by J. C. Allen
Don’t you dare be dead on me, Roost. You’ve survived too much shit to let a mere meth lab explosion kill you.
That, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to survive and run this place without you. Eagle’s great, but he’s no Roost. He just can’t make the boys laugh like you can.
The doors opened and a sign appeared, directing us to room 4032. I veered left, brushing by a couple of doctors who did not seem serious enough for an ICU, and found the room. Even outside, I could hear the heart rate monitors, the breathing tubes, and the pumping of other devices I would never be able to guess the names of. I took a deep breath.
And I walked inside.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but calmness was not on the list of possibilities. When I’d left Roost at the lab, he was breathing heavily, gasping his presumably last words, and was eyes wide open. But here, he had his hands by his side, his eyes closed, and his stomach rose with ease. He had bandages all around him and some burns on his face, but for all of his wounds, he looked like he was taking an afternoon nap on the Saviors couch.
“Damn, Roost,” I said, trying to break the silence. “Where can I get a bed like that?”
It was meant to be a light joke, obviously.
But it was when Roost didn’t respond with his trademark twang and accent that I truly felt the gravity of his situation. In normal spots, he’d crack an eye open, snort, and say “when yer papaw likes ya enough,” before rolling back over.
But the only response I got, of course, was the heart rate monitor holding steady at about 40 beats per minute—far below the cholesterol-chugging, sodium-slurping baseline that Roost should have had, but far above zero.
“He’s actually doing better than he was this morning,” a nurse said, surprising the hell out of me when she came in. “He’s showing more brain activity than before, and his heart rate is up from the low thirties.”
“That’s great!” Eve said, even though I wasn’t keen on getting my hopes up.
“We’re still in the danger zone, though,” the nurse said. “We can keep him alive indefinitely, but the chances of him waking up depend upon him not having a bad episode or anything for the next 48 hours or so. If he can get through this next little bit without any incidents or turns for the worse, it’s not a guarantee he will wake up, but it goes much higher.”
I heard all of this and processed all of this, but I wasn’t having a conversation with the nurse or even with Eve right now. Their words came to me as if reading them off of a book; I digested them, but they were for information only, not for starting a conversation with them. I walked forward to Roost and analyzed him closely.
“Ya look like shit,” I said, playfully teasing him in his twang—rather well, if I may say so. But I quickly slipped out of it. “But you are anything but shit, Roost. You’re a fighter and a warrior and damnit, if anyone is going to pull out of this, it’ll be you. Not your first gunfight. I expect your ass in the shop next Monday.”
I gave myself a short, fake laugh, but it didn’t do much good. Truth be told, the longer I was in here, the more discomfort I felt. This wasn’t like I could make Roost a happier man by feeding him pizza. There was absolutely nothing I could do—and nothing felt more soul-crushing as a result.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” I whispered as I struggled to hold it together.
I turned to Eve, who had worn a small smile but one that quickly vanished as she saw my face.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Back home,” Eve said.
It wasn’t a question, but only because she knew that was what I needed at that moment. Eve put her arm around the small of my back, but I just wasn’t present. I kept thinking about Roost, even as I got on my bike. I don’t think I said a word to Eve the entire bike ride home and elevator ride up.
“Let’s just relax here, OK?” Eve said.
I nodded, ordered some pizza, and plopped down on the couch. I let Eve pick the show, which wound up being some mindless sci-fi series about robots and the future. I couldn’t even say who the main character was—I kept thinking about Roost.
Roost, the man who saved my life, quite possibly at the expense of his own.
Roost, the man who stood up to The Black Falcons, also at the expense of his own life.
Roost, the man who heard what I said about Eve and her loved ones and did all that I said despite putting a strain on the club’s resources.
I was the one who put him in that spot.
I… I was the one responsible for his current state.
And if he died…
The thoughts ran through my head like a whirlwind; I could not keep up with them. I tried desperately to make sense of them, even grabbing some paper and a pen at one point to write out my feelings, but all that did was make them too real, too obvious.
At one point, Eve passed out on the couch, breathing gently and easily. The imagery should have seemed completely normal, but it reminded me far too much of Roost—how he lay in that bed seemingly at too much ease, but also in a state that could have left him for dead at any moment. One wrong turn, one bad lapse, and…
I stood up.
I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do, but I had to unleash some energy somehow. Sex wasn’t going to do it—it just felt wrong to have sex to not think about Roost, and that was a mission I would fail anyways. I didn’t really have anyone to kill, either, not with The Black Falcons so disorganized and out of sorts that they would need a couple of weeks just to get themselves back together.
No, I had to turn to my old faithful, the flame-emblazoned, shining chrome-based chopper on the first floor of my parking deck.
I looked outside. Storm clouds forewarned of bad weather, and an ominous rumble in the distance didn’t do anything to help the cause. By all accounts, riding my bike right now was a dangerous move.
But I liked the idea of danger. I wanted to be on that bike as the wind hit my face. Who knew? It might even get me to put on my damn helmet.
