She was probably staying with her mother, hoping to avoid him until he gave up looking for her. He hadn’t even found her visiting her father at the hospital. The older man wasn’t in good shape; Jim had spoken to him briefly in his search for Susan, and upon leaving, Jim had come straight to the clubhouse and doused his pain.
But he wasn’t going to stop here. The more he drank, what he’d done wrong in the past and what he had to do now to make things right became clearer. Images of the times he had let his late wife down plagued his thoughts, reminding him that he hadn’t changed as much as he intended since then. He’d obviously disappointed Susan, and now, he had to prove to her that he intended to do better. He had to convince her to love him—even if he wasn’t a saint.
Even Trina had given him that. As weak and disapproving as she was, there had been times Jim had really known how much she loved him. She’d stayed with him during the worst of times, even if it meant being hyped up on pain pills. Of course, that brought back more bad memories than good.
He remembered finding Vicodin in the cabinet. “What’s this?” he’d asked, showing her the bottle.
Trina had been in the kitchen, cooking, and she had given him a tired smile. “I went to the doctor for my back. Remember, I hurt it a few days ago, twisting funny while I was mopping? Anyway, he told me to take those when I was in pain and gave me some exercises to do to strengthen the muscles.”
He'd let that go, but a month later, she had another excuse, and Jim had started a fight. “Are you becoming an addict, Trina?” he’d accused.
“You would think something like that, considering the company you keep. Your boys may not run drugs, but every other gang around here does, and I’m sure some of your supposed friends partake.” She’d ripped the bottle from his hand. “These are legit, Jimmy. Maybe you should spend less time with your illegal practices and more time with your old lady that you claim to love.”
He'd walked away, headed to the clubhouse, and passed out in the back room. He’d gotten into a fight the next morning with one of his brothers who had later left the club, and he’d had to get stitches where the guy’s ring had cut into his forehead. Trina showed up at the hospital, crying and apologizing. She had told Jim how much she loved him and that she just wanted to take care of him. In those moments, Jim forgot all his concerns, and all his anger at Trina and the rest of the world dissipated. All he cared about was Trina’s gentle, loving touch.
There were hands on Jim’s shoulders, massaging them. For a moment, he smiled, forgetting where he was and thinking that, maybe, Susan had come to her senses and decided she missed him. However, it didn’t take long, even through the desensitization caused by nearly an entire bottle of whiskey, to realize that it felt different. There was no love, no tenderness. Definitely not Susan.
“Who are you?” he asked, his ears pounding with each word he spoke.
He heard the giggling again, two voices. One whispered in his ear, the breath reminding him of peppermint schnapps, “Honey, we’re here to take care of you. We’ll do whatever you want.”
A second body was somewhere in front of him. His vision was wavering in and out, as she leaned forward and shoved a hand in his crotch. “Seems like you need a helping hand, sweetheart.”
That he did. “Well, it’s good there’s two of you cuz I’m not small, and it takes two to handle me.” He could tell from the laughter that he’d said something wrong, but he didn’t care, as they managed to sneak under his arms and help him to his feet. They stumbled along, and he couldn’t quite see where they were going, but one of the women pushed open a door, and next thing he knew, Jim fell on a bed.
Something in the back of his mind toyed with him, and he was just too far over the line to be able to identify it. He was on the verge of passing out, which was probably the best thing. Still, the little idea festering in the depths of his psyche plagued him; but, finally, it came to his mind.
When he still had Trina, if he’d hurt himself, she’d come back to him, always loving. Now, he knew what he had to do. Susan was a paramedic. It was her job to take care of injured and ill people, and she couldn’t ignore someone hurt or sick. If he could just find a way to hurt himself so that he ended up in the hospital and had to take an ambulance in, Susan would have to pay attention to him. Wasn’t there some sort of code of honor in the medical community?
