Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff Page 3

My club is important. It’s my life, and has been, for a long time. The fact I was falling for Olympia Olsen, after saving her from Ringo’s raping-ass, was like a breath of fresh air in a room full of stale smoke. But I should have known my happiness wouldn’t last and she’d land back in Boone’s arms. Part of me always suspected, on some level, he held the key to her heart.

  As if reading my mind, Boone acknowledges our almost love triangle, “Man, I get that you just found out we’re half-brothers, and I also know you saved my ol’ lady’s life. I will be forever grateful, but you need to recognize I claimed Olympia before you ever entered the picture.

  “My relationship with Twila was a con Bones set in motion to drive out the mole, but you already know all this. And regardless, Olympia is mine. Not gonna fuck around with anything to do with my ol’ lady.”

  His words piss me off, but I appreciate his straight forward manner.

  “Hear you loud and clear, brother. Glad she’s got you to take care of her. I wouldn’t be any good even if things were different.” My gaze finds Olympia’s before meeting Boone’s. “You claimed her. Might not like it, but I will respect it. You have my word.”

  He gives me a faint nod that because of my condition I am unable to return.

  “Boone, I need a few minutes with your brother. Alone. Please?” She stands and takes his hands. “This is important.”

  I’m shocked when he nods. He shoots me a warning look but leaves the room.

  “I want to hug you so fucking bad,” Olympia admits. Her eyes are glassy, and it’s obvious she’s fighting tears. “I will never forget what you did for me. And I don’t just mean rescuing me. In a few short weeks you showed me not all men are lying, abusing dogs. And I swear, I never meant to hurt you. I believed Boone—“

  “Stop. You don’t need to explain anything. I’d do it all over again. I just wish I’d gotten to you sooner, before Ringo had the chance to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  “You need to know something,” she continues, ignoring my apology, “if I’d met you before Boone, there is a good chance you would have stolen my heart. You’re an amazing man, Rowdy. You and Boone have a lot to work out. I want us all to be friends.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. It’s too much to process.

  I just learned that besides my own injuries, Bones, my real father, is clinging to life in a Portland hospital’s burn center and will never walk again, let alone ride his prized Harley. He will also require extensive, reconstructive plastic surgery.

  As if that isn’t enough. A group of innocent civilians were slaughtered in the barbershop explosion, along with Leg, the local biker-vet everyone loved and respected. Tinker is in a room down the hall, still recovering.

  It is hell-a selfish for me to be worrying about my love life, or lack of, with so much suffering.

  Fuck. I feel powerless—trapped in this bed, in these casts, unable hold a spoon, let alone wipe my own ass.

  I’m ready to turn off my brain because thinking is starting to hurt. I struggle to hang on though.

  Olympia is watching me expectantly. I’m not sure what she wants me to say, and exhaustion is clouding my thoughts. I’m beginning to see what looks like flashing beams from a strobe light.

  “Friends...” I manage to croak out. “Of course we’re friends.” My eyes close. There’s no more holding on.

  I’m pretty sure she kisses my forehead, but between my all my injuries and the massive quantities of medications pumping through my veins, I can’t be sure.

  Sleep is my reprieve. I welcome dreamland. At this point, it has to be better than reality.

  Trina

  Christmas Eve, 2015

  Seattle, WA

  Since my October attack, things have been strange...very strange and very confusing.

  Following the “morning-after-my-attack” staff meeting and several cups of caffeine courage, I decided to speak with Gregg after all.

  Like I expected, he encouraged me to contact police and undergo a medical exam. He also recommended counseling. And though I refused his suggestions with as much grace as I could muster at the time, which wasn’t a lot, I did at least get tested for STD’s and was given a clean bill of health, thank God. I couldn’t have handled the alternative.

  My adverse reaction to law enforcement and obtaining medical care didn’t seem to faze my employer, and thankfully, he didn’t push, endearing himself to me even more.

  If only he would let go of his guilt.

