Chapter 7

Mornings were never fun for House. But waking up the morning after the gig was even worse than usual. He shouldn't have had that last bourbon.

He also should have called for a cab instead of thinking he'd be able to walk all the way back to the motel. But somehow, between music, food and booze, his brain had forgotten how long it had taken him to get to Bob's and that walking back slightly intoxicated was not a good idea. He had been lucky he hadn't ended up in a ditch.

Hangovers were never a walk in the park. They weren't too bad if you could spend the day on the couch, dozing and watching mindless TV. They were just about manageable if you could sit behind your desk and let a team of minions do your work for the day. They weren't quite as easy to handle when you had to be awake and alert enough to drive an 800-pound motorcycle a couple of hundred miles.

But he had no choice, he needed to get on the road sooner rather than later.

House turned on the TV to a regional channel – it was time he checked out the weather and made a decision which route he was going to take.

The news didn't really filter through, though. Vicodin would take care of his headache, but he knew he'd be left with that cottony feeling in his head for the rest of the day, no matter what. There was no pill to get rid of that yet.

The one thing he didn't want to get rid of was the music in his head.

There ain't no silver

You know there ain't no gold

Gonna mend that broken heart

Gonna ease the trouble on my soul

Yeah there ain't no morphine

There ain't no sweet cocaine

But there ain't no morphine

Ain't no sweet cocaine

Gonna mend that broken heart

Gonna bring my baby back to me again

He was still stuck on the last song he had played with Davies.

Morphine wasn't what he needed now, although it was probably the only thing that would tackle the deep-seated pain he felt this morning. It would fog his head up even more.

Strong, black coffee was what he needed for now. In the long term, he needed something else entirely, but this wasn't the time to think about that.

He had to get moving, aching leg and hangover or not.

I can't help moving

Can't help moving on

When I get that feeling I get up and I get gone


After a less than healthy breakfast, consisting mostly of coffee and almost incinerated bacon, and still humming last night's tunes under his breath, House finally decided to head south, in the hope for better weather. He would also forget Chicago; he just wanted this trip to be over. Once all this was sorted, he could book a weekend in Chicago, spend a whole day at the Music Exchange. He would have some fun; maybe pick an interesting gig or two for the evening. Last night had awakened something. He hadn't had such a good time in years. But now he could, once he got things sorted back east. He would have the time and opportunity to do things, maybe travel a little.

Maybe he'd even take Wilson.

After days on the road and hundreds of miles, he was still waiting for the adrenaline to kick in again. He vividly remembered the exhilaration, the rush he had felt every single time he opened the throttle on his old bike. There had been times when he'd entered a flow state, disconnected from everything that had occupied his mind that day. He wanted to get back into that state now, but it didn't happen. His mind kept tossing thoughts and arguments around, options and problems. The annoying part was that there was no solution as long as he was on the road. A solution could only be found once he arrived and started talking to people.

He realized he wouldn't find that state again, not on this trip anyway. This wasn't about disconnecting because he wasn't running away from anything. He was moving forward so that he could move back into his life, get back to what he was good at.

Once he had that figured out, the trip became easier. It was a means to an end, so it was best to get it over with as quickly and as safely as possible. There was no point in taking stupid risks just to get there faster.

He shut his worries away because he had thought about every possibility, looked at things from every angle and played through every possible variation. There were only two possible outcomes and nothing he could do now. He would have to wait until he got there to see which one it would be.

The southern route was the longer but also the better one because the weather was somewhat milder. A couple of days of no rain and slightly higher temperatures eased the ache in his leg a little. And it made him careless.

He stopped checking the weather forecast in the mornings because he was eager to get on the road.

Which was probably why things happened the way they happened.

Just outside Casper, Wyoming, he unexpectedly got caught in a hailstorm. It came fast, and it came heavy. The hailstones were the size of toy marbles, and by the time he had managed to find shelter under an overpass, his Honda had collected quite a few dents. So had his helmet, and his hands hurt, even though the gloves had protected him somewhat.

He wasn't alone under the overpass; a handful of people had squeezed in with him. Everyone else was in cars, though, there were no other bikers about. At least he would escape the fake camaraderie those kinds of situations usually enforced.

The temperature had dropped several degrees, and the sky looked almost black. After a while, House began to envy the people in cars; at least they had heating and a comfortable place to sit and wait out the bad weather.

