2 fractured ribs, road burn, and a mild concussion.
After various nurses and one doctor tells me how lucky I am, they finally given the okay to leave. I slip on my jeans, and thin gray t-shirt and grab my jacket off the hospital room chair and push out the door. I hate hospitals. I'm half speed-walking, half-hopping down the hallway trying to shove my socked foot into my left boot and still carrying my right when I see Juice sitting on a bench a few rooms down flipping through a fitness magazine and looking bored. He looks up as I pull on my other boot and throw on my jacket.
"…Ready to go?" he laughs, giving me a 'you're a crazy person' glare.
"I hate hospitals." I shrug and he plops the magazine onto the table beside him.
"So what's the verdict?" he asks standing up, and I relay my mostly-minor injuries as we walk back through the series of hallways to where we came in the ER waiting room a few hours ago.
"You know where the nearest pharmacy is?" I inquire, holding up the prescription for pain medicine I've been written as we step through the glass doors and out into the day.
"It's on the way." he smiles and opens the van door for me and I climb inside.
I try to position myself in the seat so as to cause my ribs the least amount of pain while Juice gets into the driver's seat, starting the van.
"So where'd your bike go?" I ask as we pull out of the hospital parking lot.
"Prospect took it back to the shop so I could stay." he explains, and I understand that Jax asked Juice to stay with me and that's exactly who did.
We go to the pharmacy and thankfully only have to wait a few minutes as they fill my prescription. Once we've been on the road a few minutes I tear the bottle from the stapled white paper bag and eye it warily.
"Not your thing, huh?" Juice guesses.
I smile and shake my head.
"I barely take tylenol. This'll probably have me on my ass."
He moves his hand to the indicator and slows the van,
"Well, you'll fit right in." he laughs, and we pull into what must be Sons of Anarchy headquarters.
It's about 11:30am and there's an array of motorcycles lined up beside the chain-link fence toward the right of the clubhouse parking lot. Straight ahead is the auto repair garage, the name "Teller-Morrow" in big, red letters dominate the sign. Three garage doors are pulled up to show various mechanics, most in leather cuts, working on cars and bikes inside. We pull into a space close to the garage where there's a gap in bikes and Juice kills the engine. People are already staring at the van, probably well aware of the events of the morning and the random girl who Juice had to accompany to the hospital. Whatever nerves I had quelled with how nice he and Prospect seem are back in full force. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Juice is already out and on his way over to help me down. I push open the door before he makes it to my side and lower myself onto the blacktop as gently as I can manage, thankful for the van still being between me and the sets of curious eyes in the garage. Seeing that I'm already safely out, Juice goes around to open the two back doors, displaying my mangled bike laying on its side in the back. Any hopes at not drawing a crowd disappear as the mechanics walk over to get a glimpse of their next project. I'm almost too caught up in my sadness seeing my bike again to notice them looking at me.
"Well, shit." says a tall, muscular guy walking up. He has a beard and is wearing a beanie and, like most of the people surrounding the van, is wearing a Sons of Anarchy cut.
"Hey, Op," Juice greets him.
"You alright?" the man looks from the bike back to me, ignoring Juice's greeting.
"Yeah I'm okay. Thanks." I answer. He doesn't look convinced.
"Get one of the girls to bring her in. Jax said she could have his room while she's here." he relates to Juice who nods and abandons us, walking over to the building behind me that I'm guessing is the clubhouse.
"That's a beautiful bike." the guy—Op?—says to me, moving stuff out of the way in the back of the van as he and a few other guys get ready to move it.
"She was prettier this morning," I tell him, stepping out of their way. This gets a few laughs and I watch as they unload my bike. Then an older, red haired woman appears at my side, Juice trailing behind her from the clubhouse, then making his way over to help the guys with my bike.
"C'mon sweetie, let's get you inside." she says, giving my elbow a slight tug. She's scantily clad in short denim shorts and a ripped up black tee, probably in her forties. I follow her across the parking lot toward the building her and Juice just came from labeled 'Sons of Anarchy M/C.'
We pass a few picnic tables under an awning and I follow her through the clubhouse doors.
