Page 8 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

CHAPTER FIVE

HOUND

Pressing the pedal to the metal, I don’t ease up my speed until I’m far away from the Sullivan House.

It’s not until I near civilisation that I slow, sufficiently sentient to not want to pick up a ticket.

My brain is full of the warnings the doctor gave me about my TBI—hallucinations, seeing shit that’s not real, hearing things that aren’t there.

I reckon I probably look crazy, my lunacy clear on my face.

All I need is an overexuberant cop to pick me up and maybe see something in me that says I shouldn’t be driving at all.

I don’t consider returning to SD Construction to give my report to Bullet and Shooter.

Hell, I’m in possession of photographic evidence, but I don’t want to review the pictures, too scared my brain might again be playing tricks.

I do know I’m in dire need of a drink, and once I start downing the whisky, I doubt I’m going to stop.

Heading straight to the compound, I park the car behind the shop, retrieve my crutches, then manage to make my way up the slope and into the clubhouse.

Razza’s behind the bar and raises a brow at my approach.

“Whisky, double,” I snap, managing to get my ass on the bar stool. While propping my crutches up alongside me, my trembling hands betray me, and one crashes to the floor.

“Hey, Brother, what gives?” Peg advances, his tall form overshadowing me until he bends, retrieves the crutch, and sets it beside its twin.

Brimming with health and fitness, he reminds me of the mess I am.

He might be in his sixties, but he still works out in the gym every day, and misses looking his age by a mile.

And for now, at least, he’s stolen my job.

Glancing at him, hoping soon he’ll give it back, though I’m starting to have doubts whether I’ll ever again be mentally fit for the role, I morosely reply, “Feel so fuckin’ useless, Peg.”

“Not that useless,” another voice barks. “Heard you’ve been doing some work down at SD Construction.” Widening my eyes as I look toward Drummer, he snorts. “Zeke told me.”

Of course, his fucking son told him. Nothing’s a secret in this club.

“Would rather be riding my bike and kicking ass.” I can’t stop the resentment coming out of my mouth. I’ve downed my first drink. I tap on the bar to get Razza’s attention, and request a second double.

“Whoa,” Peg warns me. “Better go easy, Hound. You want your leg to heal, and if you fall on your face, you’ll undo all the surgeon’s good work.”

Drummer’s sharp, discerning eyes obviously see more than I want him to know. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

My experience so recent, and the drink having loosened my tongue, the words escape before I can stop them.

“What? That Bullet and Shooter sent me to check out a haunted house?” Just let the floor open up and swallow me now.

I act fast to cover my misstep. I force a snort as I rush to correct myself.

“Well, that’s what it felt like. Old building, unoccupied for years, half falling down.

Holes in the floors. The place was a disaster, not to say a death trap. ”

“Why the fuck did they send you there?” Peg growls, slamming his hand on the bar. “You could have injured yourself more than you already have.”

Feeling protective of the one business arm of the Satan’s Devils that had actually offered me a job, I shrug. “It wasn’t that bad. Just had to be careful.”

“Sounds creepy as fuck,” Drummer responds with a laugh. “You see any ghosts while you were there?”

“Ha fuckin’ ha,” I reply. “No ghost and no souls, living or departed.” I take a large sip of my whisky. “Place looked like the Disney haunted house if you want a comparison.”

Looking concerned, Drummer carefully looks into my eyes. “You get any strange feelings or impulses while you were there?” As my face twists to look at him with a total lack of comprehension, he clarifies, “Know you were diagnosed with a TBI, Hound. The wrong stimuli could fuck with your head.”

How the fuck does he know? “You been speaking to my doctor?” I rasp out through gritted teeth.

“Wasn’t him, Bro. I hacked into your medical records.” It’s Mouse who’s appeared. He shrugs at my glare and raises his hands. “I did it for all of you who were injured. Prez,” he inclines his head toward Drummer, “needed to know what we’re dealing with and the best way to help.”

Wizard’s my prez, not Drummer. I scowl. “I’m not fucked in the head. Doctor said it was a possibility, not a certainty.”

