Page 17 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

Fuck no. It’s bad enough not being able to ride my bike, and while I hate being confined to a cage, I’d go totally mad if I lost my independence completely. “I fell,” I try to reassure him. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Mr Ockenden, may I remind you that you could suffer a number of effects after the serious injury to your brain? You could have seizures. It’s important that you’re honest and truthful, as more people than just yourself could be injured or killed if you’re trying to hide your symptoms.”

I don’t know what the fuck happened. I think one thing, my club tells me another. The truth lies somewhere in between. While I get what he’s saying, I refuse to believe I’m a danger to anyone other than myself.

“I tripped, I fell,” I tell him again. Not really a lie, I just hadn’t done it where my brothers thought I did. Or maybe I had. Fuck knows.

He sighs. “Okay, I’ll get the paperwork signed off, and you’re free to go home.”

Left alone, I’m lost in my head, visions of Maeve filling my mind.

But if my brothers are to be believed, she’s someone I’ve never met.

And, if I had delusions, she never existed except in my dreams. So why can I still smell the perfume that surrounded her?

Why do I still feel the touch of her in my arms?

Fuck having this blow to my head, I’ve no idea what’s real.

How can you feel the loss of something you’ve never had?

I suppose it must be guilt, thinking he pushed me too far, that has Bullet being the one to arrive to give me a lift back to the compound.

The hospital demands I’m taken out in a wheelchair, although I stand on my one working leg and use crutches as soon as I can.

Waving off Bullet’s help, I get myself into the truck.

On the way back to the compound, he tries to apologise again. “Brother, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you needed to rest.”

“Fuck that, Bullet,” I respond. “I went to the house and got the job done.” Remembering that going over the photos in his office was only something that had happened in my head, I add, “I went to the house, took the pictures you requested. I’ll get them to you so you can assess the state of the place for yourself. ”

“For fuck’s sake, Hound.” He slams his hand on the steering wheel. “I’m driving you home from the fuckin’ hospital. There’s no rush, no hurry—”

“I’m fine.” I put all the strength that I can into my voice. “It wasn’t what you asked me to do that caused me to pass out.” It was going back the second time, but, of course, I don’t mention that. “I went, I saw, and I’m fit to report back.”

“Appreciate that, Hound.” He gives a cautious glance toward me before returning his attention to the road. “I shouldn’t push, but I’m interested. What was your assessment?”

Place needs to be burned to the ground. Realising probably nothing I experienced was other than visions built up in my mind, I give him the answer I think will bear up.

“Not too much structural damage, but the place is a wreck. In my uneducated opinion, it would be better to knock it down. I suppose it could be restored, but who the fuck would want to buy a fuckin’ mansion like that?

It’s too far out of town to be turned into a hotel, and the same goes for anyone wanting to build new houses there. ”

He gifts me a glance that looks like he’s impressed.

“Hear you loud and clear, Bro. I’ll look at the snaps you’ve taken.

My gut feeling is that you’re right. Restored?

Who would buy it? Build new? Same question applies.

I’m starting to understand why no other construction companies wanted to take the job on. ”

Thank fuck some of my thoughts make sense.

The rest of the ride back to the compound is undertaken in silence.

When we arrive, Bullet sends me a questioning glance to determine whether he should drive me up to my house or park the truck behind the shop as usual.

Pride wins out as I indicate I can take it from here.

It’s my own fault that I’m faced with the long slog with my crutches and busted leg.

When he tries to offer help, I shrug him off, put a swing into my crutch-supported hop, and, trying to ignore the way he hovers behind me, make my way past the clubhouse, the suites, and finally reach my house at the top of the compound.

My door’s not locked. What’s the point when there’s only Satan’s Devils on the compound? I push it open and step in.

I’m greeted by the aroma of cooking, and Sam, Drummer’s woman, Sophie, whose old man is Wraith, Becca, who’s Rock’s, and Blade’s Tash, all invading my kitchen.

I suppress my annoyance as I’m actually hungry as fuck—hospital food sucks.

I do notice my home is now spotless, discarded clothes laundered and put away, dust collected, and the weeks-old, tied-off condoms from my before-the-accident liaisons with sweet butts thrown in the trash.

“Welcome home!” Sam declares when she turns and spots me. “Come, sit, we’ve got chili and garlic bread ready to go.” She ushers me to a stool at my kitchen counter.

“Do you ever cook here?” Tash asks, as she loads up a plate with rice and smothers it with the amazing-smelling chili. “This kitchen’s a dream, but all the appliances look brand new.”

They would be. Although I’ve actually lived here for a few years, the kitchen was fitted out to cater to the needs of the woman who I’d thought would be my ride or die.

Unfortunately, the one I’d found proved to be anything but.

While I probably could put something together to feed myself, I’ve been too lazy, preferring to eat what the old ladies cook up in the clubhouse.

What would Maeve make of my kitchen? Fuck.

Why did that thought come into my head? Maeve doesn’t exist.

