“Yes, I heard everything you said, Doc,” Swift confirms from beside me. “You’ve explained everything to me.”
Wait. What? Why is Swift talking about me? She’s who he’s calling my fucking wife? Fuck, I have died and now I’m in Hell. I must be.
“Yes, Karen. I know you understand. Now let’s try and explain that to your husband.”
She’s using the first name that she hates? My head pounds as I try to make sense of everything.
One thing I know, I can’t stay in this bed. I’ve got to get out and start searching for Cat. I don’t care if it kills me. Unless she’s already dead. In which case, I’ll die with her—after I’ve dispatched Gun and his men to meet Satan.
Ignoring the doctor, I start pulling out the catheter in my arm, blood spurts staining the sheets.
“Mr Briggs!”
“I’m getting out of here.”
“Doc,” Pip says in a reasonable tone. “Can we have a moment alone with him?”
The doctor eyes the screens which are going crazy. When I pull the blood oxygen monitor off my finger, a single tone sounds. It’s about right. Without Cat, I’m as good as dead.
“He’s highly agitated. If you think you can calm him, I’ll give you a few minutes. Otherwise, I’ll need to sedate him.” The doctor’s smile has been completely wiped from his face. He looks flustered as though he’s never had a man who’s half dead argue with him before, or be prepared to totally ignore his expert advice.
When the door closes, Pip doesn’t waste a moment. “Who’s Cat?” he demands. “What is she to you?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’ve claimed her. She’s going to be my ol’ lady.”
Swift snorts. “Does she know?”
Though it hurts, I roll my head to the side so I can tell her straight to her face. “We were coming back. Together. Yes, she knows, Swift. She knows she’s mine, and that, heaven help her, I’m hers.”
“So this is fuckin’ serious.”
“You’ve got a fuckload of questions to answer.” Swift glares at me and ignores the ex-prez.
Pip doesn’t let her get away with it. “Swift,” he says, sharply. “I can’t argue with that, but whether or not Stormy’s still club, the club would rescue a woman. It’s what we do, you know that.” He pauses and rubs a hand over his face. “Three fuckin’ weeks. We have to know where to start.”
“What are you proposing?” At least Swift now seems to be on board. Fuck knows, I’ll be limited as to what I can do myself.
“I’m proposing I get a wheelchair and we bust him out of here.”
I close my eyes and listen to them sorting the details out. At least Pip’s on my side.
“He could die if he’s not given proper treatment,” Swift objects.
“I’ll die if you leave me here.” I snap my eyes open. “I’m begging you. Either you help me, or I’ll crawl out of here by myself.”
Pip’s eyes land on my face. He stares intently, then abruptly stands. “He fucking would too. I’ll go get the ball rolling. Oh, and I’ll call Snatcher.”
It takes time, of course it does. Every minute I suffer wondering where Cat is now and what she’s going through. I don’t let myself dwell on the possibility that I might never find her, or that she might not still be alive. Such would be the makings of a living nightmare.
Pip’s exactly the right person to arrange my discharge. He knows how to speak to people in authority, and how to bow them to his will. Eventually the doctor washes his hands of me, glaring down as I ignore every piece of advice. I don’t care if I risk death by leaving, Cat’s more important to me than life itself. Sometime later, awkwardly, only able to use my left hand, I sign the form that releases the hospital from any responsibility should I keel over and die before I leave the parking lot. A likely outcome, in the doctor’s view.
Armed with painkillers I have no intention of taking—I need to keep a clear head—I let Pip painfully assist me from the bed to the wheelchair. Still dressed in only a hospital gown, I’m taken down to the car park.
Every jolt, every bump, every movement is agony. Every hurt reminds me I’ll go through anything for her.
Pip hadn’t wasted time and had made good on his call to Snatcher. When we arrive at the clubhouse, a number of brothers are milling around. Seems they’ve all been called in and updated.
“Stormy.” Snatcher greets me with just one word. He eyes the condition I’ve arrived in. “You discharged yourself and I’m making no allowances. I’ve convened church.”
“Should he get some clothes on first?” Pip asks, eyeing my near-naked form. Sure, my ass is hanging out, or would be were it not for the chair, but fuck it, that’s not important now.
“Can you dress yourself?” Prez challenges me.
I swallow my pride. “No. But I don’t need….” Clothes. I was going to say clothes. Last time I saw Cat, she was naked. She had to cope, so can I. Cat, my mind screams. For fuck’s sake, Cat, hang on.
“I got this.” Fuck me, that’s Bolt. If I had to have anyone, I would have expected a prospect would help me.
But it’s Bolt who takes the handles of the appropriated wheelchair and rolls me into the elevator that I’m more than grateful for. I wouldn’t be able to manage stairs. He’s silent as we go to the upper floor where our rooms are located.
Fuck being helpless and in a wheelchair, I’ve no say in what happens to me. Knowing I need the club onside, I force down the anger that’s rapidly coming to the surface, pushing it away and stating simply, “It didn’t take long for everyone to get here.”
“We’ve been on lockdown since you crashed into the clubhouse.”
I crashed? What the fuck? I can’t remember. “Did I do any damage?” I remember riding the bike then... Zilch.
“Wrote off that piece of crap you were riding. Okay now.” He changes subject as he wheels me into my room using the master keycard he must have gotten from reception. “What are you going to wear?” He’s asking himself as much as me.
With the cast on my leg, pants are beyond me, but Bolt pulls out a pair of workout shorts loose enough to pull over it.
“You’ve got a nice scar,” he observes, helping me get my cast-covered arm into a t-shirt with surprising dexterity for a one-handed man—though his expensive prothesis seems just as good as a real one.
As I look down, I can see the amount of time that must have passed since Gun had stabbed me. The stitches have already been removed from the wound Gun had sliced into my stomach. Three weeks, I remember with a sharp pang of terror. Anything could have happened to her.
The roadmap of my body bears witness to how much punishment my body must have taken. I’m surprised I’m alive.
“You died twice,” he remarks, coming to the front and staring down at me. I must have spoken my thoughts aloud. “Somehow they found your heart and managed to kickstart it beating.”
Suddenly, before I go back to the first floor, I have to say something. “I was an ass, Bolt. And I’m sorry.”
“Words are just words.” He dismisses my comment—his phrasing, his lack of the affectionate brother—showing I’ve a long way to go and that I’m only being tolerated because of my woman. I might never again have a place in this club, but that’s the least of my worries. If I don’t have Cat, I’ll care about nothing. If I have her, that’s all I need.