUV in the direct sunlight. Highlights of brilliant red dazzle in the rays, mingling with the darker rust of his hair. It’s even lighter than I thought, and his goatee has gone untrimmed today. That’s unusual for him.

  Approaching the back passenger side door, he holds it open as the horn beeps. I turn my attention to the driver seat where Bridget is waving animatedly with a giant smile. “Hurry up, slow poke. Let’s get you home!” she hollers.

  The nurse rolls my wheelchair next to the vehicle and sets the brakes before rounding to the front. I’m not much help with a cast that goes all the way from the top of my thigh down to my foot, leaving my knee and ankle joints immovable. Not to mention the forearm casts I’m wearing like they’re the newest fashion statement. Bleck.

  It’s not too hard to hobble into the SUV with the help of my nurse. My leg stretches through the middle two seats, and the nurse waves a quick goodbye before Lachlan pushes my door shut. Through the tinted window, I catch him sneak a peek my way and try to ignore it.

  Suction from the back hatch opens and closes while the giddy Bridget sings along with the radio. Her excitement makes me grin.

  Soon, the vociferous rumble of a motorcycle springs to life at our rear.

  “Looks like Dad’s ready,” Bridget remarks putting the SUV in gear.

  Buildings and stoplights swiftly turn into vast fields of farmland as we cruise out of town. The loud motorcycle tore off not long after we left the hospital, which has allowed me to breathe easier. Bridget’s spent most of the drive singing to a country radio station, tapping her hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. Even though she can’t carry a tune in a bucket; I’m adoring her spirited rendition of Carrie Underwood’s; ‘Good Girl’, while resting my head against the soft, tan leather of the SUV’s seat.

  Bridget makes a right onto an unpaved side road. Tall flourishing trees line either side of the vehicle as we slowly creep down the bumpy gravel drive. At the end, the tree line breaks into a clearing, and I sit up to peer around the passenger seat. Straight ahead there’s an old, single-story, brick house with white shutters and a magnificent wraparound porch. The picture is topped off with stark white rocking chairs, and lifeless flower boxes attached to the railings. From the looks of them, the flowers died years ago and now they’ve become a cemetery for dead annuals. It’s depressing.

  “We’re here,” she singsongs, cruising along the wide driveway, around the side of the house, and down an incline. At the bottom, she parks and cuts the engine.

  Staring out of my window and up at the single story house, I notice a walkout basement. A large wooden deck built off the main story serves as shade over the lower concrete patio. Lounge chairs and a rocker welcome guests, while the large, sliding glass door provides a wide entrance into the basement.

  “What do ya think?” Bridget chirps from the driver’s seat as she opens her door. Inside the house, a dog barks his welcome.

  Unable to reply to her without a phone or pad of paper, I grin and unlatch my door.

  “Let me get your wheelchair.” She climbs out of the truck and slams her door shut. The gravel crunches under her shoes as she walks to the back of the SUV and opens the hatch. Bridget grunts from strain, hefting my wheelchair out before she recloses the back.

  Carefully, I twist so my leg hangs out of the door as I ready to transfer into the chair. It’s time to welcome myself into this new house, and my journey to recovery. I just hope we can make it inside without incident. Wish us luck. We’re gonna need it.

  Dad, tomorrow I’ll drive Magdalene home in the Tahoe while you pick up her medicine. Sound good?

  Yesterday, Pip had texted that tae me when I was watchin’ the lass learnin’ tae get in and out of her wheelchair on her own. Bloody painful tae watch when I could do that for her myself.

  Now, I’m sittin’ here on my Harley outside the pharmacy, waitin’ on her scripts tae get filled. I dunno why I listened tae Pip, when all I’m doin’ is worrying if they got home all right. What if she couldn’t get the lass inside?

  Tuggin’ my phone from the front pocket of my jeans, I shoot Pip a text.

  Are ya home yet?

  Maybe I should call. Waitin’ on this textin’ business will fuckin’ put me into an early grave. As if I’m not old enough already.

  Grumblin’, I give Pip time tae respond and scan the lot, watchin’ the cars roll through. It’s a bonnie day out tae ride. Not a cloud in the sky. It’d be an even better day if I could keep my head clear, but it’s too busy with these fuckin’ thought
s I shouldn’t be thinkin’.

  A young blonde woman slows her car as she passes. Her lusty eyes burn through my leather cut and t-shirt as she goes, wonderin’ what I look like underneath. A foul taste raises tae my mouth. Na American woman wants tae see what’s in these pants. That’s for fuckin’ sure.

  A shiver of self-loathin’ pricks my skin.

  I knew I shoulda had Pip get the meds. I dinnae like tae be out on display. Too many eyes, too many people.

  My phone vibrates, and I lift my sunglasses tae check the screen.

  It’s Sniper callin’, so I answer.

  “She at the house yet?” he blurts before I get a chance tae say hello.

  “Aye, I think so. Pip hasn’t texted tae confirm.”

  “You didn’t drive her home yourself?” He’s stunned. Shoulda known he would be.

  Uncomfortably, I scrub my palm over my face with a groan. Bloody hell, I knew I shoulda driven her home myself.

  Guilt spears my gut, and I sigh, heavily. “Na, Pip wanted tae bring her.” That’s such a damn lame excuse. Why’d I even admit tae that?

  Sniper snorts. “Fuck, brother. First, your wife has ya by the balls. Now, your daughter does, too? Are you sure ya ain’t a woman and Whisky’s the man of the family? That sexy, ginger-bitch has been bustin’ my goddamn balls about this Magdalene shit all fuckin’ week.”

  If any other bastard talked tae me this way, he’d be eatin’ his teeth for breakfast. But, seein’ as though Sniper’s not only my brother-in-law and best friend, he’s also the club's president, I generally cut him some slack. And, I know how much my sister can be a pain in the arse.

  “What she doin’ now? She been talkin’ tae Pip aboot this, too?”

  If Whisky has dragged my daughter into this, I’m gonna be bloody pissed. She had tae learn the hard way last time when she started tellin’ Pip stuff about her mother and me. Once I’d found out, I told Sniper and he’d paddled Whisky so hard, she couldn’t sit down for a week. Good. Lesson learned. Hope it stays that way. If not, I suppose it’ll be time tae teach her another lesson.