Truck Stopped: Satan's Devils MC #11 Read online

  “And Truck,” Pussy says, “if he ever comes back.”

  I don’t comment, instead I change the subject. “Look at the time.” I point to the clock on the wall. “I need to get ready to go to the bar, and you three need to get dressed,” or undressed rather, “and get to work.” Since Jill’s death, I’ve been put in charge of them.

  “I’m bleeding,” says Diva.

  Pussy and Paige groan.

  “When are you going to start pulling your weight?” Pussy asks me directly.

  What do I say? It’s one thing to evade a question, another to outright lie. Taking a breath, I tell them, “I’m permanently on bartending duties. I’ve spoken to Drummer. Now, don’t pout, Diva. You hate tending bar.”

  “True, that. Rather ride a cock any day.”

  Pussy gives me a strange look. “You going through a dry spell? Voluntarily, or have there been complaints?”

  I look at her sharply. “No fucking complaints. I’m just not feeling it right now.”

  She’s been here almost as long as I have. As she returns my gaze shrewdly, I hope she’ll let the subject drop.

  She does, well, until Diva and Paige go to get ready, then she leans in. “You’ve got your sights on someone.”

  I gaze back impassively.

  “If it’s someone in the club, it won’t work, girl. We all know that. If it’s someone outside, you’ll have to live a lie. What man wants a woman who’s been selling herself? Think of Chrissy and Jill, look what happened to them. You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak. I like you, Allie, always have. Don’t want to see you get hurt. Hankering after a member never ends well.”

  As she stands, her hand squeezes my shoulder. As I watch her walk off toward her bedroom, her final words echo in my head.

  It never ends well.

  She could be right.

  It’s too late.

  Twenty years in the future – Drummer

  “Allie needed a push in the right direction,” Peg observes.

  “She had no faith in herself. Her bitch of a mother kicked her out of her home at sixteen. Fuckin’ sixteen, Peg.”

  We’re both quiet. All our kids, even those studying away at college, still regard the compound as their home. I can’t imagine what one would need to do to be turned away. If they committed a crime, we’d probably hide them.

  “She’d never known what it was like to be wanted,” I continue. “Her mom never did, and she never really had friends she had chosen, or a man who’d made her feel special.”

  “Some did, but only for an hour or so at a time.” Peg nods over at me. “It was easier for her to believe Truck wouldn’t want her even as a friend, let alone anything else.”

  “You told her in no uncertain terms to get her ass back round there, if I remember correctly.”

  “Me, Road and Marvel. Girl had guts. That I do remember. Unsure of her welcome, but still she put herself on the front line. Think it helped that we believed in her.”

  “She never believed in herself. So she needed a boot up the ass to get her moving in the right direction.”

  “It worked.”

  “Sure did.” I raise my arm and rap on the window behind me. Within moments a prospect arrives with the whisky bottle in one hand for me, and a fresh beer for Peg in his other.

  “The brothers didn’t like Allie being taken off the rotation as I recall.”

  They hadn’t. It had been hard for us all to get our heads around having a woman on the compound who was neither whore nor old lady. It wasn’t the way we rolled.

  The respect they had for Truck had allowed me to offer a compromise. Allie’s sole role would be getting Truck back to the club.

  Once he was there… It had been anyone’s guess what would happen.

  Chapter Eight

  Truck…

  Reaching out for my cup of coffee, I misjudge its position and knock it over.

  Fuck this!

  Getting a cloth I wipe the floor—yet again—angrily throwing the filthy rag into the laundry basket in the bathroom. Thank fuck the spilled drink missed the rug.

  Going back into the kitchen, I place both hands on the counter and bow my head. I feel so fucking useless. It’s one thing having an arm and leg with no strength, but the loss of my eye is even harder. I used to have 20/20 vision.

  The doctors made it sound so easy. Your other eye will compensate in time.