  To this day, he blames himself for what a happened, which is absurd. I was the one behaving reckless, running around drunk in the dark, like some deranged lunatic. I understand rape is never a woman’s fault, but my actions undoubtedly didn’t help matters, placing me in harm’s way.

  Apparently I’d become rather intoxicated and demanded a cab take me home. Gregg admitted he had tried to kiss me, and I’d been offended, suggesting it was too soon for any hanky-panky.

  Yes, according to him, I actually said “hanky-panky.”

  Anyway...he tucked me inside the cab and sent me on my way. He now regrets he didn’t try harder to convince me to let him drive instead.

  I know how stubborn I can be; and drunk, Lord have mercy. He didn’t stand a chance. I’ve assured him over and over there is no way in hell I would have given in once my mind was made up.

  After our initial, post-attack conversation, he offered to contact the cab company on my behalf. I was relieved to have someone so willing to take over and agreed to let him. He discovered the driver had dropped me off, at my insistence, a few blocks from my loft. Drive Right Transportation even offered to provide the cab’s camera footage. I declined to view it.

  The thought of seeing my stupidity firsthand still turns my stomach. Gregg made sure to watch it though, searching for any clues to my attacker’s identity. Unsurprisingly, he came up empty handed.

  What had I been thinking, leaving the cab’s safety and wandering around like that?

  Clearly I hadn’t been coherent, let alone thinking. I won’t make the same mistake twice, and because of that vow, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol for almost two months.

  After partying too hard in high school, I had been involved in a few unfortunate debacles I conveniently failed to remember. Adding that forgotten information to the October “incident” makes it obvious booze and I are best kept far apart. Even so, despite my commitment to abstain, I can’t deny I do miss the occasional glass of wine after a long day.

  Instead of vino, I’ve taken advantage of Washington’s relaxed laws on marijuana use. A joint now and then has become my latest escape, an escape for those times when I’m hating on myself for not remembering anything but how stupid and careless I was the night of my assault.

  Staring at the fireplace, I snuggle deeper into my fuzziest blanket, wondering again why I’m alone, by choice, the night before Christmas, and why I’m not enjoying a joint this very minute instead of berating myself.

  Gregg invited me over, but I declined, using the age-old headache excuse. He promised to stop by in the morning to cook breakfast and drop off a gift.

  I should be thrilled by all his attention, but lately, I’m starting to find his presence both confusing and somewhat stifling. I see no reason for the abrupt shift in my feelings, but there’s no denying a transition is underway, and I’m distancing myself from him.

  It’s almost like he creeps me out, which again makes no sense.

  He’s been nothing but kind and respectful, continually affirming my decision to wait on all things sexual, kisses included, until I feel comfortable again.

  He says all the right things, but sometimes the way he looks at me feels wrong.

  If you were to ask me to explain further, I wouldn’t be able to. It’s just a gut feeling. He makes me nervous, but not in a good way, and I find myself searching for excuses to avoid being alone with him. He’s starting to notice but can’t argue with my explanation.

  I’ve blamed my withdrawal from him on PTSD, a common
condition, considering what I’ve been through.

  As a medical professional who deals with trauma he’s well aware of its effects, but regardless, I get the feeling he’s tired of waiting and ready to move on. And I’m more than okay with that. I wish he’d hurry up and do it.

  Shut up brain! Enough is enough.

  With the smooth jazz of John Novello, playing in the background, and the fire’s soothing warmth, I make a conscious decision to switch off my racing thoughts, release my worries, and let myself relax. I’m tired of rehashing one of the worst nights of my life and its aftermath over and over and over.

  If only I could remember...

  “No! Gregg stop! You’re hurting me!” The words scream inside my brain. For some reason, I can’t get them out of my mouth.

  Nor can I move. I can hardly think. But I do experience relief when my boss turned rapist slides a condom over his sizable shaft. At least I won’t end up with some nasty disease.

