I used to tell him no on the pet raptor, as if such a thing could really happen. But after this past week, I wonder if science could get on the ball, create one, and if so, how much rabies shots for it would cost. That is if genetically engineered, fictional raptors can get rabies. I bet I wouldn’t have been kidnapped if my pet raptor was riding shotgun.
The front door squeaks open and Mom and Oz’s mom, Rebecca, step out onto the porch. They’re laughing and they hold trays full of meat and cheeses for sandwiches. They glance over at me and their giggles fade. Rebecca still smiles, but Mom’s grin falters. Just a fraction, but enough that I caught it.
“Are you hungry, Violet?” Mom asks.
I shake my head no, and she frowns completely.
“Let us know when you are hungry, and we’ll bring you some food and something to drink,” Rebecca says.
“I’ll get it for her,” Brandon says. My heart squeezes, then drops. He hasn’t let me out of his sight since I was brought to Eli’s this morning from the hospital. “I’ll take care of her.”
Rebecca winks good-naturedly at him. “And you’ll do a good job, too.”
She goes down the stairs and Mom follows her because Mom likes to follow. Brandon resumes his description of the raptor cage.
I stopped talking after my conversation with Justin. Don’t know why. Didn’t plan on it. In fact, I wasn’t aware I was staying quiet until the second day of my stay at the hospital. They brought in a shrink who diagnosed me with Acute Stress Disorder. I guess it’s like PTSD, but they can’t diagnose PTSD unless I’ve had these types of symptoms for a long time.
Pigpen got excited because he made me grin when he told me he thought PTSD stood for Probably There’s Something wrong but Dunno what.
Amen to that.
I talked to Chevy. At least I think I did. I haven’t really had a chance to see him since the first night at the hospital, at least not without an audience. I did talk to the shrink, though, and it caught him off guard that I was willing to mumble a few words to him and not much to anyone else. After not talking, it’s weird to start again.
Maybe pride’s in the way. People want me to talk and now that silence is present it feels like a loss to open my mo
uth and do what everyone desires.
Won’t lie—I don’t like losing. Never have. Not that this is some sort of a game or competition, but doing what the club wishes, what my mother wishes...at least this is something I can control.
Speaking.
Sounds like something a dog should do. Speak, girl. Sit. Now shake. Roll over so I can rub your belly. Do you like that? How about if I scratch behind the ears? Go fetch, girl.
I’m giving you attention now, but you’re not as smart as me and won’t notice when I leave you to go do something real important and you’re too weak to be a real companion. Now stay here while I go. Don’t move and be right here with your tongue hanging out and tail wagging when I get back.
You’re such a good girl.
Speak.
Girl.
Yep, not happening.
Mom doesn’t mind being a dog. She likes being told to sit and stay. Likes it when someone pats her head and gives her attention and then is fine with being left behind to sit in front of the fire waiting for her master to return home.
I imagine she’d be a labradoodle because she’s fancy like that. Specifically bred to be something different than the raw rest of us. Hypoallergenic. Cute and pretty and squishable.
Like right now she’s across the yard flittering about the clubhouse helping the other “Old Ladies” make dinner. It’s a warm day, so the bay doors of the clubhouse are rolled back and I can see most of what’s going on from the porch.
Mom wears her Terror Gypsy cut. It’s black leather like the men’s cut, but there’s no half skull with fire blazing out the eyes on the back. Just the name of the women’s support group, Terror Gypsy, and a single patch that contains the name of the member they’re an old lady to. Mom’s patch says Frat. Still causes my chest to ache whenever I see his name.
Even though he’s dead, Mom will always be a Terror Gypsy. Just like I’ll always pay for this MC’s sins if I stay in this godforsaken town.
It’s the old ladies’ job to support their men and support the club the men love. They’re woman and can never be a part of the Reign of Terror. The most respect they’ll receive is that cut and a single patch underneath.
Sit, girl.
Now stay.