Page 79 of Lick

“Yes, you son of a bitch, you did it. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve walked a ten-mile hike, but I feel good, man. I can’t believe I did it.”

“Please. There was never any doubt on my end. Once you got out of your own head, I knew you’d be a force to be reckoned with, and I’m never wrong.”

“Must be nice.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I’m guessing you’re the other kind.”

“The other kind?”

“The one who fucks up a lot and is either usually wrong or just doesn’t know when to admit he is.”

“You know I’m looking forward to never seeing you again.”

He grabs his heart in fake pain. “Ouch, man, that hurt.”

“Bite me.”

“Not my type.”

“Funny guy. Now tell me what do I do now?”

“Now you do it again. And again. And again. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then one day you won’t think about it at all. In fact, you won’t think about the fact you didn’t think about it until you get to where you’re going, and you pause to sit.”

I stare at him as his words sink in. Though there’s a lot to sift through, I understand exactly what he’s saying. “Then let’s do it again.”

And we do—for days, and weeks, until finally, I can walk back into the clubhouse without looking like I’m about to keel over.

Ibrace myself before wheeling myself through the gates. I’ve been using the chair nonstop while I’ve been here, even when the swelling disappeared and it became clear I was going to walk again if I put in the effort. I think some part of me didn’t want to tempt fate and have to deal with the sympathy and pity that would come if I failed. It’s also why I moved back home. It meant I could work on the shit John set up for me and hire a nurse in the beginning, when I knew I’d be too fucked to do anything after a session. For some reason, having a stranger help me shower and get into bed was easier than relying on family. Maybe it’s because he didn’t look at me like I was broken. And he sure as hell didn’t let my attitude slide. He made it clear he’d seen people injured far worse than me make a comeback because they were hungry enough for it, somehow knowing exactly what buttons to press.

Plus, with me absent from the club for the most part, Emma could visit without worrying about running into me. Especially now that the Bloody Scorpions had been taken out. There were a couple of members who survived, but not enough to form a club and prove a threat to us anytime soon.

Emma was safe to come and go as she pleased, and I was grateful for that. I wanted her to have them in my absence. That didn’t mean I wanted to hear about her, though. Anytime they tried to bring her up, I shut them down. If I heard anything about how she was moving on with her life, I’d blow everything and rush over there before I was ready. I needed to put the work in for her, and I’m not talking about my legs. I’m talking about shutting her out and preying on her weak spots, even if I thought at the time I was doing it for the right reasons. I hurt her. Worse, I hurt her with intent. No matter where we go from here, that will always be between us.

The doors to the clubhouse are open as I approach, which is unusual. When the music and laughter spill out, I relax, realizing it’s Friday. Party day. All my days have been blending lately. Well, I’m about to give them a real reason to celebrate.

I wheel myself up the ramp as people move past me up the steps, ignoring the man in the wheelchair despite the cut on my back. Two months ago, I’d have been pissed at the lack of respect. Now, after everything, I find it amusing that people can so easily underestimate me. More people walk through the open gates, mostly women here to party, but men too, hoping to either join the club or just see what the fuss is all about.

I eye the scantily-clad women laughing with each other as they pass me. They have different hair colours, body shapes, and heights, but they link arms with one another as they totter in high heels, choosing beauty over pain for the night. The men inside will appreciate it.

A couple of men walk in behind them. I tilt my head. Though I’ve never seen them before in my life, something about them sets me on edge. They’re not wearing anything that special, just jeans and hoodies, and yet I wheel myself a little closer.

With their hoods up and their hands in their pockets, one of them keeps his eyes forward. The other glances around, missing me completely as the fucker doesn’t bother looking down. I’m still trying to figure out what has these fuckers pinging my radar like crazy when I hear my father’s booming laugh nearing the door. I recognise Hauler’s voice, but my focus is on the guys who have gone stock still at the sound. I realize what it is that bothers me.

The women. The ones in front of them, wearing next to nothing in a variety of flavours, and neither of these guys paid them a lick of attention. As Hauler steps into view, the guy who was glancing around moves forward, rushing him as the second guy pulls something from the front pocket of his hoodie. I don’t think. I react. His target is my father, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let this motherfucker take him from me.

I’m out of the chair and charging up the ramp at full speed, launching myself at the fucktard just as a gunshot sounds, and people scream in panic. I wait for the familiar pain of the bullet tearing through me, but when I feel nothing, I figure I’m good for now. I roll the fucker onto his back before I straddle him and punch him in the face, over and over, releasing some of the pent-up anger I’ve been harbouring. Now that I can walk again, I don’t have anywhere to channel it, so this fucker’s face might as well do.

I feel hands on me and swing for another punch, when I recognise my father’s voice. “We need him alive so he can talk, Lick.”

I tilt my head, reluctant to give up my prize. In the end, I do as my president wants and release the fucker. He’s out cold, so he won’t be going anywhere other than the cellar. My father holds out his hand for me and helps me up. My back twinges, but I’ve had worse.

Once I’m on my feet, I look around to see if anyone was hurt. One of the prospects holds a blood-soaked bar towel to his arm. He sees me looking and shakes his head. “It only clipped me. I’m just a bleeder, that's all.”

I turn to look at my father again. He looks me up and down, shocked. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Surprise!”