Page 50 of Making Choices

Once I’m alone, I run into my bathroom and hide the razor in the far corner of the bottom drawer. I slam it shut and slowly back away from the basin. My heart is pounding. My throat is dry. I eye the drawer like the razor is going to push it open and jump into my hand at any moment.

It’s been years since I’ve had an urge this strong to cut.

I don’t know why it’s reappearing now.

“Yes, you do,” I whisper to myself. “It’s Alex.” Catching a glimpse of my ashen face in the mirror, I see the truth in my eyes. Even though I’m alone, I straighten my shoulders and meet my reflection head on. “I’m stronger than my problems. I’m stronger than my triggers. I’m stronger than my need to cut.”

Speaking my strength out loud is a technique my therapist taught me. It’s supposed to give me something concrete to concentrate on while I’m trying to stop myself from backsliding in my recovery. Right now, my coping techniques seem futile.

Nothing beats the feeling of Alex’s poison draining out of my veins.

“One second. One minute. One hour.” I repeat this over and over as I edge my way backward out of the bathroom. Stopping to grab my boots and jacket, I drag in a deep breath. “One second. One minute. One hour.”

The hand that grasps the doorknob trembles, but I don’t allow my weakness to win. I yank the door open and step out into the hallway to find Toker leaning against the opposite wall. He scrutinises me with an intensity he rarely exhibits. I hold my breath as I do my best not to wilt under his inspection. If I tell him how I’m feeling, he’ll tell Zeke, and faking our breakup will have been for nothing.

“You look frazzled as fuck.”

“Just tired.” When his mouth drops open and he gets a glint in his eye that tells me he’s about to argue the point, I hold up my boots and jacket. “Let’s get going. I’m looking forward to having the wind in my face and the rumble of pipes in my ears after the morning I’ve had.”

“Not takin’ my bike,” Toker announces, grabbing my things and laying them on the dining table as we pass.

“Why not?”

“Venom’d kill me and you know it.”

With a shake of my head, I follow him out to the front patio. “I ride with Slash all the time.”

“You should stop doin’ that.” My cousin takes the steps that lead to the driveway two at a time. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, he adds. “You wear Venom’s property patch. That means your bony arse only gets on the back of his bike.”

“Not sure what brought on this lecture,” I reply as we walk over to the Shamrocks’ blacked out van. “But Zeke doesn’t care about things like that.”

“He will one day.”

Since Toker isn’t normally one for doling out life advice, I let his censure pass without comment. I’m not sure what I could say to change his mind anyway. The rules are clear, so he’s technically right. When you accept a ‘property of’ patch, you signal to the world, and more importantly the club, that you belong to the biker whose name you wear. I don’t like it—it grates on my egalitarian beliefs. Not that I’ve never given much thought to it because the only other person I ride bitch with is Slash.

If I’m not on the back of Zeke’s bike, then I’m either in my car, riding my own Harley, or travelling in one of the Shamrocks’ van. Maybe once a month, I end up riding with Slash, and then it’s usually only because Zeke tells me to.

“So,” I begin in a teasing tone as I look to lighten the mood. “Quick question.”

“Shoot.”

While Toker drives slowly down the winding driveway, I lean over to fiddle with the radio, hitting buttons until I find the station I’m looking for. The sharp corners make me a little nauseous again so I wait until we’re on the main road to ask, “How loud do you like your heavy metal?”

My cousin’s nostrils flare as I crank the volume and Apologies to Medusa’s latest hit blares out of the speakers. I can’t hardly hear him over the music, but I’m pretty sure he whines, “Bloody Apollo. Motherfuckin’ musical virtuoso and he chooses to play this shit. What’s wrong with some good ol’ country music?”

On the straight road my nausea recedes to a manageable level. I embrace its absence and decide to go out of my way to irritate Toker. He’s unusually serious today, and that just won’t do—not when my own mood is teetering on the edge of depression. Knowing he won’t be able to resist engaging with me, I play the air drums on the dashboard, then on his arm, and finally on his thigh. When he swats me away, I begin singing at the top of my lungs and conducting the orchestra that accompanies the chorus with wild, loping movements. The next song plays, this time it’s one from Motionless in White, so I continue showcasing my musical prowess, accidentally flicking his nose every so often. He does his best not to give me the reaction I’m after, so every time we pause at the stoplights, I lower my window and share my antics with the cars around us. Some of them laugh. Most of them glare at me.

Toker mutters under his breath.

I try harder to annoy him.

By the time we pull into the underground parking lot at the hospital, I’m in high spirits and my cousin’s nostrils are flaring like an agitated bull. Lost to the beat of the soulful metal duet between In This Moment and Rob Halford from Judas Priest, I fail to notice that Toker has parked and exited the van until he’s ripped open my door, unclipped my seatbelt, and slung me over his shoulder.

When I start flailing in his grip, he pins my knees and carries me over to a dumpster.

Holding me over the smelly opening, he laughs when I try to jump out of his arms. I don’t care how much it hurts or how many extra bruises I end up with, I am not going in that damn bin. I’ll have to set myself on fire to escape the smell. Even Hunter’s cleaning expertise won’t be enough to save me.

“Not laughin’ now, are ya?”

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