Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Dia knows. But very few others. Outside of a handful of people in Catawba though it’s my secret. Not even BW knows, and he sees through me better than most.
And definitely not Tripp. I don’t want him looking at me like I’m a broken spoke in the machine. Loyalty goes deep, but this life? You bleed for your patch, or you step back. And I don’t want to be sidelined.
Not unless I have to be.
It’s Friday, a few days after my latest round.
I’m moving slower, pretending like I’m just working on the truck, when my phone buzzes in the garage.
Unknown number.
That usually means trouble or someone I forgot to block.
But when I answer, the voice on the other end hits me like a damn freight train.
“Toon? That you?”
“Little Foot?”
The grin spreads across my face before I can stop it. It’s been too long.
“You good, brother,” I say, shifting the phone to my other hand. “What’s with the unknown number.”
“I like to fuck with your head,” he jokes. His laugh is familiar. Grounding.
“Catawba’s quiet lately. Just checking in. Acadia said that you’d been off the radar since being at the coast and baby sister didn’t like that.”
I wince. “Yeah... I been laying low. You know how it is.”
“You sick from it now?”
Straight to it. No bullshit. That’s Little Foot for you. I pause just long enough for him to notice.
“That a yes?”
I sigh, “It’s not a no.”
“Shit.”
I inhale sharply. “I’m handling it.”
“You got someone with you there or you still staying stubborn and quiet?”
“Dia.”
The pause on his end says a lot. “She’s solid,” he says finally. “Good woman there. Glad y’all are getting things sorted even if it means you won’t come back to Catawba.”
“She’s more than that.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She always was.”
We don’t talk about Clutch. We never really do. That wound’s still fresh in ways that won’t scab over. But hearing from Little Foot now, when the chemo’s dragging me down and the silence in my head’s louder than ever, it hits different.
“I’m not dying,” I say. “Don’t want anyone getting that idea.”
“You don’t have to prove shit to me, brother,” he replies. “But if you need something—anything at all—you say it. You understand?”
“I know.”
“And if you need someone to show up for you the way you’ve done for everyone else, I’m just a few hours down the road.” Again, he’s always keeping it blunt with me.
That hits harder than it should.
“Appreciate it,” I say. My voice catches a little. “Really.”
“I’ll check in again. Stay on this side of the ground, Toon.”
“Always.”
After I hang up, I sit in the garage for a while, staring at nothing. My fingers twitch to text Dia, just to say someone reached out, that the club isn’t as far removed as it may seem.
But I don’t.
She’s been quiet lately. Overwhelmed, no doubt. Her body’s changing, and she’s carrying thousand pounds of decisions on her shoulders. I can’t add mine to the pile.
So I wait.
Evening comes and tonight, I head to the clubhouse just long enough to keep up appearances.
BW throws an arm around me when I walk in. “About damn time. You vanish any longer, we’d send a search party.”
I smirk. “You’d miss me too much.”
“Mostly just your bike,” he jokes. “She’s prettier than you.”
I play along, laughing, but I keep close to the wall, out of the spotlight. I don’t drink. Just nurse a Coke and nod at conversations like I’m paying attention.
Every once in a while, someone claps me on the back too hard and I flinch.
Too weak. Too raw. But no one notices.
Hellions don’t talk about health. We talk about loyalty. Wrecks. Arrests. Club business. But sickness? That’s a whole different kind of vulnerability.
Tripp walks past me once, eyes narrowing.
I give him a look that says not tonight, not here.
He respects it. For now.
I don’t stay long. At home later, I take my shirt off and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I look older. Thinner. Hollow around the eyes.
I’ve always been the guy people leaned on. Never the one who needed help.
But lately?
I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight anymore. I feel like I’m under it.
I splash water on my face and sit on the edge of the tub, trying to breathe through the nausea that hasn’t let up since Wednesday.
Dia doesn’t text tonight.
I don’t blame her.
She’s still figuring out how to stand on her own again.
And I’m still trying to figure out how much time I have left to stand with her. The prognosis early in my diagnosis was good. Since starting treatment, though, my numbers aren’t always on track with where the doctor wants them to be. I didn’t go to medical school. Hell, I don’t even have a basic college degree so who am I to question anything.
The next week, I get to the clinic early. Marcy hooks me up with her usual gentle chatter, but I can see the concern in her eyes when she looks at my numbers.