That is the answer, he thought, laughing. Then, he lost himself to the heavy drunkenness.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Susan scrubbed the sink in her apartment as if her life depended on the stainless-steel contraption being completely free of any speck of dirt, food, or bacteria. Her arm and shoulder were sore, and her back was starting to twinge with the tightness and strain of her muscles. Still, she continued to work. When she was done, she would clean the counters, followed by the cabinets, and then she’d move on to the living room.
She’d taken the week off, overwhelmed by everything in her life outside the job and looking for a way to make peace with it. Susan needed to go see her father; but, after their last conversation, she couldn’t face him yet.
“Your boyfriend came to see me,” he croaked. “Apparently, you’re ignoring him.”
Susan had clamped her lips in a tight line. “Jim’s not my boyfriend, Dad. I can’t be with someone who shoots people and gets thrown in jail. I need more stability than that.”
Her father had shaken his head, his face riddled with pain. “He didn’t do it, Susan. He wasn’t out on bail. The charges were dropped. Maybe you should look deep inside and find another reason you’re pushing him away.”
He’d broken out in a coughing spell, and she’d given a press to the button that dripped morphine into his system. Within minutes, he was asleep, and Susan ran out of the hospital. Not only was she having trouble processing the swiftness with which her father’s health was failing, but she didn’t want to hear what he had to say about Jim.
She’d seen the news about his arrest shortly after she’d visited him behind bars. He had been charged with second degree murder. And now, the release of Jim and his motorcycle club brothers was everywhere, claiming new evidence had come to light. Of course, there were rumors of tampering with evidence and witnesses, but the overwhelming majority of the public believed they’d been falsely accused.
Susan didn’t know what to think, and she wasn’t sure it mattered. After all, guilty of murder or not, Jim had been involved in a shootout, and he was constantly involved in dangerous situations. This was the reason she’d been hesitant to get involved with him at all, and Jim had only proven her right.
At the same time, she felt like she’d judged him unfairly over this event by assuming he was guilty until proven innocent. Now, he’d supposedly been proven innocent, and she still couldn’t come to terms with that fact. Plus, she still had feelings for him, and they weren’t any weaker than they were before. In fact, that was part of the reason she was scouring her apartment. It was a stupid thing to think, but Susan felt like she could scrub out her feelings for Jim by scrubbing out the dirt from every crack and crevice of her life.
Screaming in frustration, Susan pounded her fist into the sink, only her sponge keeping her from bruising her knuckles. It still sent shockwaves of pain up her arm, and she fell back against the counter behind her, clutching at her forearm and cursing herself for her own stupidity.
It was time to take a different approach to things. This was hiding and running from her problems, something Susan had vowed never to do. She stared at her cell phone, lying on the coffee table in the living room, silenced. She hadn’t even listened to any of the voicemails Jim had left, and she considered doing so, or possibly calling him—just to get real closure if nothing else. However, it didn’t seem like the right time, and she didn’t think she was in the right mindset.
No, the way to start on a better path was to go back to see her father. He didn’t have long, and Susan couldn’t bear the thought of his passing without getting to say goodbye. Run
ning her hands through the hair she hadn’t bothered to brush or wash in the two days since she’d last seen the light of day, Susan fought to pull it together. She forced herself—one step at a time—to walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
She peeled off the clothes she’d been wearing for almost three full days, wrinkling her nose at the smell that wafted up from them. How had she let herself fall into this sort of funk, literally? She’d never been the type to sink into a depression that caused her to ignore her own personal hygiene. The hot spray on her body revived more than her normal scent. It brought her sanity back, reminding her of the reasons she had to live and the responsibilities she needed to take care of.
As she dressed, Susan regretted her actions over the last few days. She decided that, after she saw her father, she’d go back to the station and see about canceling her vacation, getting back on the job early. She wasn’t the type of person who did well isolated without a purpose. She had to focus on something, and the job did that for her. Besides, she hadn’t bothered to go to class, either, and she knew she was acting like a pouting child. It wasn’t okay.
