Page 18 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)
CHAPTER TEN
HOUND
After the old ladies have gone, I stay in my house alone.
If I went to the clubhouse, I’d be smothered with people watching my every move and questioning my health and the state of my mind.
I did invent an imaginary timeline and fictional woman after all.
The main problem is that, despite evidence to the contrary, I can’t believe my version isn’t real.
Perhaps I’m dreaming now? But rubbing my overfilled stomach, I have to admit that’s as far-fetched as the alternate reality my mind had conjured.
Finally, the hands on the clock tick around sufficiently to warrant me going to bed.
I toss and turn for a while before dropping off into a, thankfully, dreamless sleep.
I’m woken abruptly, not by a nonexistent vision, but by the insistence of the ringing of my phone, which threatens to vibrate its way off the bedside table.
Groaning and turning, I reach over to pick the annoying device up, noting it’s ten a.m. Shit.
I’ve overslept. Something I never do, and something else, I suppose, I can put down to my brain injury.
“Hi, Bullet,” I answer, seeing his name on the screen, trying to keep my voice even so as not to betray the anxiety in my head. “What can I do for you?”
“How are you feeling today, Bro?”
Doubts about my sanity aside, my head’s no longer pounding, I’m not lying when I respond, “I’m good. What can I do for you?”
“Was just wondering whether you could give your phone to one of the prospects so we can see the pictures you took of the Sullivan House?”
“No need to bother a prospect. I’ll bring them to your office myself.”
Bullet sounds doubtful. “You sure you’re up to it?”
Giving myself a fist bump, I remember to stick to their story. “Yeah. I’ll be careful on my crutches leaving the house.”
“You better be, Bro,” he snarls, but in a joking tone. “Don’t want to be visiting you in the hospital again.”
And there’s no way I want to go back to that place either. “Give me an hour and I’ll be there.”
As I work around my crutches, I shower and dress in shorts I can easily get over my cast, then put on a black t-shirt.
I spare a moment to look longingly at my cut.
I resist the urge to feel its comforting weight settling over my shoulders.
Not only will I have to remove it before I get into the cage, there are doubts in my head that I’ll ever deserve to wear it again.
Then I give myself a mental pep talk. The only way forward is to believe I’d stepped into an elaborate dream world, and to accept everything I’d thought happened yesterday had all been a figment of my imagination.
Not the original visit to the Sullivan House, the very pictures he was referring to are proof of that.
But everything that happened afterward, including meeting Maeve, returning to the mansion, and the kinky ghosts.
When I’d fallen and knocked myself out, the only reasonable way to move on was to believe what happened afterward must have been conjured up by my subconscious, despite the overwhelming feeling it was all real.
Pulling back my shoulders, I’m determined to visit Bullet, reiterate my amateur evaluation, and show him the evidence that the house should be demolished. Better still, be burned to the ground. Then I’ll walk out, mission accomplished. Simple. Even for a brain-damaged biker.
Making my way down the compound, I again take one of the club’s SUVs and head to Tucson, parking at SD Construction.
Shaking off the feelings of déjà vu, I walk into the offices and make my way to Bullet and Shooter’s domain. Once again, it’s just Bullet who greets me. Didn’t this already happen?
After a narrowed-eyed assessment, I obviously pass some non-verbal test. “Come on in, Brother.” He motions me to a chair. “Sit.”
Before I do, I slap my phone down in front of him. “Brought the photos that you requested.” I then make my way to the seat, leaning my crutches against the desk. Haven’t I done this before?
Bullet takes my phone, holds it up to my face, then connects it to the computer in front of him.
As the pictures take their time to load, I force myself to stay quiet.
My memory, playing tricks on me, replays a whole conversation I’d had with him before.
I refuse to ask the same questions, not so much worried I’d get the same reply, but not wanting to tempt history to repeat itself.
It’s not history, I remind myself. I had a vivid dream, nothing real, nothing concrete.
The air hangs heavy around us, as if anticipating a conversation that goes unsaid.
I had vivid memories of me voicing doubts about my future position in the club, and Bullet refuting them.
But at least, in this, history doesn’t resurrect, and we wait in silence.
In my dream, I remind myself, I’d be sat here haunted by memories of going into that fucking house, terrified of reliving the memories.
At least today, I’m not so worried about the tricks the place had played on my mind.
But one thing’s for certain. Hallucinations or not, I won’t ever be going back.
Anticipation reaches its limit, and I adjust the position of my left leg. “Them photos ready yet?”
Bullet snorts, then turns his screen around, so I can watch as he clicks on the file and opens it.
Again, the sense of having been here before hits me, but I’m stuck, unable to do anything but go with the flow as I recognise the first shot is one of my leg.
The second one of the ground. The third of some blurred scenery.
He groans, and I put my head into my hands.
“Fuckin’ tell me it gets better than this, Brother.”
Shaking my head, I now know that I can. But my mouth opens automatically, and the same words come out that I know I’ve voiced before.
“There was a gate blocking the track. Had a little difficulty opening it,” I admit, as he finally clicks on an image that makes sense.
“Can see that.” His eyes widen. “You had to cut through that?”
“Sure did.”
“Should have called for help,” he remarks as he steps through to the picture of the gate opened. His eyes move to my leg encased in metal and plaster, and he shakes his head. “Surprised you even got through.”
Whether he’s giving me criticism or not, he continues clicking through the photos.
I try to remind myself that I haven’t seen them since I viewed them through the camera on my phone, but all the scenes are disturbingly familiar, and so are his reactions—the way he lets out air through his teeth as he sees the columns and the grand entrance.
“The original snapshot provided by the owner didn’t do this place justice,” he says, and then continues to examine each of the many photos I’ve taken.
“Fuck, Bro, this house must have been amazing in its day. You’ve captured everything.
” He grimaces. “Including the decay. The way the floorboards have fallen in, I’d bet good money dry rot riddles everything. ”
I can’t stop my eyes from going to the door, waiting to be interrupted, and for Maeve to appear. As Bullet goes through the photos for a second time, time ticks by, still the door remains closed, and there’s no visitor.
My heart pounds, my head aches, and I rub at my temples as, finally, I have to admit that everything I’d thought happened was just a dream, all made up in my mind. Fucking TBI.
Eventually, the door opens. I look up in anticipation, but it’s not Bullet’s assistant introducing the literal woman of my dreams. It’s Shooter who walks in with Zane following, both of them laughing.
“Hound, my man.” Zane grins at me, walking forward with his hand held up. He clasps mine tightly and lifts his chin. “Fuckin’ good to see you again.”
“Brother.” Shooter greets me next, squeezing my shoulder as he walks around the desk to where Bullet has all my masterpieces printed and laid out. Then, remembering I was back in the hospital yesterday, he looks a little cowed and sends me a sheepish look. “Sorry, I should have asked how you are?”
“Fine and fuckin’ dandy,” I respond, then lie, “Just got my crutch caught on something, fell and banged my head on the ground. No damage done.” I stick to the story Drummer had told me.
“Damage was probably done when your mom dropped you on your head as a kid.”
I show him my finger but enjoy the banter. It’s normal, recognisable, understandable, and right at this moment, that’s exactly what I need.
“These the pics you took of the Sullivan House?” Zane steps forward, his head tilted toward me, so I nod. He responds with a chin lift, then stands next to Shooter, and both peer at the photos Bullet has fanned out.
“You did a good job.” Shooter gives me a look that shows he’s impressed. “You went in every room?”
“Everywhere,” I confirm. “Except for the attic. I didn’t want to risk those stairs.”
Acknowledging my comment, he tilts his head to the side. “What was your overall impression?”