A meaty hand lands on my shoulder. “Brother, we just want to give you what you need so you can heal.” Peg shakes his head. “My ol’ lady’s looking to retire any day now. I don’t want this extra responsibility for a moment longer than I have to. Need you back in the harness.”

“But fit and well,” Drummer adds.

“I’m well,” I growl, then admit, “The fitness I’ve just got to work on.”

“True words. You look like shit, Brother.”

“Gee, thanks, Peg,” I snarl.

Mouse orders himself a soda, then steps closer.

“I looked into the Sullivan House when Bullet asked me to. It’s an anomaly in time, left vacant for years.

A woman called Siobhan Sullivan inherited it, but it’s been nothing more than a millstone around her neck.

Do you know she actually tried to burn it down? ”

Tilting my head to one side, I non-verbally encourage him to say more, the charred remains I’d found. If that was evidence of her arson, she hadn’t gotten far.

He doesn’t disappoint. “There’s nothing to actually say it was her, but someone started a fire in one of the downstairs rooms. Used gasoline by all reports, but the flames just petered out.

” His eyes meet mine. “She’s tried to get it demolished a few times, but every company she approached ran into problems. A man was electrocuted when he tried to send his bulldozer through the front door.

Another had a heart attack just entering the grounds.

” He shakes his head, and his hair, once jet black but tinged with grey now, settles around his shoulders.

“SD Construction was this Siobhan’s last chance to get something done. ”

Gobsmacked, I don’t know what to say. I’d sensed the house wasn’t normal, that something was going on. But right now, with Drummer’s reference to my brain injury, I can’t admit that to anyone.

His half-Native American heritage showing now, Mouse’s pupils widen, and he seems to be meditating for a moment. His hand lands on my arm. “Never doubt your senses, Brother. There are more things in this world than we acknowledge.”

Shrugging him off, I sneer, “I wasn’t afraid. It was just an old abandoned house. Decaying, and yeah, concerning, as I wasn’t sure I was going to make it out of there without the place collapsing around me.”

“I’m going to have a word with my fuckin’ son,” Drummer growls. “You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself, not being put in danger.”

Hurrying to ease his concern, I try to shed a better light on it.

“I’m exaggerating. I just had a close shave that shocked me, is all.

I think the house is probably sound, but it’s deteriorating on a daily basis through neglect.

I doubt Zeke, Bullet or Shooter had any idea of the condition in which I’d found it.

” I raise and lower my shoulders. “I’m here.

I got out. No injuries to body… or mind. ” I emphasise the last word.

Mouse slaps my shoulder and shakes his head.

“It’s lucky you went there today, and not later this week, Bro.

Halloween’s approaching,” he adds to make sure I understand him.

“Any spirits hanging around are bound to come out then.” He lifts his hands and wiggles them as though he’s imitating a ghost.

Peg snorts with laughter, and Drummer follows suit. “Mouse, you’re a laugh a minute, ain’t ya?” He points at me. “Better lay off, else you’ll get him believing this shit.”

Mouse’s enigmatic smile gives nothing away.

“Anyway,” I tell them. “Got no need to go back again. Got all the pictures I need for Bullet and Shooter to know what state that house is in.”

With that, the spotlight is off me. Peg, Drummer and Mouse start to talk about their kids.

I politely ask for the latest update on Wizard, who’s yet to be released from the hospital.

Oh, and I picked up that a woman ran out of the clubhouse after Dollar brought her home, and she didn’t feel able to experience his kink.

That’s the only information that had me smiling that evening.

Fucking Dollar. Even as an old man, he’s still up to his tricks.

“Well, I’m off to see my woman.” Drummer’s hand lands on my shoulder as he leaves.

Blade, who’s just arrived to overhear the end of our conversation, barks a laugh. “Hey, it’s Halloween soon. How about we all dress up?” He jumps back as Drummer’s fist shoots out.

“You fuckin’ wish,” he growls, as he raises his chin toward us and leaves.

Blade raises his palms in a what have I done now gesture and innocently says, “I meant the kids.”

