HARDCORE: Storm MC(70)
Suddenly, Missy pulled aside onto the shoulder of the road and hit the brakes. The car came to a screeching halt, and Cain was thrown forward. He threw up his good arm to keep from smacking against the dashboard, but the impact was still hard enough for him to let out a yelp of surprise and anguish.
“Listen, hardass,” Missy seethed, “do you see the word 'Everlast' printed on me anywhere?”
“Huh?” Cain blinked, confused.
“Do. You. See. The. Word. 'Everlast.' On. Me?” Missy repeated, slowly and loudly.
“Of course not! What the fuck?” Cain barked.
“That's because I'm not your goddamn punching bag,” Missy continued. “I'm here to drive you to the hospital, lie to the doctors so you don't get in trouble, and then drive you home. Period.”
She took a deep breath, and her voice softened. “Look, I get it, okay?” she continued. “You took a beating, and you're feeling pissed and sorry for yourself. You don't like relying on other people, so you're puffing up and talking a lot of shit to feel like you're more in control. Fine. You're a biker. My father was a biker, and my brother is too. I understand. But get it straight, pal—I don't care if you're the Vice President of the Eagles, Microsoft, or the United fucking States. You open your mouth to insult me again in any way between here and the hospital, I don't care what Hunter says—I'm kicking you out of the car and letting you walk the rest of the way. Are we clear?”
Cain gaped at her for a long moment, his face a mixture of anger and surprise. She could see that he hadn't fully understood his own motivations for verbally abusing her, and he hadn't expected her to clarify them for him. Now that she had, it looked like he literally had no idea what to say next.
Finally, he closed his mouth and nodded.
“Good,” Missy said, driving the car back onto the highway. “Thank you.”
They drove the rest of the way without talking.
Chapter 7
Cain
The Dipper County Medical Center had the only real emergency room in the region. It was in the town of Braintree just off the highway a bit north from Micanaw, and it served the handful of sleepy townships in the county.
Missy pulled the car into the parking garage behind the hospital and shut off the engine. This time, she didn't bother offering to help Cain out of the car. He didn't mention it, but inwardly, he appreciated it. He knew she hadn't been wrong in what she'd said to him earlier. The irritation he was feeling toward her was just a reflection of his anger at himself for getting jumped.
As he hobbled behind Missy toward the automatic doors leading into the hospital, Cain thought about being on the ground again with boots stomping down on him relentlessly, and he shuddered. He'd been in plenty of shoot-outs, chases, and fist fights before, and he'd always been able to leave the tension and anxiety of them behind after they were over. They were a part of being a biker. He generally gave as good as he got, and he was prepared for such an altercation to end his life someday if it came to that.
But this had felt much different. He'd never felt so overpowered and helpless before—unable to fight back, forced to just lie down and take the punishment until his attackers decided it was over. He felt strangely violated by the experience, unable to shake off the dread it had left in him. The pain of his bruises and broken bones was nothing compared to that.
He wondered briefly whether this was how women felt after being sexually assaulted, then quickly pushed that thought out of his head.
Cain and Missy checked into the emergency room. While they sat in the waiting room with several other late-night victims of misfortune, Missy filled out the forms on the clipboard they'd been handed as Cain cradled his broken arm.
“So, what should I write in for the cause of your injuries?” Missy whispered.
Cain glanced down at himself, wondering what could possibly explain his current condition other than the ass-kicking he'd received. “We could say something fell on me,” he answered.
“Like what? A building?”
“Ha ha,” Cain replied dryly. “What if I was fixing up a bike, and while I was in the tool shed, I slipped and accidentally pulled a bunch of stuff down on top of me? You know, tool boxes, wrenches, heavy bike parts, that kind of shit.”
Missy considered this for a moment. “Sure, that could work,” she conceded, writing it in.
Several minutes later, the nurse on duty called them back to the examination room. A young doctor with thick glasses and a prematurely-receding hairline entered after them. “Hi there, folks,” he said. “I'm Dr. Lemuel, and I'll be checking you out this evening.”