Page 25 of My Ex-Military Biker

Every bump in the road is going to hurt like hell.

"What about the two Marrow guys?" I ask Clint.

"Taken care of," he says flatly.

I don't ask what that means because I don't need the details.

"And the third one who left?"

"We'll find him."

I start the bike and Perry's weight shifts slightly, making him groan, but his grip around my waist stays solid and strong.

"Fifteen minutes," I tell him. "Just hold on."

"Just don't hit any fucking potholes," he mutters against my back.

I almost smile at that because it means he's going to be okay.

The ride takes twelve careful minutes. I avoid every bump I can spot, take every turn as gently as possible.

Perry keeps his head pressed against my back and his breathing stays rough but steady throughout.

When I pull up to the clinic, Doc is already standing outside waiting. Someone must’ve called ahead.

He takes one look at Perry's hand and curses under his breath.

"Inside. Right now."

We get Perry onto an examination table and Doc starts working immediately. I stay close long enough to confirm my initial assessment was accurate, then Doc glances up at me.

"I've got him from here. That hand's going to need surgery but he'll keep it. He'll be out of commission for six to eight weeks minimum."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah. This was professional work. Whoever did this knew exactly how to break a man without killing him. Classic message beating."

I nod because I'd already figured that out for myself.

"Keep Clint updated on his condition."

"Will do."

I head back outside to my bike. I should ride to the clubhouse, check in with everyone, find out what actually happened to those two Marrow guys.

Instead I point the bike toward home.

Because there's a woman waiting there who chose to stay. Who needs to know what happened today. Who needs to see me walk through the door covered in my brother's blood and then decide if she's still choosing this life.

The ride home happens on autopilot. My hands are covered in Perry's blood, brown and drying now, crusted under my nails and in every crease of my knuckles.

My shirt is gone, torn into strips for bandages. I'm riding shirtless with blood all over my hands in broad daylight.

I don't care.

I pull into my driveway and sit on the bike for a long moment, just looking at my hands and Perry's blood dried on my skin.

This is the reality of what I am. Violence and blood and a brotherhood that demands a cost.