“Sure you did, fucker,” Peg responds, adding in a slap around Blade’s head for good measure.

It’s good to be back. This is what I missed—the camaraderie, the teasing.

Slowing my drinking, I keep shooting the shit with my brothers for a while, until Clover, one of the sweet butts, approaches.

Peg, Mouse and Blade magically disappear, reminding me I’ve never once seen them cheat on their old ladies.

As the last man standing, Clover sashays up to me. “Feel like having fun?”

I fucking wish. I know she’d do all the work were I to take her up on her offer, and before I was injured, I’d be one of the first to take advantage of her free pussy.

But the thought of her jumping up and down on my shattered leg fills me with horror.

The pursuit of regaining full motion in my damaged limb trumps any desire to get my rocks off.

“Not tonight, darlin’.” I remove her hand from my knee.

Realising it would be pretty stupid to drink myself into a stupor, and undo all the work I’ve done to facilitate healing, and thereafter regaining my place in the MC, I place my empty glass on the bar, and exit the clubroom.

Balancing myself on the crutches, I make my way up past the blocks which house the suites where the unattached members live, continuing up to the top of the compound, where many of us have built houses.

I’d claimed my plot when I’d thought I’d found my one, and when that relationship so quickly came to an end, I’d seen no reason not to continue the build for myself.

I let myself into the four-bedroom home that’s admittedly enormous for just me, but far more luxurious than the suites the single brothers use.

Placing my cut on the peg just inside the door, installed for that very purpose, I walk through the lounge, passing the kitchen that’s rarely used and, after manoeuvring up the stairs, on into the master suite.

Entering the bathroom, I shrug off my clothes and glare at the stool that’s been placed in the shower for me.

I suppose I’m lucky I’ve healed enough to be trusted to wash myself alone. While I’m not particularly bothered about my nudity, it really sucked when I was in the hospital and one of the nurses had always insisted on assisting me. But it still irks that I need to sit where I used to stand proudly.

Once clean, I fall into my bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep. Knowing I can’t put off tomorrow, when I have to face up to Bullet and Shooter, and lie about what I’ve seen.

Wishing for and getting aren’t anything close to the main thing.

Nightmares haunt me throughout the night, in which I’m trying to move as though through treacle, with some amorphous, but definitely evil figure close on my heels.

I wake with a jolt, sweat dampening both my face and the sheet that covers me, feeling as if I’d had no sleep, but with no desire to close my eyes and try again.

It’s too damn early, but I force myself out of bed and take another awkward shower using the plastic stool and the shower spray to wash every part of me except for my left leg.

Dressing, I choose another pair of baggy jeans that I can just about manage to get over the cast, and the first tee that comes to hand.

Entering the kitchen, I study the almost empty fridge, finding only an open carton of milk.

Being a typical bachelor, I normally eat down at the clubhouse rather than cooking for myself, but none of the old ladies will be making up anything at this time of day.

Grabbing some cereal out of a cupboard, I tip it into a bowl and, after sniffing to make sure it hasn’t gone bad, use the last of the milk.

Which now means I can only have black coffee. Fuck my life.

Not for the first time, I wonder whether it would have been more sensible to cut down on the scale of my house. Why do I need a fully fitted kitchen when, even with all my functioning limbs, I can’t remember ever turning the stove on? The microwave gets more use than anything.

Living alone doesn’t bother me, not when just a few strides will take me to one of my brothers’ houses, or a couple of hundred yards more will take me down to the clubhouse.

Not that anyone will likely be awake at this god-awful hour.

Today, though, my house doesn’t seem a home to me, the space around me seems wasted, as if something’s missing.

I switch on the television, scrolling through the channels until I reach a mind-numbing film I’ve seen many times before. Nothing else has caught my attention, so I settle down on the sofa, letting my mind drift as there’s no need for me to follow the plot.

Unfortunately, my mind wanders to the revelations I’ll soon need to make to Bullet and Shooter.

I’d rather never revisit the house, even mentally, by relating everything that I saw. But seeing as I’m currently otherwise a waste of space to my club, I have to pull up my big boy pants and complete the task they’d given me.