  What they hadn’t said is that judging something as simple as picking up a cup can go wrong. I jump at shadows, anything I can’t see properly to that side of me. Day by day I’m discovering more of what I’ve lost, rather than learning how to cope.

  Anger continually burns inside of me. It seems I can’t do anything anymore. Not my job, not ride with my club, or even, pick up a fucking cup of coffee.

  Is it worth carrying on? When I’ve lost so much? For the first time since I returned to Arizona, I half turn toward the bedroom where my weapon is stored in the gun safe. A bullet could end everything.

  I snort. Knowing my luck, I wouldn’t aim it right.

  But there are other methods. I eye the painkillers wondering if I took them all at once, whether I’d go to sleep and not wake up. But I’m a big man, maybe the amount I have left wouldn’t be enough. Best get a new prescription filled to make sure.

  What the fuck am I thinking?

  My dire thoughts disturb me. I have never contemplated ending my own life, nor considered for one moment I’d get so low. Never. I’ve seen enough of the horror caused by it. Even attended incidents where people had taken themselves out in various ways. The man who’d wrapped his car around a tree had been one of the worst, I was on the team of firefighters who had to cut the body out.

  I remember thinking, how could you reach such a level of desperation that you just couldn’t go on?

  Damn. That’s not me. I fight. Wars, fires, you name it, I’m there in the thick of it. That’s who I am.

  That’s who I was.

  The question is, have I got the strength to fight for a life that I don’t feel is worth living?

  Raising my head, I stare around my apartment, my gaze landing on the possessions I’ve collected over the years, including medals proudly displayed. Well, I certainly won’t be adding to their collection. Sure, I understood my job was risky, but I expected to return from California the same as I was, or in a wooden box. I had had no idea I’d be returning as such a broken man.

  Pushing on my arms I pull myself upright, realising I’ve got two choices here. I can rebuild my life, perhaps not as it was, but see where it takes me, or, give up.

  I thought I’d reached rock bottom when I’d woken in that hospital with the doctor cataloguing my injuries. Now, it seems, I hadn’t. For those first few weeks then the months in rehab I was concentrating on making the fullest recovery I could, still optimistic that I could get back to some semblance of the man I had been.

  It’s now, month’s later, when I realise that none of my efforts will restore my lost sight, nor will they restore me to full mobility. I’ve reached my lowest point.

  I’m tired. I thought time alone would help me come to terms with everything, now I realise, solitude only has me feeling lost and lonely with only the belief that I’ve nothing left to live for.

  I was always a gregarious man, I need people. Need to feel useful. But how can I now? I can’t face anyone. Previously, being a big scary man wearing a leather cut had been enough for mothers to turn their children’s faces away. Looking like I do now? It would take a far stronger man than me to show my face in public.

  I never thought of myself as weak.

  Thoughts of ending it all is because I’m going stir crazy.

  Six months ago, I thought I had it all. A job I loved, teammates and brothers. The people are still there. A voice in my head reminds me, followed by my mantra, I don’t need or want anyone.

  Fucking liar.

  I’m a coward. There, I’ve admitted it. Taking the easy way out would work for me, I w
ouldn’t need to struggle anymore. But what would be the effect on those I left behind? They’d be filled with guilt they hadn’t done more to help me, when it was I who kept them out. They’d be the ones to feel the loss.

  I owe it to them to come through.

  But, how? With sudden resolve I walk to the bathroom and force myself to look into the mirror. The gap where my eye should be, which I cover with a patch on the rare occasions I leave the house, taunts me.

  Would I have more confidence, less fear, if I gave in and did what I’d been advised to do when I was in the hospital?

  What I have now isn’t enough, the terror that if I simply go on as I am, I might eventually find myself eating that bullet, has hit me hard. I might not want to see my crew, nor see my brothers in the MC, but to do that to them? They’re my friends, even though I’m not strong enough to have contact with them, taking my life would cause them to hurt.