The oversized room we enter into boasts worn hardwood floors and paneled walls and the warm, faint smell of whiskey curls around us as the door behind me closes. Round wooden tables are placed throughout the dimly lit room with varying mismatched chairs. Against the walls are armchairs and couches and the walls are speckled with various old photos, some framed, some taped up depicting harleys, women, and men engaged in various activities, most wearing the tell-tale reaper cut. To the back right is an oak bar lined with black leather stools behind which a pretty, young girl leans tiredly, scrolling through her cell phone. She looks up at us curiously as we walk through the room and toward the hallway. She gives me a smile, which I return, thankful she's the only one in the room. We walk past an array of framed mugshots displayed on the back wall and an old sea foam green knucklehead parked on a stand inset to the wall, an American flag lit up and acting as a backdrop.
"This way," the woman guiding me encourages, and leads us down a hallway lined with doors on either side, some of which are slightly ajar. I'm surprised to see bedrooms. I didn't know what to expect when Jax said I'd be staying here. I guess I didn't realize members had bedrooms at the clubhouse.
Halfway down the hall we stop, the woman unlocking a door on the right before handing me the key.
"This is Jax's room." she says kindly, "You can stay in here. Cherry will be out at the bar if you need anything. Do you have a concussion?" she asks, and I can't help but be a little overwhelmed by the kindness of all these people thus far.
"A 'mild' one." I answer.
"I'll check in on you." she promises. "You should get some rest while you can, sometimes it gets loud in here." she suggests, and walks back toward the main room leaving me alone.
I call out a thank you after her and am then left to stare at the unlocked door, feeling a bit like I'm not supposed to enter it. My fatigue and the promise of further privacy finally get the better of me and I turn the knob and push it open.
I step into the vice president's room, shutting the door behind me. I drop my backpack and scan my surroundings. To my right is a wooden desk and a chair with a black hoodie draped over the back. A twin sized bed is nicely made with plaid blankets. Across the room is a dresser, on top of which are framed pictures, men's rings, cologne and a small pile of spare change. To the back right is a door left slightly open, through which I can see a toilet. I walk over and push it further open and feel like I could cry tears of joy when I see a small shower inside of it. I sit down on the bed, the promise of a hot shower overwhelming any sense of strangeness about where I am and why I'm here. I abandon my boots by the small end table and peel off the layers of clothing dotted and streaked with my blood, letting them fall into a pile beside the bed. In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and unbraid my hair, then shut the door and let the room fill with steam.
When I emerge from the bathroom a good time later I feel worlds better, but the warmth has made me tired. I find a towel hanging on the door and feel a little sorry for using it, but shake it through my hair anyway and when that makes me dizzy, wrap it carefully around my bruised body. I shove my dirty clothes into my backpack, not wanting to make a mess of the room and see a glass of water dotted with condensation on the end table with my pain medicine displayed neatly right beside it. One of the women must have put it there when I was in the shower. I rifle through my pack and finally find my cellphone, which I toss onto the bed. I continue my search through the bag halfheartedly, the thought of putting on a tight tank top or any of the clothes I have with me pulling my gaze over to the big, comfy hoodie on the back of the chair. I walk over to it and pick it up, finding beneath it an oversized black tee shirt. The front is plain but the reaper is displayed on the back like it is on the cuts on the club members, the MC's name, of course, written in white above it. He'll never know, I tell myself, as I toss it on the bed with my phone and zip up my backpack, then pull it over my wet hair, letting the towel fall to the floor before hanging it to dry where I found it.
Finally, I plunk myself down on the bed and gasp at the sharp pain from my two fractured ribs. I stare resentfully at the bottle of pain pills on the table beside me. I read the dosage, unscrew the bottle and carefully tip 2 pills into my palm. Tossing them into my mouth I put the cap back on and wash them down with a huge swig of water. I hate taking pills. The alarm clock on the table tells me it's still early afternoon which seems an absolute impossibility. I peel back the blanket and sheets and climb inside feeling like I may be in heaven. I lay there for a few minutes toying with whether I should call my sister. But already, the pills have taken their effect. My body feels heavy but also like it's floating or maybe sinking into the bed and my eyelids fight to cover my eyes as I drowsily grab my cell phone. I scroll down to Charlie's name and push to message her, knowing that if she hears my voice now she'll know something's up and I'm too tired to explain it all right now. I type, fighting to keep my eyes open.
'Charlie. I'm in Charming. Miss you. Love you.'
I feel a small victory as I finish the text and hit send, then give into the warm black pull that washes me into a heavy and dreamless sleep.