And since he wasn't about to ask if he could join any of them in their warm cocoon, it didn't take long and he'd had enough of waiting. The hail had stopped, all that remained was some cold drizzle. He could handle that.

It took less than ten minutes of driving for him to realize that his impatience had once again not served him well. The hailstones had accumulated on the road, and the continuing rain turned them into treacherous mush.

So he gave up and took the next turn-off - only to lose control on a slippery patch in the bend. He had already been going slow, so the damage wasn't great but by the time he had pulled himself and the bike off the gravel on the shoulder, he was aching all over. The bike had collected more scratches, and his jacket and trousers were torn in a couple of places.

Luckily, the damage to the bike was only cosmetic, so he was able to make his way to the next cluster of houses.

"You okay," asked the man behind the counter at the coffee shop House chose to take shelter in.

"Peachy," muttered House and went straight to the washroom. He had already run a mental check when he first crashed and knew none of his injuries was serious. But he needed at least a quick visual check to confirm.

He took off the jacket and surveyed the damage in front of a tiny mirror. There were scrapes on his right elbow and knee, and his jacket and pants were torn in corresponding places. A nice collection of bruises had started to develop, and he would be hurting soon. He took two Vicodin and inspected the wound on his elbow. He would be able to clean the one on his knee once he made it to a hotel and had access to a shower and clean towels. But his elbow looked messy and would be trickier to clean.

He had his back to the door, trying to see in the mirror how far the damage went up the back of his arm, when the owner came in.

"Ouch, that looks bad. My wife's still at her practice across the road. You should get that checked out."

"No, thanks."

"Hey, she's a nurse, not the local vet. Doesn't look like it's serious, but you should get that seen to, it could get infected."

House was about to tell the guy to go to hell when he realized that if he got this cleaned by someone else, he wouldn't have to contort himself in some motel room later. He had time on his hands anyway since the weather didn't look like it was going to change anytime soon. There would be no harm in checking out the local sick bay.

So he ended up sitting in a cramped exam room, staring at the smiley and not so smiley faces on the ubiquitous pain chart.

Mrs. Nurse was friendly but business-like, nothing like her nosey parker husband. She cleaned his arm thoroughly and efficiently. When she was done, she nodded at his leg and said, "How bad is the knee? Do you want me to take a look?"

House grinned about as convincingly as smiley face no 2 and held up his cane. "No need. I had this before I crashed the bike."

He could have used some extra painkillers but he knew she wouldn't give him anything without a thorough check-up of his leg. And that was the last thing he needed right now. So he thanked her, half-heartedly offered payment, which she refused – "I stitch up the local youth for free about twice a week, don't see how this is any different" – and then left.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and House took a moment to survey the main street before him. A one-horse town, two at best, with a car repair shop at one end of the street, the coffee shop-slash-diner at the other and a bar and something optimistically called 'SuperValu' in between. It was quiet and boring.

His shiny but slightly damaged motorbike, parked in front of the coffee shop, stood out like a sore thumb.

House zipped up his jacket and limped off towards his means of transport, trying his best to ignore the increasing pain in his right leg. He wasn't very successful.

About halfway, he stopped.

He couldn't face another hour on the bike. His knee was stiffening up fast, his elbow smarted, and he was too fucking old for this. Realistically, he would need at least a day or two to rest up and be able to continue his way safely. Anything else was madness; a madness even he recognized as such.

His look was drawn down the street to the repair shop.

No harm in checking out if they were buying.

Two hours later, he sat down at a diner table and ordered a burger with extra fries, extra crispy. He was now blessed with extra cash, but minus a motorbike.

"Go easy on the green stuff, unless it's a chili," he called to the owner who had taken his order. "Oh, and how bad are the bus connections from here to Denver?"

He figured he could make his way from there to New Jersey by train. Ironically, after he had decided to give the city a miss, he would end up traveling via Chicago anyway.

The connections weren't great, but there was a daily bus to Denver that would get him there on time for the train to Chicago. From there he would be able to take one of several connections out to New Jersey.

Figuring all this out took the owner, a girl who served the coffee, a teacher and his iPad at the next table, and an elderly man whose suggestions were of absolutely no help at all.

If House had needed a reminder why life in a small town was not for him, this was it.