Page 4 of Enemy
My head spins as I move my gaze from my uncle’s worried frown to the calming pastel blues of the hospital’s interior.
The memories of what happened are a knot I’m only now untangling. I expected to be dead. And I’m not. One of my legs is in a cast, my arms are covered by layers of bandages, my side aches like a motherfucker, but I’m most definitely alive.
Grizzly cracks a smile, showing off his gold fang. My uncle’s in his fifties, has gray in his beard and a face carved by wrinkles after a lifetime of too much tanning, but he’s fit, muscular, and always ready for a fight.
“What… what happened?”
“You did it, Clyde. You blew up the warehouse, and the cops were all over the place like flies on shit. They found some of the cargo in the rubble, both drugs and guns, so Katze, who was the official owner of the building, is going away for a while. And it gets even better. Before the cops got there, we took some of the ammo.” He looks into my eyes and slows down. “It’s a lot to take in, sorry, you’re probably still out of it. It’s been a week.”
A week? I’ve been out for an entire week?
I try to speak, but my throat is so dry even the moan I end up making sounds parched.
Grizzly grabs a cup with a straw and offers it to me. “Here, I’ve got you. Shame you can’t be at our local hospital. My old lady would have taken great care of you there, but I suppose this big hospital in the city must have better equipment. You’ve done good. Roy would be proud,” he says and pats my cheek with a satisfied smile.
My brother would have been more proud if I’d gotten the fucker who killed him, and we still don’t know which of the Vulture bastards did it. I’d wipe them all out, but annihilating twenty or so bikers wouldn’t go unnoticed by the law even in that backwards village they all live in like some incestuous commune of violent hippies.
I never thought I’d get to be anyone important within the club hierarchy. Especially not at twenty-seven. My older brother was the prez, but me? Just your average member of the Hell’s Butchers MC, ready to stick my neck out when needed, but only then. After my older brother’s murder, my uncle took over the reins, but he seems to want me to step up as well. He might even expect me to become his official right hand in the future. As a younger guy, I could become the anchor of the club, whereas he might have just ten or fifteen more years left on the hog. I didn’t expect it, but I’m tied to the club for life, so if push comes to shove, I might have to go with that flow. The only way I’m ever leaving is in a body bag anyway. At least closer to leadership, I’ll be able to steer the club toward revenge for Roy’s death.
We just need to find out who did it. Who left him hanging off a hook and bloodied, with a crow inside his chest…
But something else strikes me from the left field.
I remember what Roadkill told me before I lost consciousness. Even worse, whatIanswered. A sudden bout of nausea hits me so hard some of the water I’ve just drunk rises in my gullet.
No no no no.
“Roadkill. Is he dead?”
Please be dead.
Grizzly sighs, only to tear my ribs apart without even trying. “The fucker’s about as dead as you are. I swear, that cockroach might even survive being shot point blank with a shotgun,” he says and opens his mouth, as if he were about to spit over his shoulder. He does stop himself since we’re in a hospital, and rolls his eyes. “But he’s worse off than you. It’ll be a while until he goes back to being a menace.”
The nausea is back in my throat, because all I can think of is that cocky half-smile on Roadkill’s bloodstained face as he announced he’d want to fuck me. Like not doing that was his one regret in life.
I hate him.
I want him.
But I hate him more. Because he lured me into an answer I would have never given if I hadn’t been sure I was dying. No one can know this, and especially not some fuck from the Vulture Hollow MC. I’m hot and cold all at once as I consider my next step.
I have to kill him. There’s no other way out of this.
I clear my throat. “He’s in the hospital?” Hospitals are considered neutral ground, but if I have to make an exception for Roadkill, I fucking will.
Grizzly snorts and adjusts his worn leather jacket. “Literally a few doors down the hall. You couldn’t make this shit up. God’s turning our lives into a bad sitcom.”
“We are the Hell’s Butchers. He’s not gonna make this easy on us.” I try to chuckle, but it hurts my ribs too much. “Listen, I feel like shit. Could you go get me a Twix from the vending machine?” I’ve been here enough times to know they have those downstairs.
Grizzly taps his knees and rises. “Sweet tooth? Just imagine how badly you’ll want a beer the moment you’re out of here,” he says, padding to the door, ignorant to the turmoil inside me.
“Can’t fucking wait.”
But what I really can’t fucking wait for is Roadkill’s death. I can start gathering my thoughts once my uncle leaves, but I’m not faring well. My body is one big ache, and it’s distracting me from the task at hand.
Still, I force myself to sit up. I’m attached to an IV drip, and my leg’s in a cast, but fuck it, I’ll use the IV stand to help me walk.
My head is in such turmoil though. Roadkill’s gay? I’ve never even heard gossip about that, so I’m guessing he might be like me, steamrolling over that fact until it’s buried deepenough that it doesn’t even matter anymore. But we’ve both unearthed it, and I’ve got no idea what to do with that.
