Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(25)

I’m angled so they’d have to really search to see me, but I can watch them.

“He was kidnapped!” Mom leans into Cyrus like she’s willing to punch him in the gut. “Do you even understand what that means? He was held against his will. My son had an MRI performed, is getting staples in his head because a rival motorcycle gang you have a problem with took him against his will and hurt him. As far as I’m concerned, you lost the right to see him the moment they laid hands on him.”

“He’s my grandson,” Cyrus states calmly, and I swear Mom’s hair stands on end.

“And he’s my son. Not yours. You lost yours and don’t you forget I know why you lost James. Not many people in town can say that, can they? But I know and I will not make the same mistakes you did. Leave now or I’m telling the police to shove you out.”

The area near the staples in my head pulses. James. My father. The Riot said he was a traitor. The pulse turns into a pound and I rub at my head, trying to avoid the cut. What did Skull mean by traitor? What does it mean for me, if anything, if he was?

Thinking of what Skull told me about my father, my mind wanders. I’ve never questioned anyone on my father’s relationship with Mom or his family. Felt the tug-of-war strings being pulled at an early age, so I decided to stay neutral. Bringing up my father meant inviting people to make me choose a side.

“Excuse me.” A nurse in Hello Kitty scrubs who couldn’t weigh a buck twenty wet enters the fray and cracks a clipboard against the wall to gain everyone’s attention. According to her name tag, her name is Becky. “All of you need to either take this outside, away from the hospital, or stop. This is a hospital, a children’s floor for that matter, not a bar.”

I wince on Mom’s behalf.

Nurse Becky scans Cyrus, then my mother. “I don’t have a problem calling the police on either of you.” She then surveys the rest of the guys in the hallway. “Or on any of you. That was your first and only warning.”

Becky walks away, Mom and Cyrus communicate through glares and my aide returns. “That help?”

Yes. No. “For the short-term.”

“Pain meds, bro. It’s the way to handle the long-term.” The aide wheels me back around the corner and this time Mom, Cyrus and the rest of the crew hanging in the hallway notice. Most of the guys offer some sort of greeting, my grandfather looks at me like he’s proud and my mother smiles in sadness.

They create a clog my aide won’t push through and I’m stuck in the hallway. Mom on one side. Cyrus on the other. Tug-of-war.

“You okay?” Mom’s face turns an ugly shade of gray as her eyes wander over my head. On top of scared not being her thing, neither is blood.

“Yeah. Where’s Violet?” Not being near her is a crazy itch that needs to be scratched.

“They’re taking a look at her knee,” answers Cyrus. “Running some tests. Eli’s promised to stay with her. You did good looking after Violet. Let us take that burden now.”

Mom coughs in disgust, Cyrus’s eyes narrow on her and I push the wheelchair forward on my own. Mom and Cyrus are smart enough to move out of the way.

Footsteps follow me into the room and a glance back verifies that Cyrus, Pigpen and Mom are the only ones who come in. Good thing they’re also smart enough to stay away as I stand and then sit my ass back onto the hospital bed. One more person tries to help me and I’ll be throwing punches.

Outside, the lamps to the parking lot are lit and headlights go up and down the main county road. I’m lost as to what time or day it is. Lost is a great way to describe everything.

“I want to see Violet,” I say, and nobody argues with me. Nobody says shit, but nobody argues. Maybe they all went deaf. “I said, I want to see Violet.”

“After she comes back from the tests, I’ll see what I can do,” Cyrus says.

I don’t like that answer and I don’t like how Cyrus paces to the window to look out, turning his back to me.

“She okay?” I press.

Like a fucked-up checklist, I go through our time with the Riot. Relive in rapid succession every hit, every punch, every slap she took—I relive the gunshot and I flinch. Everyone notices, but no one says a thing. As if maybe if they do speak, I’ll explode.

Mom crosses the room and sits on my bed next to me. She wears the same clothes as when I dropped her off at work on Friday night. Same tank, same jeans, same earrings and that’s when I notice she’s not just gray, she’s exhausted. Black circles under her eyes and pronounced worry lines.

She reaches out, brushes my hair away from my forehead like I’m a child, then takes my hand. I let her but then flip them so that my hand covers hers—so I’m the one offering the comfort. I don’t like it when Mom’s scared.

“Jenny said Violet’s not talking,” Mom says.

Jenny. Violet’s mom. The pounding in my head ceases, but it’s an insane silence that follows. “What do you mean not talking?”

“Violet nods and shakes her head,” Mom continues. “Verifying information only through that show of a yes or a no. Violet seems to understand everything that’s being said to her and she seems lucid enough through the painkillers they’ve given her to respond to difficult questions this way, but it’s scaring Jenny.”