  I look at my hair. I used to shave my head regularly, now I’ve let it grow, and it’s not flattering. It’s come back sparsely. I started going bald when I was still in my teens, and having a shaven head was my way of disguising it. Would I feel more like me, if I started my old regime?

  Taking my electric razor, I apply it to my skull. Soon, clumps of hair are falling into the basin, and minutes later I’m able to trace my hands over my smooth skull. Better? More like the old me, that’s all I can say. But it’s a positive step forward. Be strong. You can do this.

  Before I can weaken, I go to my wallet, take out a card and dial the number on it.

  Then, when that call is done, place another.

  All brothers and prospects at the club have everyone’s numbers stored in their phones, and that includes the sweet butts. Well, why not? They’re on call, at any time. As a prospect, I’d never had reason to use any of their contact details. But now?

  I tap on Allie’s number.

  When she answers, she sounds out of breath. Have I interrupted her with one of my brothers? My first impulse is to hang up. Then I reason, what else would I have expected her to be doing?

  “It’s Truck. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No, you’re not interrupting anything. I left my phone to charge upstairs, I had to run to answer it. What can I do for you?”

  I limp to the couch and sit down, considering my response. Ask her to come around for me to sink my cock into her? To be honest, that time last week hadn’t been memorable, I got off, sure, but for the first time in my life, a woman I was with had to fake it. Whore or not, that had hurt my pride. “You offered to give me a ride if I needed it.”

  “I did. When and where? Tell me and I’ll be there.”

  “Whoa, slow down. You sure, Allie? I know you’ve got commitments.” I’m surprised how much it disturbs me to think about the services she provides to the club.

  “I’ll make time.”

  “Next Tuesday. I need to be there early…”

  “I’ll be around your place first thing.” She doesn’t ask where or what for. Just implies she’ll drop everything to be there for me.

  “Thanks, Allie.” My gratitude comes from the heart. Her response, her willingness, her having no second thoughts about her offer to help makes me realise that’s what friends are for. What I’ve been turning away all these weeks I’ve been back.

  I know it’s not just her. If I emerge out of my self-pity, I would see I have a whole bunch of people who would drop everything if there was something I needed.

  I was called Truck as I was built like one. Tall, muscular, strong, the last both physically and mentally. I’ve been the man others lean on. Now that I’ve been brought to a shadow of my former self. I need assistance, but it irks me. I’ve always been the one needed, not the one doing the needing. The reversal of our positions means I feel weak. The last thing I want is for anyone to feel sorry for me.

  Allie, though, didn’t imply that at all.

  I can deal with her. She’s already seen me at my worst, seen me giving into my pain. For some reason I don’t object to her seeing me weak. Must be because she’s a woman who whores for a living, so she’s a nothing. I remember as I come back to myself, she’s still on the line.

  “Truck… how are you? Is the pain getting any easier?”

  If she was anyone else, I’d tell her I’m fine. Somehow instead, I give her a glimpse of the truth. “Readjusting is hard, Al.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. I suppose there’s nothing to say. I’m grateful she’s not coming up with platitudes, telling me that things will get better with time. Sure, they’ll change, but they won’t improve. There’s no magic spell that can fix me.

  “I’ll be there on Tuesday, Truck. If you want anything in the meantime, anything, just give me a call.”

  Anything. Politely I end the call, placing the phone down on the table and massaging my left wrist. I know what she was offering, but I won’t be taking her up on it again.

  Sure, I like fucking. I’m a man. When I prospected I wasn’t blind to how men use the women in the clubhouse, fuck, they used to do it in the open when the old ladies had retired for the night. The sweet butts seemed to enjoy it, and I couldn’t deny I was looking forward to that part of the benefits of being a member.

  That night with Allie, she’d been into it as much as me. Last week? She was simply a whore performing a service. I’d been a john, using her like anyone else. Meaningless sex? All I’m going to get now looking like this, I realise, I don’t want it.

  No, I won’t be calling her for those services again.

