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Dad grabs my mom’s hand and places his other hand against my back as we work our way through the throng and toward one of the meeting rooms.
Inside, we find several of the guys…bleeding, angry. And on a table in the center lies Mustang, blood covering the side of his head and dripping onto the table. Mom gasps as we rush over.
“I’m fine,” Mustang says, voice hoarse.
“Fine? You have blood all over your head,” Mom exclaims, hands shaking slightly as she reaches out and grabs one of his.
“Seriously, Ma. I’m okay.”
“He’ll be fine,” David says, reaching into his bag and pulling out several bandages and gauze pads, followed by hydrogen peroxide. “He’s lucky. The bullet just grazed his head. It did take the tip of his ear clean off, but I think that may improve his looks.”
“Ha-ha-ha. Very funny,” Mustang slurs.
At Mom’s questioning look, David smiles. “I gave him some morphine to take the edge off. I need to put in a few stitches and clean him up, then you guys can take him home.”
“But…,” I start, looking over the table. “But there’s so much blood.”
“Head wounds, even minor ones, bleed a lot. Also, Mustang hit the ground pretty hard, then scrambled to get away, severely scraping up his neck, shoulder, and upper back. I basically had to scrub those wounds to get the dirt and gravel out, so that could account for some of the blood.” He pauses, giving me a gentle smile. “Your brother is going to be just fine, Jenny. Promise.”
“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” my dad utters. These are the first words out of him since we got here.
Turning toward him, I suck in a breath. I’ve never seen him look so…murderous. Face red, teeth grinding, veins in his neck bulging. I can tell it’s taking all his willpower to keep from storming out of the room and going on the warpath.
“Of course.” David smiles, going back to stitching up Mustang’s ear. My brother is slightly dozing, feeling no pain, eyes unfocused as he listens to our mom telling him he is going to be okay.
Dad looks around the room, eyes narrowed. Linch sits to our left. He complains to a few other members as his wife, Meg, places a bandage on his arm. Chopper sits on the right. He has a nasty cut on his cheek that looks like it’s going to need stitches. He keeps pushing English’s hand away, the man trying to put a rag to the cut as he tells him to quit being an ass.
The knowledge that everyone is going to be okay doesn’t seem to cool my dad’s rising temper, and knowing what is to come, I decide to get mom out of there.
“Come on, Mama,” I say softly, giving her arm a gentle tug. “Let’s get some food together for everyone.”
That’s all it takes to get my mom moving. She is a comforter, a provider. Making sure everybody has food is what she would do. The kitchen’s just down the hall from the meeting room. With the paper-thin walls, we can hear when my dad finally loses it.
“What thefuckhappened?!”
We don’t overhear what is said, but we definitely hear my dad’s reaction to it.
“Fat Mike shot you?!Fucking hell!... He said what?...Dammit! Well, he ain’t getting shit but a bullet to the head now…”
Glancing at my mom, she purses her lips and shakes her head. We both know we shouldn’t be hearing this, club business is private, but it can’t be helped. As mom places the last of the sandwiches onto the plater, I grab a few bags of chips from the cupboard.
“Who the fuck was there with him?... That’s it?... What did Maverick say?” I’ve heard the name before but had never met the man. From what I can tell, though, he’s someone my dad respects. “And he seemed surprised to see Fat Mike show up?” He sounds a lot calmer. Still angry, but his tempter isn’t at atomic levels anymore. “Fine. If you think we can trust him, I’ll page Maverick and see if he calls. If he does, I’ll set something up for tomorrow.”
Both of us grabbing a platter and a bag of chips, I follow my mom out of the kitchen and into the meeting room. I take in the grim looks on the faces. This isn’t over. Whoever Maverick is, I hope he can help settle this without anybody else getting hurt.
ChapterSix
Maverick
Taking a drink from my beer, I watch Doc bounce between Dodger and Stress. The boys sit at one of the tables in the bar, nursing a drink, still covered in blood and dirt. Their appearance is a reminder of how close the club had come to losing more brothers.
Doc places the last stitch in Dodger’s arm, then bandages the wound, making sure it is completely covered. He places a sling around Dodger’s neck, situating his arm in it. He takes a step back, nods in satisfaction, then turns to Stress and grabs a large pair of tweezers from his bag in order to take the glass out of his face.
Everyone is, angry, confused. Their voices are a combination of hushed whispers and aggressive questions, all blending together and adding to the already tense mood.
It isn’t the first time one of us had been shot, and I doubt it’ll be the last. But each time is like we all share in that person’s pain. Well,almostall of us.
Turning my head when the front door opens, I watch Fat Mike, Freddie, and a few of their lackies make their way into the clubhouse. Everyone stops talking and turns their way.