  He enters me roughly. “Promise baby, you’ll learn to love playtime.”

  Flash forward. Now I’m in a warm bath. My body hurts. He’s washing me.

  My own scream yanks me from the nightmare—a nightmare that’s not really a nightmare at all...or is it?

  I’m pretty sure I’ve uncovered a few missing pieces from that night, scattered memories have awakened inside my dream world to haunt me.

  A car backfires outside.

  I jolt, clutching my blanket and tugging it up under my chin. I scan the loft, searching for anything out of place. The fire has burned down, leaving behind winking embers, and the music has stopped altogether.

  Before I can move from my couch to my bed, my phone rings, making me jump again. Snatching it up, I stare at the screen. The grinning face sends a shudder through me.

  Gregg. Of course it would be him.

  It’s almost midnight. Christmas Eve will become Christmas Day in less than five minutes.

  I’m afraid if I don’t answer, he’ll come by and check on me, so I tap the phone icon. “Hello?” I attempt to sound tired and halfway pleasant, not terrified and wide awake.

  “How’s my favorite nurse?” His words slur and he sounds groggy, surprising me. He’s never presented as intoxicated before.

  “I was sleeping—“

  “Ah, poor thing,” he cuts me off. “Another headache?”

  My fear is fleeing and anger is quickly replacing it. I sit all the way up, gripping the phone tighter. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same one I’ve had all evening. So considering I feel like crap, let’s forget tomorrow.” I don’t wait for his response and continue on, “My cousin from Portland called. I haven’t seen her in ages. If I feel better, I’m going to drive down for a couple of days. Otherwise, I plan to rest here. Alone.”

  There is no headache and no cousin in Portland, but even without family to visit, I’m glad I requested extra vacation hours during the holidays. The break will give me time to consider my response to the unsettling dream and Gregg’s current, bizarre behavior.

  Vague images from dreamtime are not enough to convince me of his guilt, let alone enough evidence for a courtroom conviction. They are, however, proof enough for me to dig deeper.

  I wish there was a way I could get him to admit to the assault, because right now there are just too many “what ifs” floating around to be certain of anything.

  “You sure it’s your cousin you plan to see and not another man?” he practically growls the accusation. He sounds far more alert now and borderline furious.

  “Where is all this coming from?” I try to stay calm. This is not a side of Dr. Martin I’m accustomed to, and it aligns more with the terrorizing dream version and only serves to increase my suspicions.

  “I’m sick and tired of you teasing me. Do you realize how many women want to be with me? I should just take what I want. It’s not like I haven’t before.”

  Was that an admission of guilt?

  It sure sounded like one.

  He releases a deep sigh before I can react. “Fuck. Trina, I’m so sorry. I’ve been drinking all evening. I’m lonely and I’m being an asshole.”

  I fire back, unable to stop myself, “You’re right. You are being an asshole. How can you even talk to me like this?”

  “Can we start over?” he pleads, suddenly desperate. “Please?”

  “I need some space. I’ll talk with you at work after the holidays.”

  “Don’t quit,” he grovels more. “You’re one of my best nurses. The patients love you.”

  “Despite our relationship status, my job means everything to me. I have no intention of leaving, unless you want me to.” Obviously, if he is my abuser, my employment at Brain Matters is over, but I don’t mention that.

  “Take whatever time you need. In fact, take an extra week...paid, of course. You’ve been through so much and never took time off. As your boss, I’m telling you to use our wellness policy. You deserve it.”

  Perhaps I am wrong about him. This is the Gregg Martin I’m used to. He would never hurt me. Not like that.

  Just a dream, that’s all. It has to be.

  “Well, all right,” I concede for now. “Thank you and Merry Christmas.”

  “You too, Trina. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

  I end the call, collapsing back onto the couch.

  Christmas has earned the honor of most-hated holiday. I doubt anything or anyone will ever change my opinion, not after what happened to my parents.

