Page 19 of Vandal Unbound

The brotherhood deserves better than me lying to them.

Havoc, especially, deserves better.

I don’t even know why I’m not telling him about Daisy, except now that I’m back in the clubhouse, I don’t feel fixed like I thought I would be.

Everyone is hoping for glimpses of progress. But right now, I’m in no rush to get back on my bike again. They want me to rejoin the fight, and fighting for Daisy and Elsie tonight would make them think I’d somehow miraculously returned.

“Maybe we try again tomorrow when you’ve slept and are sober,” Havoc says hopefully.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I say, knowing full well that tomorrow the answer will be no.

“You wanna hang out? I got a whole bunch of pirated movies from Rainbow on my laptop.”

I shake my head. The itching beneath my skin is getting worse, a sign it won’t be solved with alcohol alone. “Yeah, no. Not tonight. Some other time, yeah?”

Havoc slaps my shoulder. “Yeah. No problem. I’ll just go get a glass, and we can sit in here for bit.”

I shake my head at that too. “Just a nightcap. I’m headed to bed. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Havoc sighs. “Whatever you need, brother.”

But as I leave the kitchen, I see the reflection of him placing his hands on the stainless steel kitchen counter and dropping his head. I’m not so far gone that I don’t see him trying to reach me.

Problem is, I’m not worth reaching.

I return to my room and let myself in. For the first time, I notice the smell. It stinks in here. I can’t be bothered changing the bedding, but I crack the windows wide open even though the air-conditioning has it nicely cooled.

Once I’ve poured some whiskey into my glass from the bottle on the desk, I reach into my drawer for the stash of painkillers. Three of them should be fine for what I need. I wash them down with the amber liquid.

Next, I step into the bathroom, where I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. I don’t remember the last time I did that. Two days ago. Three. There’s blood in the foam when I spit.

Navy towels hang on the wall. Thick and plush. And I think about those hand towel–size sheets hanging on Daisy’s rail. Can’t imagine they fit around Daisy’s body properly given the way her tits looked in that little top with a scoop neck and cherries on it.

So fucking wholesome, it seems wrong to think about tugging the neckline down a little to suck on those pert nipples.

I drop my clothes, turn on the shower, and step beneath it. When my wounds were first healing, I did the minimum required when it came to hygiene. In the hospital, there aren’t many options. In the clubhouse, I… wallowed.

The water feels good as I let it pound down over me. I don’t know why I’ve been avoiding it. The slight buzz of vodka and whiskey and pills takes away the sharp edge of the anxiety.

It feels so good, I wash my hair twice. And for the first time, I properly scrub my scalp. The first time I washed my hair in a shower post-surgery, I barely let the shampoo touch my scalp before I rinsed it off. Don’t know what I thought was gonna happen. Perhaps pull open my stitched wound, re-break skull fractures, and do other kinds of damage.

But there’s no stinging pain, even if things still feel a little bruised and tender.

Once it’s rinsed, I soap it up all over again. Then apply conditioner, leaving it to work its magic before pouring a generous amount of soap onto my hands.

Havoc once read this thing about how someone could be touch deprived. Like, they’ve gone too long without physical human contact. Back then, we joked about how we could never see that becoming part of our lives. Havoc says it’s the reason he’s never getting married. Doesn’t want to end up in one of those sexless marriages after five years. We joked about having your balls tied up by one person.

But what I’d never considered was how something extreme like I went through would force you to experience both ends of the touch spectrum. Once Reaper’s friend saw me and the state of my x-rays, I was rushed to the ER, and the tilt and whirl of everyone touching me, poking me with needles, and cutting into me began.

Every step was a violation, even though I consented. I didn’t give permission to be physically destroyed; I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to be put back together again in the first place. But the only way to heal was to let the specialists do what they needed to, to make me better.

And then…nothing. Post surgery, everyone gave me a wide berth, even the club girls. Fuck, even I gave me a wide berth.

I clean my junk, getting in behind my balls. Right up my ass crack. Given the way I’ve smelled recently, I wouldn’t have wanted to go down on me either.

As soon as I think of blow jobs, I think of Daisy on her knees in those goddamn cherry-covered pajamas. She’s tentative, but her hands are on me. And the very thought of that causes my cock to twitch as I wash.

“Don’t do it,” I warn myself, knowing that there is no way on God’s green earth that I’m not gonna palm myself.