Making sure Eve was out before she could say anything, I grabbed my keys and slipped downstairs to the bike. I noticed as I moved to it that the rain was starting to come down. I groaned at the idea of wearing my helmet, but the truth was I’d be blind without it—not to mention I’d have my eyes feeling like they were getting stung by bees—and so I had to have it.
“Fine,” I said. “I won’t tempt fate.”
Unlike Roost, who looked at fate and laughed like a maniac.
I put my helmet on and buckled it. Against the stubble of my beard, it felt uncomfortable, and I remembered why I didn’t wear a helmet on all but the rarest of occasions. Maybe a rookie needed a helmet, but not me—not on sunny days for sure.
I revved the engine and looked out to the streets at the increasingly fast rain. This may not have been my greatest idea ever, but it was one that I needed for stress relief. Drive to the shop and back. See how you feel. That should burn off some steam.
I roared outside, taking a sharp right turn out of the parking lot. The first thing I noticed was that I didn’t have the normal traction of the road that I had before, and there was a decent risk of hydroplaning.
“Don’t go getting yourself killed, Derek,” I said. “Saviors can’t have their two honchos falling.”
That did not, however, mean I couldn’t speed down the road on straightaways. And once I got to that first stretch of about three miles without any turns, I gunned the bike, hitting well over 70 miles per hour in a 35.
The rain felt like needles against my skin, but the thrill of facing danger and giving it the metaphorical finger gave me the necessary thrill. I screamed and roared in the face of the storm, telling it to go fuck itself. Just as Roost was going to beat this damn coma, I was going to beat this damn storm, no matter how ridiculous the idea might have seemed.
“Bring it!” I yelled multiple times, laughing.
If someone saw me or heard me, they might have thought me drunk. Drunk on stress was probably not an inaccu
rate assessment.
The last turn came where, after that, it would only be about a mile and a half to the shop. By all accounts, after the last turn out of the parking lot that had nearly caused me to wipe out, I should have slowed down and taken the turn.
But the rain had seemed to slow down. It wasn’t as sharp and hard on my skin as before. That, and this was not a slick road like the parking garage. I’d be fine.
I veered on my right and felt the bike tilt. Like I’d done so many times, I took that turn aggressively and roared in triumph as I straddled the line between crashing and an incredible recovery.
“Fuck yeah!” I roared.
I prepared to lean back to center.
And then I felt my weight tilt to the side.
“Shi—”
I didn’t even get the full word out as my bike crashed into the pavement, sending me into a roll on the ground. It both happened so quickly I couldn’t form a coherent thought and so slowly that I could process it all.
I saw the curb coming my way, my body on a head-on collision with it. I saw my bike skidding down the street, seemingly avoiding any vehicles on the other side of the road. I saw the flash of beige concrete come to my face.
The last thing I remember was the beginnings of thunder rumbling in the distance, a cruel and quick fuck you to the idea that I had beaten it.
16
Eve
I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep when my eyes fluttered open.
I definitely knew that I’d meant to rest a bit, but I figured I’d miss part of an episode or two and then woken up.
Instead, about two hours had passed. I saw on the TV that it had asked if we were continuing to watch and had automatically shut itself off as a result. That… was odd.
“Derek?” I said.
I didn’t hear him anywhere. If he was still here, he would have done something with the TV. Perhaps he had gone to get food or drinks? Perhaps he’d gone back to visit Matty?
The poor guy looked in terrible shape—both of them. I figured Matty would be a fighter, but I worried that even the best of fighters would reach the ten-count eventually. Derek, meanwhile, tried his best to stay strong and crack jokes, but the facade wasn’t strong enough. I knew he was breaking, and the only way to put himself back together was to leave and heal without having to see Matty.
I’m sorry, Matty. It’s because of me you went there. If Derek hadn’t had to grab me, you’d have no reason to go there. I’m sorry…
I absent-mindedly grabbed my phone.
Twenty missed calls? What the fuck?
They all came from the same couple of numbers, too. I saw that I also had about six voicemails. What happened… Derek? Are you OK?
I nervously looked at the first one and saw it went about thirty seconds—far too long for some spammer to have gotten a hold of my phone by mistake. I bit my lip, pressed play, and pressed speaker so I didn’t have to hold it to my ear.
“Hi, Eve, this is Eagle with the Saviors,” a gruff, extremely deep voice began. Oh no. If he’s calling me. “Listen, Derek had an accident on his bike.”
Oh no. No. No. Derek, please don’t be dead. Please!
“He’s in the hospital. You should come by as soon as you can, thanks.”
I wasted no time. I called for an Uber to bring me down, but this means that with the three minute wait, the ten minute ride, and the two minutes up to wherever Derek was, I had about fifteen minutes to assume the worst. Derek had died in a wreck. Derek had died hitting another vehicle.
And it was storming outside!
“Goddamnit, Derek, why?!?”
I was angry precisely because I was terrified. I didn’t want to listen to any of the other voicemails—I saw that they had all come after that first call. I didn’t need the news to be that Derek had gotten to the hospital and then they’d determined he had died. On the heels of Roost’s condition…
This just seemed so cruelly appropriate. I had finally had something go right in my life—I’d finally found a man who accepted me in every sense of the word and did not judge me for my past or my position as a prostitute. I’d discovered his best friend didn’t just like me, he accepted me as well.