Feeling renewed, she dressed in a pair of light capris and a loose-fitting shirt with floral embroidery. She looked in the mirror, brushing through her hair and wincing at the knots that had formed in the last few days. Never again, she promised herself. When she was done, her appearance refreshed her. She looked young and freed of the burdens in her mind for a change.
Squaring her shoulders, she slipped on a pair of flip-flops and headed out, determined to make things right—one step at a time.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jim couldn’t feel his body, but he stumbled into the middle of the clubhouse bar, falling on his side and laughing, as a wave of nausea threatened to drown him. His lungs heaved for air, but he was underwater, and his head spun viciously. “What the fuck is going on?” Boxer’s voice cut through the fog, increasing the speed and weight of the jackhammer pounding into the part of his brain that seemed to control coordination—since his arms and legs flapped uselessly as he tried to sit up.
“Christ Almighty.” Smack, smack. Jim tried to smile, but his cheeks wouldn’t move. In fact, he felt force against them, but the sensation didn’t match the sound of Boxer’s hand on them. “Hey!” Boxer boomed, and Jim tried to focus on his friends face, looming above him like some threatening predator. He was staring somewhere Jim couldn’t see, rage clear on his face even with the blurry haze coating Jim’s eyes.
“You, and you! What did he take?” It was a demand, and Jim dry-heaved, his stomach twisting.
“Nothing. He was stone cold drunk is all.”
“Passed out before we got anywhere.”
Both voices were whiny and scared. Jim didn’t recognize them, but the high pitch rang in his ears and brought his nausea to a head. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, as he ralphed, the vomit burning as it exploded up his chest and through his mouth.
“Aw, Jim, for the love of God.” Boxer was complaining about something, but Jim couldn’t listen as his chest heaved again. This time, his lungs, his liver, and a couple of toes came with the force of it.
“Willie! Get the truck ready! We gotta get Wade to the hospital.”
Jim waved a hand. He was fine and didn’t need to go to the hospital. However, his hand didn’t move, only his gag reflex. Out came the hair and skin from his left leg. The fuse had been lit, and the fire was climbing its way to his neck—where his head was sure to burst when the dynamite struck.
“Don’t even try to argue,” Boxer grunted, and Jim realized he’d been lifted off the floor—though his skin still tingled as if his whole body was asleep and trying to wake up. He had the distinct impression he didn’t want it to wake up and that the severe pain would only make him sicker. “I can’t believe I’m carrying your ass to the truck, you suicidal son-of-a-bitch. How the hell much did you drink last night anyway?”
Boxer’s complaints fell on not deaf but certainly uncaring ears, as Jim’s stomach revolted at the jerky movements and swift turns of his body. “Boxer.” The name came out as little more than a groan with drool, and Jim’s stomach clenched again.
“Don’t you dare,” Boxer warned.
“Man, don’t put that in my truck. I’ll never get the stench of spoilt whiskey out of the seats!”
Was that Willie?
“Shut up and drive. We’re riding in the back, so I can hang his head over the side if he goes to hurl again.” Boxer must’ve shoved him onto a hard surface because Jim felt a drop and heard a thump before the surface beneath him bounced and then rumbled. He moaned, rolling to his side, and Boxer’s arms were around him again, lifting and shoving. Then, Jim felt cold air on his face and something digging into his chest.
“Don’t you dare heave on me again. It’s not laundry day for another week, and I’m running out of shirts, dammit.”
Jim tried to nod his compliance, but there wasn’t an ounce of energy in his entire body. In fact, he wasn’t sure there was any blood, either. Now that the air blew past him, he smelled the stench of liquor on him, and he was sure that was the only thing pumping through his veins. And, of course, pooling in his stomach—where it insisted on seeking exit in the wrong direction.