  For the next few days, I eat mechanically, sleep erratically, watch TV and breathe air. The basics to keep me alive. Each day is a repeat of the last. Nothing satisfies me. I order groceries online, open the door when the bags are set down outside and the delivery person gone.

  This is my life now. Perhaps in time I’ll get used to it.

  Enough times I pick up the phone to cancel the arrangements, but something stops me. A knowledge deep inside that I have to do something.

  At last Tuesday dawns, and true to her word, there’s a knock on the door.

  Like the last time she came to my apartment, Allie is dressed like a woman, not a whore. It still seems strange to see her wearing clothes that leave everything to the imagination. Sure, her tight fitting jeans hug her ass, and her tee shirt clings to her bra, but the flesh itself is hidden from sight, perversely making me want to see more. I like her like this. Less makeup than I’d seen her wearing in the clubhouse. It makes her prettier to my mind, more attractive.

  No. Don’t go there. If I asked, she’d have no hesitation bending over the couch for me. Because that’s her job.

  “So,” she walks in with no knowledge of the thoughts in my head and asks casually, “what’s happening today, then?”

  Her business-like approach pushes my carnal thoughts aside and I respond in the same way. “I’ve decided to go ahead with the prosthetic eye.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to gloat. Waiting for her to acknowledge she may have had a part to play in my decision.

  “What’s involved?”

  No reference to it being her that had encouraged me, it makes it easier to explain. “When I had my eye removed, they put a cup inside, like a placeholder to stop the socket closing up. So I had the option of a prothesis when I was ready.”

  “You’re ready now?”

  I have to do something. I indicate my body. “With everything else going on, it wasn’t a priority. A fake eye doesn’t give me my vision back, but just makes it easier for others to look at me.” I touch the scarred skin on my face, and snort a mirthless laugh. “Not that I think it would make much difference.”

  She’s quiet, thoughtful, and I wonder what she’s going to say. When she speaks, she surprises me. “Your friends, Truck, they just want you back. They wouldn’t care what you look like. You’re still the same man where it counts.”

  I go to tell her she’s wrong. I’m not the same person anymore, when she continues.

&n
bsp; “Strangers, yeah, they may judge you on looks, only because they don’t know the man inside.”

  She doesn’t sugar-coat it, just tells me how it is. Her forthrightness is refreshing.

  I glance at the clock. “Better get going.”

  I’ve been recommended to go to an ophthalmologist who has an office in Tucson. Allie drives what I recognise as one of the club’s SUVs competently. As we travel along familiar streets, I feel panic inside me, knowing my vision has been affected more than most people would believe. The thought of never driving myself again is crippling. Losing my independence is hard, and relying on other people worse. But if I can’t even pick up a coffee cup, how can I judge driving distances accurately? I can’t. That limitation is hard to accept.

  We arrive well in time.

  “We’re here, Truck.”

  “I just need a minute.” To brace myself for the reaction of strangers.

  I’d never have described myself as a handsome man, but I hoped I came close to it. Children had never run from me screaming, and I’d never had trouble attracting women. Now? My face draws attention for different reasons. Even in rehab I’d seen the expressions on various faces which went one of two ways, horror or pity. Only a few doctors and nurses were impassive to it. Until Allie. I eye the woman beside me, noting she takes it all in her stride. Shame I can’t do that, but hey, she doesn’t have to live with it.

  “Truck,” Allie starts, in a patient tone I hadn’t expected from her. “This doctor deals with prosthetic eyes, doesn’t she?”

  Of course. My one eye rolls.

  “What you look like won’t come as a surprise to anyone. Your patch, your scarring. They’ll be used to it here.”

  “Am I vain?” I ask her suddenly, wondering myself whether that’s at the root of everything. Such a shallow reason to hide away.

  “No,” she replies emphatically. “You’ve had life changing injuries, there’s no two ways about that. It’s knocked you off kilter. I can’t even pretend to know how you’re thinking, but I know it’s not vanity lying beneath. If anything, you’re still trying to protect others, this time, from yourself.”