Prologue
Frankie
Two Years Ago
They say curiosity killed the cat.
I’m the cat in this scenario, but I’m hoping I don’t die.
That would really suck.
As I step out of my car in a dark parking lot of the Dragon Biker Bar in the outskirts of Green Valley, Tennessee, I seriously begin to question my sanity.
What am I doing?
Sure, I want answers. But I’m also pretty sure there’s a way to do that in the daylight and somewhere safer. However, my work hours keep me tied to Maryville Hospital and when I’m not working a shift, I’m sleeping. That’s how it is when you're fresh out of college, putting in nursing hours in the ER, working on your physician assistant training, with no seniority—you get shitty hours and all the shit no one else wants or likes to do. Just a lot of shit. I remind myself it won’t always be like this and I love it. Call me crazy, but I actually love taking the difficult patients and doing the things no one else wants to do.
I’m always up for a challenge, which also might explain why I’m here.
At this shady looking bar with a parking lot full of bikes.
This is the hangout for the notorious motorcycle club, the Iron Wraiths.
Up until a week ago, I didn’t know who they were. I’d never heard of them. I haven’t lived in Green Valley long, and like I said, when I’m here, I’m usually sleeping. So, after an awkward encounter with a few of them at the gas station, I mentioned it to my mother on my weekly visit.
Her reaction is why I’m here tonight.
Over the years, she’s been so subdued about… well, everything. If I ask about our past or my father, she nonchalantly passes over it, stating we’re better off without him and that my childhood was uneventful.
But there’s something inside me that’s always revolted against that. Lies, that’s what my gut says. The nurse in me wants to get to the bottom of it—of my life.
When I go to grab the handle of the front door, it flies open and a man the size of a house runs out, nearly knocking me over. Glancing behind him at the inside of the bar, it’s utter chaos—overturned tables, shattered beer bottles, a few broken chairs, and people everywhere.
There are a few women huddled together in the corner, just inside the door, and clusters of men on the floor. And blood… lots of blood.
I want to run.
I hate violence.
But I can’t.
My need to help won’t allow me.
People are suffering and I can help.
Walking blindly into the dark bar, I kneel down beside the first group of men I come to. “I’m a nurse,” I inform, to which I’m greeted with harsh, confused looks. “Let me help him.”
It’s obvious the man has a severe wound to his stomach. The blood soaking into this shirt tells me it’s probably a stab wound, but not too large or too deep. Thanks to my physician assistant training, I’m skilled in suturing wounds and giving stitches.
Eventually, the two men flanking him move aside and let me get closer. Pulling back the man’s bloodied hand, I see the laceration is small, maybe an inch or so, just the right size for a blade to enter and exit cleanly. He’s not coughing up blood, just in pain, so I go through a series of questions I’d ask if I were in the ER.
What’s your name?
Can you tell me what happened?
What level is your pain?
Most of the questions are answered with a grunt, so instead of depending on my patient to give me details, I get to work.
“I have an emergency bag in my car,” I tell the man to my right. “It’s a Mustang…” I stop myself. “The only car in the parking lot. The bag is grey and it’s in the backseat.”
Without waiting for a confirmation or any sort of agreement, I reach the hem of the guy’s t-shirt and rip.
“That’s hot.”
Turning sharply to my left, I see the other man hovering over me, watching my every move, but it’s not because I’m tending to his friend. It’s more sinister than that. He’s somehow turned on by my ministrations and it pisses me the fuck off.
“Go find some towels,” I demand, not letting him get to me.
I’m good at this—blocking people out, focusing on the task at hand. It’s what I do. It’s where I feel most like myself and at ease. Somewhere in the face of trauma and chaos, I find peace.
After I patch the first guy up, another meaty motorcyclist comes and grabs my arm, forcing me over to a make-shift hospital bed where another older guy lies, writhing in pain, holding his shoulder.
“Can I take a look?” I ask, grabbing his attention, probably because outside of the few women I saw when I came in, I’m the only female around. Actually, I lost track of those women and I very well could be the only woman in the bar. That should probably bring me pause and make me run, but I’m in the trenches now. This dingy, roadside bar has become my ER. I won’t leave until I’m sure everyone survives.
Doesn’t really matter if they’re in-laws or outlaws.
I’m not a doctor. I haven’t taken the Hippocratic Oath. But I have pledged my life to saving people. And something tells me I was meant to be here. Why else would a woman who steers clear of any sort of violence walk into a bar just after a fight?
The universe wanted me here, so I’m staying until the last wound is stitched and then I’ll make sense of the rest.
“Grab my bag,” I tell the man who’s been shadowing me ever since he retrieved my supplies from the car. “I’ll need the alcohol and the gauze.”
This cut isn’t deep, in a spot that will make this old man wish he’d stayed home tonight.
“It’ll probably be sore for a while,” I tell him, reaching for the proffered alcohol. “And this is going to sting a little.”
Do I get pleasure from making grown men cry? No. But it is slightly satisfying when I know they brought the pain on themselves. I’m not sardonic, but I believe in karma.
Half an hour later when everyone with visible wounds has been attended to, I gather up what’s left of my supplies and start to tuck them away into my bag as neatly as possible. Everything will need to be sterilized or possibly even discarded, but I’ll deal with that later.
Right now, the only thing I can think about is getting the hell out of here. And a hot shower.
“Not so fast,” one of the men from earlier croons as he saddles up beside me, placing his large hand over mine. “The boys would like a word with you.”
Boys?
I glance behind me, looking around, and definitely don’t see any boys. I see men—some burly, others lankier, but all of them are wearing leather vests and exude an air of danger.
Someone turns on the lights and then everything somehow looks less and more scary all at the same time. Less so because there aren’t any dark corners to hide in and I can see every face. But that’s probably what makes it more so.
I can see every face.
Every set of eyes.
And they’re all on me.
They’re menacing.
Some sneering.
Some lingering.
All questioning.
“Who are you?” The man asking the question is standing at the bar, leaning against it like he’s holding it up, or maybe it’s holding him up. His eyes are squinted and his drawl is thick, but I can’t tell if it’s due to alcohol or just the way he talks. If I had to guess by the smell permeating this place, I’d opt for the former.