And now both of them might be dead.
Barely twenty-four hours after the daring rescue, I had now probably lost both of them.
“Fuck!” I screamed as tears started to pour down my eyes.
I got the notification on my phone that the Uber driver was arriving. I told myself to pull it together and to save the tears for the hospital. I didn’t need to look like this in the presence of some random guy driving me down—but at least it would seem appropriate in a hospital setting.
I walked to the Uber after taking the elevator and just pressed my two front teeth down on my lip, about the only method that really worked to prevent me from bursting back into tears. I kept feeling like an idiot and kept feeling responsible for the states of Matty and Derek. It was because of me needing rescue that they had fallen to their current state.
Me, the girl needing rescue. How funny. I always considered myself a strong woman, but I was anything but. I needed my Knight in shining armor to come and rescue me, and he had… but it had probably cost his buddy’s life in the process, stressing him out so much that he had to unleash some tension by riding a bike.
Goddamnit! I even mouthed the word, though at least I had the presence of mind to not shout it in front of my driver.
When the hospital came into view, a new wave of nerves washed over me. I had to fight doubly hard not to cry at the prospect of seeing my dead boyfriend—the man I had told I loved!—inside. I needed strength.
I grabbed my phone and called Tara. Still weird to not see her as Crystal. But that’s not her name. Tara is.
“Hey girl, what are you—”
“Crystal, I mean, Tara, I think Derek is dead.”
“What?!? Girl, what—”
“I got a call from Eagle and he said there was an accident, and, and,” I kept stammering as tears began to form.
“Girl, calm down, listen to me,” she said, playing the unusual role of calmer at that moment. “I was there when Eagle got the news. He’s not dead.”
Oh thank God. Thank God. Yes!
… but what if that’s what Tara knows from then? What if things have changed? What if he’s actually dead now?
“He had a bad accident, it’s true. But he was wearing his helmet, and the doctors think that saved him.”
Wait… are we…
“You know I’m referring to Derek, my boyfriend, right?”
“Nah, you’re referring to Derek the creeper John from four weeks ago. Yes, girl, Derek Knight! He was. If he wasn’t, something saved that handsome skull from cracking like a dropped egg.”
It was strangely reassuring to hear Tara’s blunt language, even if it did seem a little bit crass for the situation.
“Listen, girl, I’m taking care of some things—I gotta help others like us under the spell of the Black Falcons—but I’ll come meet you in an hour, mmk?”
“You don’t have to, I just, I just… I just wanted someone to talk to,” I said, even though I knew I would benefit enormously from not being alone. Even if Tara didn’t exactly have the filter to speak appropriately in spots like these, maybe that was exactly what I needed. Maybe I needed that sense of humor. “I appreciate—”
“Don’t go sayin’ nothin’ about appreciating me, girl, you know I’ll be there, OK? In fact, here, make it easy for your grieving ass. I’m heading there now and will be there in twenty, OK?”
“You sure?”
“Eve Kellerman, get your ass inside and go see your man. He’s alive. You can cry on my shoulder when I get there.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said with a weak laugh. “I’ll see you soon then.”
But at least it was a real laugh. It was a needed, but real, laugh.
After Tara hung up, I couldn’t help myself, though. I kept debating if I should view this moment th
rough the belief that Derek was alive or dead. Be the optimist, or the pessimist? If the last couple of weeks were to be believed, the optimistic approach should win out.
But if a lifetime of tragedy, failed relationships, and family drama was the dominating factor, then I knew Derek was dead.
Just go. Just go find out and stop wondering what if.
I stepped into the hospital and asked the front lady with a quivering voice what room Derek Knight was in.
“4030,” she said.
It gave me a great shudder to realize Derek was just a couple of rooms down from Matty. I had no idea what symbolism that represented, as my brain was just too much of an emotional pile of mush to make sense. Maybe they’d recover or die together?
Or maybe it was just a giant goddamn coincidence and I had too much going on in my head to make the slightest bit of sense of this whole ordeal.
I rode up the elevator, feeling very much alone compared to how the last elevator ride had gone with Derek by my side. Seeing Matty was a lot easier with company—doing this solo felt sickening. But I didn’t dare complain too much, knowing I wasn’t the one in the hospital.
The doors opened and I immediately veered left. I tried not to dwell on the possibilities of any “signs” or coincidences that might have meant something and walked into room 4030.
I gasped at what I saw.
Derek’s face had cuts and bruising all over it. Purple swelling dotted his face, and his arms had wrapping all around him. Next to him, a nurse ran some measurements.
“Is he gonna be OK?” I said, which was a stupid question—he was alive, clearly, by the measurements, and Tara had told me he was fine. I’d just let my self-doubt get the best of me and my fear control me.
“He should wake up in a few days,” she said. “He’s smart. He wore his helmet. If he didn’t, we’d probably be talking about a soup of brains. As it was, he wasn’t the smartest guy for riding a bike in the rain, but he should be OK.”
Should be OK.