Page 66 of Being Lost

“No point, Prez,” Smoker objects.

Lost growls. “You do as I—”

“No point,” Smoker interrupts and repeats, his eyes hardening as he regards his prez. “I already been.”

“And?” Eva pauses on the way to seat herself, her plate held in mid-air.

Smoker looks around, seeming to note who’s there. I recognise Grumbler, Bones, Blaze, Dusty, Brakes, Snips and Reboot. Eventually he takes a breath, coughs again, then once recovered, shrugs. “Lung cancer,” he informs everybody.

There’s a shocked silence around the table. Lost puts down his fork. “When the fuck do you start treatment? And why the fuck are you still smoking? You stop that shit right now,” he snarls.

Smoker looks around. “I ain’t doing either.”

“You fuckin’ what?” Lost’s half out of his seat, leaning forward.

The older man looks annoyed. “My body, my life, ain’t it?” He challenges everyone who’s looking at him in disbelief. “With treatment, they give me around a year. Without?” He shrugs. “A few months. Seems a no-brainer. I don’t have a family, except for my MC one. I’ll lose that if I can’t ride. So,” he pulls his shoulders back, “I’ve made my decision. I’ll live my life, enjoy my cigarettes, and leave fate up to mother nature.”

Eva glares at Lost and puts down her untouched plate, resting her hand on Smoker’s shoulder. “When did you find out?” she asks.

“Yesterday,” Smoker replies.

Her eyes signal a message toward Lost. I interpret it as saying he should give the old man some time. Maybe if he thinks about it a bit longer, he’ll decide to fight.

I don’t think I’d give up. If there was a chance of even just a few months longer, I’d take it. But that’s because I’d want to spend longer with those I loved.

Glancing around the table, I can see by the expressions—some stunned, some hurt—that while Smoker might not realise it right now, his loss will devastate them just as much as if they lost someone related by blood.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lost

After Smoker’s announcement, I completely lose my appetite. I try one more mouthful, but it feels like cardboard in my mouth. Regrets run through my mind. Why had we not forced Smoker to give up his habit? Deep down, I know the reason.

In the MC, we pride ourselves on riding free and making our own paths in life. Who am I to criticise if a man who knew the risks kept on chain smoking? Who didn’t seek help with his health until it was too late? I’m gutted that he doesn’t feel he has to try for us, that he can’t see how hurt we are, but as he said, it’s his life. If it’s true that he would only extend it a few months, why spend those suffering the effects of chemical and radiation therapies?

Me? I’d fight for life. Or, I qualify, that’s what I think now. How could I put myself in another’s shoes? Smoker believes he has no one around him who’d grieve. He’s wrong. He’s got the whole of the Satan’s Devils MC.

I know what Eva had tried to convey by that silent message she sent to me. Smoker is still coming to terms with the news he received yesterday. His initial reaction may change. One thing I know, we’ve got to approach this carefully. Any direct approach would have the man digging in his heels.

Shrugging off the disruption he’s wrought, Smoker takes the plate a moist-eyed Cindy offers to him and starts to dig in. I watch him for a moment as he smacks his lips appreciatively, as though relishing the little things in life. I vow there and then, if I can’t change his mind, I’ll make sure we do everything we can to make the most of whatever time he’s got left. Grumbler might have some ideas; he’s known Smoker probably the longest.

Patsy taps my arm to get my attention, but before I can complete my turn in her direction, my phone pings. Taking it out, I read the message.

Token: Have you got a minute?

I don’t bother to respond. I pull my plate toward me and start to stand. “Sorry, Patsy, I need to go. I’ll catch up with you later.” My words are innocent, but my eyes catch hers and hold them for a moment blazing out a more intense suggestion. As her cheeks redden, I suspect she’s gotten the message. If nothing else, I could do with a heavy make-out session later, if only to affirm that I’m still healthy and alive.

Though I’m reluctant to leave Patsy, I’m not unhappy to exit the room where I’m leaving one of my members with a problem I’m helpless to solve. I pause at the bar and take a bottle of beer from Curtis, then proceed to Token’s office.

I rap on the door, but immediately enter as I’m expected. “Whatcha got?” I ask as I sit opposite his array of monitors.

Token meets my eyes and puts his hand to his face, drawing it down from his nose to his chin. “Fucker’s been in contact again.”

“The mysterious guy in the wind? Any clue where he’s from?”

“Outer Mongolia? Timbuktu? Who the fuck knows?” Token shakes his head. “Got no idea where he is, or even if it is a man.”

Leaving aside the who and where for now, I prompt, “What did he/she/it say?”

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