He lost track of time, the world fading in and out and from black to a swirling, nauseating mix of colors. He fought the urge to just fall into complete oblivion. He was shuffled around again, and there were voices he didn’t recognize surrounding him, and the sound of machines beeping. He groaned internally. He was in the damn hospital.
“Prep for a stomach pump,” a disembodied voice commanded.
“I doubt he needs that,” Boxer’s voice called above the chaos that threatened Jim’s sanity. “Can you see the fruits of his own procedure?”
Jim had no idea what he was talking about, but after a long silence, the disembodied voice said, “Fine. Let’s get the IV going quickly, people. Set up a sonogram. I want to know if we need to move forward, and I want fluids flowing into this guy like Niagara Falls.”
Jim wanted to curse at them, arguing over his treatment and what he needed. As far as he was concerned, he needed to spend the next week in bed, sleeping off the whiskey, and he’d be just fine. Screw IVs and stomach pumps and everything else. Let him suffer the consequences of his own stupidity, and then he’d get on with his life.
However, he couldn’t speak, and moments later, after he felt the jab in his arm, his mind faltered, and he couldn’t think anymore.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Susan watched her father’s eyes open slowly, as she stroked his head. She offered him a smile, as he fought for lucidity. She pushed back a need to cry, noting that in just the few days since she’d been here, her father had lost at least another ten pounds. He was so doped up, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear he’d slept through his last four or five meals.
“Hey, Dad, how are you feeling?” she asked, trying to sound bright—though her whole body was tense with the need to break down and sob. Once again, she’d found him alone, her mother and sister nowhere to be seen.
He moved his mouth to talk and made a face. Susan reached for the water on his rolling table and held the straw to his mouth so he could drink. It ran down his face, but he managed to swallow a little, enough to wet his tongue but not enough to help his chapped lips. Susan’s chest ached.
“I’ve been better, but I slept a long time. No one woke me up for hours.” His voice was hoarse, and while Susan had avoided him for years, she missed the strong man with the deep, commanding voice.
She glanced at the charts on the wall, seeing that he’d had his vitals checked less than an hour earlier. Either her father was losing time or was so doped up to ease his pain that he didn’t even know when the attendants came by anymore. Neither scenario was pleasant to consider. “Well, I’m glad you feel rested, at least. Are you in any pain?”
His face twisted. “Not pain. Sore. Don’t move a lot. Back’s killing me.
And dry.” He indicated his mouth with his fingers clamped together. “Don’t get to drink much. I can’t really hold the cup.”
Angry at the rest of her family, Susan decided that she wasn’t going to leave his side until she found someone who could take her place for a few hours, making sure he had the water he needed. In the meantime, she put the mug down and leaned to place her hands behind each of her father’s shoulders. “Come on, we’ll see if we can’t move you a little, get rid of some of that soreness.”
She lifted him to sit straight, wincing at how feather light he was, and helped him twist from side-to-side. She took his arms and raised them over his head, forcing his body to stretch, even though he didn’t have the strength to do it himself. She put his legs through some exercises, and then she helped him back into a comfortable position, stuffing a pillow behind his back. He had developed a couple of bed sores, causing rage to surge through her. She was going to report mistreatment and see that they were doctored instantly.
“Dad, I’ll be back in just a minute, okay? I want you to close your eyes and rest until I get back.” He nodded vaguely, his head already lolling with the exhaustion of her care. Susan rushed into the hallway, looking for the appropriate person to level her anger on. She somehow didn’t see the wall of black leather until she slammed into it head on.
Bouncing back and catching herself with one hand on the wall, Susan’s eyes traveled up the massive barrier and stared in surprise. “Boxer?”
Boxer gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, little one. Imagine running into you here.” He chuckled.
Susan rolled her eyes at the pun and started to move on, desperate to tear someone a new rectum. However, she stopped and frowned. She had a bad feeling settling in her gut. “Why are you here?”
Prince: Devil's Fighters MC Page 39