Page 55 of Lick

“Lived?”

“Died two years ago in a head-on collision.”

“So, what the fuck happened?”

“I’m getting to it. Turns out mom’s dad is a biker. Mom fled the life when she was a teenager. Even went as far as getting emancipated, but it looks like Stuart did some digging after she died six months ago from cancer. My guess is that they offered him a family, and as he just lost his…” His voice trails off as he shakes his head.

His eyes move back to mine. “He’s prospecting for them. He flew into the UK a fortnight ago. My guess is he was told to take you out to earn his patch.”

“Wait, he’s a prospect for the Bloody Scorpions? So that’s who’s been showing up all over the city? He must have followed the tour bus up here.”

“We’re still digging, but it’s looking that way, yeah. The news stations haven’t picked up on his connection to either club. Hopefully, it will stay that way so we can deal with it in-house. It helps that he wasn’t wearing a cut.”

“That’s likely how he got past security.”

“I know. People are writing him off as a crazed fan.”

“You have him, though?”

“No, but he can’t hide forever. Every Royal Bastard in the country and all our affiliates are looking for him.” He’s quiet for a minute. I brace myself, knowing the worst is yet to come.

“Forget about him for a second. We need to talk about you.” He swallows hard before leaning closer. “You were shot twice in the back—once below your shoulder that hit your ribs, and once near the base of your spine.”

I swallow, trying to hold back the panic. “The prognosis?”

“The one that hit your ribs went straight through. They’ll hurt like a motherfucker, but they’ll heal.” He’s quiet again, and I want to grab him and shake him.

He rubs his jaw with his hand before laying it on me. “The second one missed your spinal cord by a hair’s breadth.”

“That’s good, right? That it missed.”

“Yes and no. The problem is that it’s lodged in there, and the surgeon says it’s too dangerous to remove it.”

I look down at the blanket covering my legs. My toes are shrouded in white. I wiggle them, or I try to. They don’t move. I try harder, ignoring whatever my father is saying and focusing all my attention on making them twitch. Sweat drips down my forehead, but neither the sheet nor my toes move.

“I can’t move my toes,” I choke out as I try to move my feet instead. When that fails, I take stock of what I feel. That’s perhaps the most terrifying thing because I can’t feel anything at all. “Fuck. I’m paralysed?”

“The doctors are optimistic, but it’s going to take time and work, and none of it will be easy.”

“I don’t understand. They won’t do the surgery because I might not walk again, but what if I can’t walk anyway?”

“Then it can be revisited at a later date, but the swelling right now is extreme. Your body needs time to heal before it can be determined what treatment you’ll respond to best.”

I shake my head, unable to process what he’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. “I won’t be able to ride.”

He drops his head, and I swear for a second I see his shoulders shake with grief. He pulls himself together before looking up, though his eyes are suspiciously damp. “I know.”

“I can’t be a Royal Bastard if I can’t ride. It’s in the club’s bylaws.”

“You’re borrowing trouble. Nobody is going to kick you fucking out when you have so much recuperating to do.”

“But it could happen. If I never get the feeling back in my legs and I can’t ride, I’m out, aren’t I?”

He sighs, looking haggard. “Yeah. I’d want to make an exception, but⁠—”

“You can’t,” I whisper, looking away. For once, I wish he could just be my father and not the fucking president instead of straddling the line between the two.

I grip the bedrail, wanting to rage at the fucking world and how unfair it is. Two weeks ago, I felt like I had everything, and now look at me. “Shit. Emma?”