Before I answer, I take a forkful of the chili and place it in my mouth. It tastes as good as it smells. Waving my fork in the air, I explain, “Never can be bothered to cook something for myself.”

“Too damn lazy.” Sophie snorts, but softens her words with a wink.

The annoyance at the invasion of my house fades as I eat the delicious food. Watching my brothers’ old ladies clean up after themselves, I realise I’ll be left full and with no kitchen to tidy up.

“How are you feeling?” Becca asks, pulling up another stool to sit opposite me.

My mouth full of meat and rice, I don’t immediately answer.

I take a moment to recall the stories about how she, before my time, came here unable to say boo to the proverbial goose, how she’d been schooled from childhood to defer to everyone, and ended up being abused because of the man her parents basically sold her to.

Rock had discovered her when he went undercover for the Satan’s Devils.

With his support, and that of everyone in the club, she’d found her own voice.

Now I’m looking at a comfortable, assertive woman, and I give her the respect she deserves. Having swallowed my food, I answer truthfully, “Like I’ve been kicked in the head.”

“Crutches are the devil’s invention.” Sophie laughs, pausing to give me a pat on the arm. “I can’t tell you how many times I tripped and fell on my face when I was learning to walk again.”

I appreciate her sympathy, but my case is different. She lost a limb. I’ll one day get mine back in working order. But at least they’re all buying my story, that I knocked myself out having mis-stepped.

“How are the others doing?” I’m fed up with being the topic of conversation.

Sam beams. “Wizard’s going to be home any day now.

He’ll be in a wheelchair for a while, but the doctors are predicting a full recovery.

Hawk and Throttle are like you, just having to wait a while longer for their bones to mend.

” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Won’t be too long, Hound, before you and your brothers are riding again and heading the club, and Drummer, Peg, Blade and Wraith can go back to being the annoying fuckin’ old guys. ”

Sophie almost chokes as she laughs, and I raise my brows.

Sam grins widely. “Yeah, we all know what you call them. Myself, I’d probably say they were pains in the ass.

” While Tash almost doubles up laughing, Drummer’s old lady continues, “Tell you what, Hound. Once you’re able to ride, you can race me around Road’s track.

I might even give you a chance to beat me. ”

Narrowing my eyes, I point a finger at her. “You can try.”

Road, a brother who used to ride with the Tucson brothers, has been in Utah for over two decades now.

He used to be a competitive trial bike rider until he was involved in a serious crash.

Before that, the club had used his hobby to cover up a multitude of bodies they’d had to get rid of by creating a practice track through the woods and burying the evidence underneath.

Over the years, the track’s been extended for the original reasons.

I wish I’d been there the first time they’d tried it out, as I’ve heard numerous stories about it—each brother riding Road’s trial bike and trying to make the fastest time.

All while Road had to watch and grimace, being injured, and just a prospect then, unable to protest. Legend goes that Sam had taken her turn last and had ridden every other rider’s time into dust. She’s kept up the record ever since, but now that she’s issued that challenge, I’m determined to beat her.

She might not know it, but she’s given me a goal to aim for.

When they are eventually satisfied that I’m fed and have everything I need to look after myself, the old ladies leave. It’s only when the door closes behind them that all my worries come tumbling back.

What the fuck is going on? My mind says I visited Bullet, showed him the photos I’d taken of the Sullivan House, that Maeve had come to his office, and that I’d taken her back to the house.

What happened there still replays in my head in full technicolour.

Yet evidence suggests I never left the compound, and lost my footing and collapsed outside of my home, while I clearly remember Maeve disappearing into thin air, and me crashing down the stairs.

Fuck! Maeve disappearing. Of course, my brain is fucked to shit.

That couldn’t have happened. My brothers have to be right.

It never did. Am I actually going mad? My hands tremble when I hold them in front of me.

Why am I so convinced I’ve seen and experienced things that couldn’t ever have happened?

All of a sudden, I’m so fucking scared. The doctor’s warnings had wafted over my head when I’d heard them, but what if this is my life from now on?

Seeing and hearing things, living stories that are only fiction to everyone else? At risk of passing out?

Fuck it. I lower my head into my hands. Sure, Sam can be confident that Wizard, Throttle and Hawk will soon be fit enough to resume their officer roles.

But what if I end up being a liability to the club because of my brain injury?

Who’d want someone who couldn’t separate reality from nightmares and dreams?

As it is, I can count myself lucky. For now, the evidence was in my favour.

The doctor I’d seen in the hospital had accepted I had fallen and probably banged my head for a second time.

If the truth came out that I had a blackout while suffering delusions, I’d no longer be deemed safe to drive, let alone ride.

As for those hallucinations? I’d be lucky not to be carted off as a risk to the safety of others.

If I can’t ride, I can’t be part of the club.

I’d rather eat a bullet than be unable to be a Devil.

And if my brain can’t be trusted, maybe that’s the only solution.