Page 3 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

Then he and Peg disappear out of the door, leaving me to her mercy.

In truth, I don’t give a damn how the nurse looks or how old she is, as long as she’s proficient at her job and gets me out of here as quickly as possible.

I hate being cooped up, especially in a hospital.

Moreover, I don’t like the thought that I’ve lost all dignity by my bladder emptying directly into a tube without even feeling the urge to piss.

What if, when they remove the catheter, I’ll find I no longer have control?

I shudder as that possibility occurs to me.

I’d never given a thought that Depends might be in my near future.

Now that that thought’s planted in my brain, it’s all I can think about.

I force myself to consider the plus points.

I’d be able to ride my Harley all day without stopping other than to refuel the tank.

Uh uh. No way. What woman would want to give it up to a man wearing diapers?

Fuck my life.

As Nurse Voldemort completes her assessment of my vitals, I swallow down asking about my future ability to pee, as another, more urgent, question bursts out of me. “When am I going to be allowed out of here?”

Instead of answering directly, she consults the tablet she’s holding in her hand.

“Mr. Ockenden.” I cringe at my government name.

“Now that you’re conscious and your readings are in a good range, I suspect you’ll be released as soon as our PT therapists assess you can use crutches.

” She chuckles, but it sounds evil, not full of mirth.

“I do see a lot of physical therapy in your future.”

Maybe, but it won’t be by visiting the hospital.

No way. As soon as I’m back at the club, I’ll rely on our own resources.

Back in the day, Peg got Sophie, Wraith, our old VP’s, present one now, I remind myself, woman, out of a wheelchair and walking again on a prosthetic after she lost her leg.

I’d trust him more than any of these hospital quacks any day, even though he’ll be one hell of a taskmaster.

In many ways, I’m glad I spent the last three weeks unconscious.

Hell, I’d never heal if I’d been aware of how many times the nurses come in to disturb my sleep.

Then, when I finally fall deep enough to find myself some REM, the breakfast tray comes rattling around at an ungodly hour, waking me yet again.

Inwardly, I scream, just get me out of here.

I think I could have gone crazy had not a man and a woman walked in wearing different colour scrubs.

Apparently, they are my physiotherapists.

After waiting for the nurse to get that demeaning catheter removed, I’m given a lesson on crutches and an exam concerning stairs, which I’m determined to pass.

After I’ve successfully mastered putting my weight on one leg and using the aids to swing my metal-enhanced leg forward, they sign off on some paperwork. And, bonus, I didn’t wet myself.

Whatever magic they’ve conjured, it results in a doctor appearing, giving me the semi-good news that they want to keep me a little longer to monitor the immediate effects my traumatic brain injury might have caused.

Like a good boy, I nodded, raised my chin, shook my head side to side, or whatever their explanation warranted.

Most of their conversation went right over my head when they talked about possible headaches, fatigue, memory loss, lack of ability to concentrate, or balance problems. Apparently, it was on the cards that I could suffer confusion, difficulties with puzzle solving, or a hundred different things.

Yeah, yeah. I feel fine. Sure, my head hurts, but that’s only the aftereffects of where I cracked my skull on the ground.

It’s a case of picking myself up, brushing myself down, and getting myself reestablished as sergeant-at-arms as soon as I can.

I’m a man. I can survive a little knock.

All the warnings go in one ear and straight out the other.

I behave. I do everything asked of me, frustrated that their fucking monitors don’t lie.

It’s only when they’re finally satisfied that my stats have stabilised that they tell me I can go home the next day, subject to any overnight deteriorations in my condition.

You better believe that I willed my blood pressure to stay low, and my heartbeat to remain normal.

Having successfully achieved that task, I place a call that summons Razza, one of our prospects. As soon as he appears, I hurry him along to execute my escape before the medics can come up with an excuse to make me stay.

Before I leave, I get him to wheel me along to the room where Wizard is being kept prisoner.

Even though I’ve been told of his injuries, I hiss as I see him lying with both legs held in the air, and Amy, his old lady, fussing around him.

The sight hits me like a kick to the teeth.

Here I’m complaining about going home on crutches, and he’s got no imminent release date.

More accepting than I am of the situation, his comment that he’d rather be this way than dead does knock some sense into me.

Even more so when he goes on to explain why he’s surprisingly sanguine about Drummer and the other fucking old guys taking over the officer roles in the club, pointing out to me that we all need to heal before we can resume our duties.

The fact that he’s so adamant it’s only a matter of time has me feeling easier in my mind, relieved it’s not me letting the side down.

After promises to visit again soon, I get Razza to take me home.