Page 17 of My Veteran Biker

He's not our problem anymore. What happens to him after he leaves here is between him and whatever's waiting.

The clubhouse’s a mess. Glass everywhere, bullet holes, the smell of gunpowder and vomit. Brothers are already cleaning, securing the perimeter, checking weapons.

I'm turning to help when pain registers across my left ribs.

I look down and see blood soaking through my shirt.

"Knox," Tate says.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding…"

He's right. I pull my shirt up and see the graze. Shallow but long, running from my lower ribs around toward my back.

I don't remember getting hit.

Must've been when I tackled that first man. He got a shot off before I put him down. I was moving fast enough that it just clipped me.

"Sit down," Tate says. "I'll get the kit."

"It's fine."

"Knox."

Clint's voice cuts through my refusal. He's looking at me with that expression that means he's not asking.

I sit.

Tate cleans the wound with antiseptic that burns like fire. The graze is shallow enough that it doesn't need stitches, just gauze and tape.

He works fast, efficient, his medic training making the process quick and impersonal.

When he's done I pull my shirt down and stand.

The wound pulls but it's manageable. Nothing I haven't dealt with before.

"Go home," Clint says. "Get some rest. We meet tomorrow night to discuss next moves."

I nod and head for my bike. The sun is starting to rise, turning the sky pale gray. My body is coming down off adrenaline now, the crash making everything feel heavy and slow.

The ride home is automatic. I park in the driveway and sit there for a moment with the engine off, listening to the tick of cooling metal.

Francis's bedroom light is on.

I should go inside. Should shower and sleep and deal with her later when I'm not running on fumes and adrenaline.

I get off the bike and walk to her door instead.

She opens it before I knock. She's wearing pajama shorts and a tank top, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes wide when she sees the blood on my shirt.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing."

"Knox."

"Just a graze. I already cleaned it."