“Here you are,” she said as she entered the room with crutches under her arm and a cane in her hand. “Which do you prefer? The crutches will be steadier, but may hurt because of the stitches between your shoulder blades.”
“I’ll take the cane.” He winked slyly at her. “Do you want to wash me down?”
“Nice try. Leave the door cracked and I’ll keep my ears open. If you’re getting nauseous or dizzy, call out for me, okay?”
He saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m not sure if I like you better quiet or ornery.” She pointed to the en suite bathroom. “Now go.”
“You just love being bossy,” he grumbled as he limped into the bathroom.
After a steamy shower and a shave, he felt a hundred percent better. When he went back into the bedroom, a pair of sweats and a T-shirt lay folded on the bed. After a few minutes of cussing up a storm, he was finally dressed, and made his way out of the room.
The smell of bacon wafted down the hallway. Following it into a small kitchen, he found Lena with a frying pan in one hand, and a long fork in the other as she bent over the stove.
“Smells good.”
She looked over her shoulder, her chestnut eyes sparkling. “And you look good. How was the shower?”
“Great. How long have I been out of it?” Hobbling over to the chair, he plopped down onto it.
“Five days. Scalpel was ready to take you to the hospital, but Maniac and Lynch wanted to wait a couple more days. Those guys seem to have a phobia about hospitals.”
Tank laughed. “Look at you, their names just rolling off your tongue. We only go to hospitals if Scalpel demands that it’s dire.”
She placed a glass of orange juice and a small plate of cut-up pineapple and mango slices in front of him. “I’m getting used to the weird names of your friends. Dawson is the only one that makes sense.”
Another laugh burst through his lips. “If you knew the guys, their names would make sense too.”
“I get Scalpel, but I don’t even want to know why Maniac, Lynch, or Reaper make sense—it’s too scary.”
“And so are they, sometimes.” Picking up his glass, he drank the juice in one long gulp. “That was damn good.”
“Freshly squeezed—way better than the carton stuff. I hope you like eggs Benedict. I didn’t have Canadian bacon, so I had to improvise.”
“Anything you cook is fuckin’ good, darlin’.”
“It better be, especially after all that money and time spent in Paris.” She joked.
He gave her a serious look. “I’d like to ride around France, Italy, and England. Maybe we can do that sometime.”
Lena put a piece of bacon in her mouth and chewed slowly. “Maybe. The best part of living in France for four years was that I was able to travel all around Europe and the UK. It was pretty awesome. I can see where it would be fun to ride a motorcycle through the back roads and countryside.”
“I’d like it. But then, I like going anywhere with you on the back of my bike.”
“I liked the times we rode around the county,” she said, placing a plate of eggs Benedict in front of him.
She’s being noncommittal as fuck. Picking up his fork, he cut into the egg and looked up. “So, how long have you been hanging around here?”
“Ever since your friends brought us here.”
“Yeah, where is here?”
“You don’t know? Maniac called it the safe haven.”
Tank leaned back in the chair and laughed. “That’s fucked. I knew it looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.”
“Well, in your defense, you were in a helluva fight.”
Nodding, he took another bite. “It also looks different. Last time I was here, there was hardly any furniture, all of which came from garage sales.”
“I’m sure the wives fixed the place up. It’s real cozy. The beach is our front yard.”
“Yeah. The house has been with the club for over fifty years.”
“So the title’s in the club’s name?”
“Not exactly.”
“How’s it titled, then?”
He kept eating.
“Let me guess”—she waved her fork at him— “you can’t tell me.”
“You’re catching on.”
A knock came at the door.
Lena jumped up, and Tank grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t go,” he said in a low voice.
“Why? It’s cool.”
“We don’t know that?”
“What does that mean?”
“It could be one of the fuckers, that’s what.”
The muscles in her face went slack. “Oh,” she said.
Tank struggled for a second then pushed up from the chair and went over the drawers. “Where are the knives?” he asked glancing over his shoulder at her.
“In the top drawer to the left of the sink,” she answered weakly.
He took out a straight edged one then turned. “You stay here.” With knife in hand, he walked slowly toward the front door, wishing he had his gun on him.
Another knock hit the wooden door.
Tank look through the peephole and saw Raptor standing there with one hand flat against the stucco wall. He threw open the door and held up the knife.
He laughed. “You almost had this in your gut.”
Raptor looked at Tank’s cane and healing face and shook his head. “Nah, I could’ve flatten you out with one hand.”
“Fuck that.” He moved aside as the president entered the house.
“What took you so long? I thought some shit was going on inside.” He pulled out his Glock. “I was ready to come in shooting.”
Tank pointed to the cane. “This is a pain in the ass to walk with, but for now, it helps me to get around. Let’s go in the kitchen.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Raptor said.
“Me too. Hell, I didn’t even know where the hell I was when I woke up.”
Lena had cleared the plates and was by a sink filled with soapy water. She looked and Raptor and smiled.
“Hi. I’m Lena.” She wiped her wet hands on a dish towel and started to come toward the biker.
“Hi.” Raptor turned to Tank. “We need to talk.”
“Lena, go take a walk on the beach or hang on the patio.”
“But I’m washing the dishes.”
“That can wait.” He caught her gaze and fixed it there, hoping she’d catch on.
Nodding, Lena put the dish towel down on the counter. “Okay.”
Raptor waited until she walked outside before settling down on the kitchen chair. “You look good, considering the beating you got. Your woman’s taking good care of you.”
“Yeah. How are the fuckers?”
“Demon needed stitches. The blade your woman stuck into him didn’t cause too much damage. Rubble’s got some issues going on with his head, Fire’s okay, but Cougar’s fucked up. You hit him damn hard in the head.”
“What’s the club saying?”
“About you crossing the fuckin’ line?”
“I didn’t cross shit. Only four or five members want the shit Hammer’s doing.”