Page 49 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Literal chickens are running around the yard.

“Why aren’t we at a hospital?” I mumble into his chest.

“Doc Jones is a surgeon. He’s on retainer for the club.”

Right. That’s some crazy Old MacDonald shit, if I ever did hear it. That still doesn’t answer my question.

“Are the chickens his nurses?” I snark as I release my favorite chef and take up his pacing for myself.

“It’s gonna be okay, Red,” Rot calls over as he speaks to another brother by the barn door.

I flip him the bird. “Fuck off.”

“Sola,” Mama scolds softly, like it kills him to do it.

“He needs a hospital.” Don’t they understand he needs an MRI or CT scan or whatever it is they use to check your wounds? Maybe an X-ray. He may need donor blood. This is a barn. A chicken shit filled barn. No offense to this so-called doctor, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.

“He won’t go to a hospital. There are too many people. They’ll ask too many questions. The lights are too bright,” Mama explains.

“But it’s sterile.”

“Doc has done this before. Trust him.”

No.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know this Doc fella. I can’t trust him. Trust is earned.”

Mama dips his head in resignation as if there’s no use in fighting me.

I’m not trying to be an asshole. But he could die, and I don’t want that.

Neither do they. A hospital with machines and nurses is a safer bet.

This isn’t some movie, where the bad guy gets shot up, drives to a garage in the city, where a wrinkly doctor he’s known forever pours vodka over the wounds and pries the bullets out with a pair of ancient-looking tongs. This is real life.

Ugh!

Creature slips out the door looking haggard as hell with blood coating his arms. Gravel pops under his heels as he strides over to a fluffy chicken with the craziest floof on its head and picks it up.

When he turns, I’m ready to lose my shit if he takes that odd alien-creature into the barn, but he swivels toward me instead and shoves it at my chest.

“Hold Ducky. She’s a magic chicken.”

I shove this ugly, magical chicken back at Creature, who’s out of his damn mind if he thinks I’m going to touch this stinky thing.

He pushes her back, so I’m forced to accept the weird bird. “Take Ducky and keep your voice down.”

“Was I yelling?” I shrink into myself. Embarrassment singes my cheeks as I look around to find all the brothers staring at us.

“Yeah. Doc says he can’t wait to meet you, but he needs to concentrate in there.” Wiping his hands on the front of his pants, Creature nods toward the barn. “Necro doesn’t need to hear your voice. His blood pressure spikes and then bottoms out every time.”

“Oh.”

“Go over there.” He turns me by the shoulder toward the cute little cabin. “And rock on the porch with your new chicken friend. She’s sweet. She won’t peck your eyes out. And she’s a good listener.”

Fine.

Doing what’s best, I sigh and slump my sad way over to the porch with my fluffy alien chicken to rock in the nicest wooden rocker my ass has ever graced. It’s butt-molded perfection.

Ducky makes a bunch of those weird chicken noises and rubs her head against me like a cat wanting to be pet. Alright. So, she’s not so gross or stinky. And she’s kind of cute. Ugly cute.

“Your feathers are very soft,” I coo at Ducky.

Like she understands me, she shakes and fluffs them up.

“You take good care of yourself,” I praise.

Ugh. I can’t believe I’m talking to a chicken named Ducky, but I go with it.

Following Creature’s instructions, so I’m not a burden, I rock and pet and rock and pet.

Sometime later, a man emerges from the cabin—a big, almost bald man with blue eyes and a kind smile.

A big man I know from somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it.

He claims the rocker beside mine.

We bond in silence, watching the bare-chested men draped in leather jackets and Kings of Anarchy vests talk quietly outside the barn, worrying about Necro.

After a while, the tattooed man speaks. “You’re a sister, aren’t you? One of Kali’s?”

I flash him a surprised look. “How’d you know?”

“I’m Bonez,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something. I usually remember names, but this one doesn’t ring any bells .

“Gunz is my brother,” he explains, then goes on to clarify, “Real brother. Not club brother.”

“Oh.” I snap my fingers as a light bulb kicks on inside my jumbled brain. “That’s why I recognize you. You look similar.”

He smirks. “Somethin’ like that.”

Gunz is the sergeant-at-arms of the Sacred Sinner’s Mother Chapter. He helps Cell with techy things. I’ve met him several times, but it’s been a while. I knew he had a brother, but I didn’t realize he ran in the same circles as the rest of us.

Another bout of companionable silence descends, and Ducky seems fine with the quiet since the attention whore is too busy soaking up love from me.

Bonez and I rock with the soothing symphony of forest critters and our rockers creaking in rhythm against the wooden floor to keep us company.

And we wait.

Together.

Eventually, he disappears inside and brings me a glass of lemonade and a blanket.

Ducky falls asleep.

Before long, the sun dips below the horizon, and I yawn.

It’s been a long day, and yet it seems like it’s just now getting started.