  I usually sulk and eat way too much junk food in an attempt to stuff my feelings, and it looks like this year will be keeping with my long-standing tradition of moping and misery. I have more painful emotions to bury right along with the rest.

  At least part of the day will be occupied by my impromptu investigation into my employer. There’s no time like Christmas to start searching for clues.

  First item on my research list is to contact the cab company and confirm Gregg’s original report. He could have told me whatever he wanted without me knowing any differently. I was wearing blinders back then. So now, because of my misplaced trust, I’ll just have to watch the cab’s recording after all, hopefully it’s still available.

  “You’re an idiot, Templeton.” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.

  Knock it off, I silently rebuke, catching myself before I start in again with the personal put downs.

  In light of my job duties, I know better. Teaching TBI patients to embrace affirmations is part of Brain Matters’ self-enhancement program, a practice I’ve made considerable efforts to adopt since the attack. After tonight, if I’m not careful, I’ll be back to my old self-deprecating ways. I can’t let that happen. I have way too much to accomplish.

  “Come on, Scrooge. Let’s go to bed so Santa can come.”

  Last year’s Christmas gift to me, from me, leaps off the back of the couch, stopping to lick his front paw. I don’t give him time to start a full bathing session, instead scooping up the furry bundle and heading to the curtained alcove that serves as my bedroom.

  My spacious, open loft and somewhat snobby cat are two gifts I bought for myself; two gifts that just keep giving.

  “Santa might not have anything new and shiny for me this year, but he has a stocking full of catnip and other kitty-friendly goodies for you.” I scratch behind Scrooge’s ears. He purrs his approval and then escapes from my arms onto the bed.

  When my head hits the pillow, and Scrooge curls up next to me, I realize just how exhausted I am without the adrenaline from the phone call coursing through me. I start to review my brief conversation with Gregg but stop myself.

  I will give myself a Christmas gift after all—the gift of a quiet, anxiety-free mind.

  Utilizing mindfulness techniques, also learned at Brain Matters, I lasso all straggling thoughts, efficiently corralling them and picture an ocean scene in their place.

  With images of a white sandy beach and crystal blue surf, soothing my inner storm, I drift off, riding the
waves right into dreamland.

  For a second time, I’m bombarded by flashes of my former idol doing unspeakable things to my body, leaving little doubt I’ve found the answer I’m searching for, an answer that will change everything.

  Rowdy

  New Years Day, 2016

  Seal’s Cove, Oregon

  “I want to stay down here. At least until I can get back on my bike. And I don’t want the guys seeing me like this. You know an acting president needs to ride,” I argue, countering Demon’s demand I return home.

  He wants me back in Eugene, handling club matters as usual.

  Running the MC, even with my long-distance support, isn’t something Demon enjoys. He’s admitted it’s the business aspects he hates, despite his natural abilities. He’d rather deal with weapons and security, not money.

  I’d rather be alone, but he’s not done with his latest lecture.

  “You’re better now. Casts are off.”

  He pauses when I look toward the corner where my walker waits. My cane is propped against the bed, and there’s a set of crutches by the door. He gives each a cursory glance, but instead of feeling sorry for me, he keeps up his sales pitch.

  “Rowdy, man, a lot of fuckers limp and are in pain. It’s not like you’re the only one. We need you at the helm, especially with the Crusher rumors floating around.”

  Moving from my bedside, Demon paces the length of my suite, his frustration mounting as he realizes I’m not taking the bait.

  Crusher’s possible return isn’t even a blip on my radar. I should care about his intentions, but I don’t. He’s a traitor with no backup, the least of my worries at the moment.

  While Demon paces, my thoughts drift away from Crusher, and I soak in my surroundings.

  I have the most expensive suite in Seal’s Cove’s elite rehab center, where both Demon and Boone insisted I complete my recovery. I won’t complain about the ocean view, that’s for sure. I’ve found a sense of peace, looking out my window at the surf as it laps at the sand, and compared to the hospital, this place is paradise.