Old Lady (Iron Disciples Book 2) (15 page)

I remember one of the few days that Morgan
spent the night in my bed. I remember waking up and finding her staring at me
with a strange look on her face.

“How long have you been watching me?” I ask.

“Long enough.”

“Care to elaborate on that?” I ask her.

“I’m wondering something.”

“What is it you’re wondering?”

“How can you be so different from your
brothers? Or are you really that different from them. You’ve heard the story of
Blackbeard right?”

“Oh no…you are not seriously going to compare
me to Blackbeard are you?”

“If even half the legends about him are
true…as ruthless as he was, it is said he could charm the bloomers off one in
nothing flat. So yeah…you could be a modern day Blackbeard, riding a Harley and
fooling us all.”

“I have no intention of fooling anyone
Morgan. What you see is what you get. I don’t have the time, energy, or
inclination to pretend to be something or someone I’m not.”

“Okay fine, you’re no Blackbeard. I still
don’t get my odd attraction to you.”

“You find your attraction to me odd? And I
suppose you think something must be wrong with you for being attracted to me,
is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“You know, I’m more than just the
ex-president of a powerful biker club.”

“What, are you gonna tell me you’re a family
man now?”

“Actually yes. And…in some respects I’m not
that different from your Blackbeard. He was a family man and benefactor for
many misfits fleeing British and Spanish persecution. To many he was Commodore,
and protector of the downtrodden. Was he slightly touched, and more than a
little eccentric… so what? I provide for quite a few men and their girlfriends,
wives, and children and I can be like a mother hen; so sue me. No one fucks
with my family!”

“Is that right? Well who fucked with your
original family? They are dead right? Other than your brother of course. Oh but
how could I forget your charming father. What a piece of work he is. What
happened to your mother?”

“Thanks to my father, she drank herself to
death. My father’s not far behind from what I hear. I don’t have much contact
with the man as you well know.”

“So the club, it’s your way of reconstructing
the family you wish you’d had?”

“Don’t over analyze it Mrs. Freud.”

A sudden respite from the hail of lead pulls me back out
of my head. Screams of the injured pierce the air. I hazard a glance towards
Eddie. As soon as our eyes meet he mouths a single word.

“Now?”

I nod and leap up from my hiding place and leg it towards
my Harley. I can hear my brother panting behind. At any second I expect to feel
the bite of a bullet, but I am totally amazed that we actually reach my bike
before bullets begin to rain down on us once more. Mid sprint I reach back
behind myself extending my keys, and like a relay sprinter, Eddie grabs the
‘baton’ and switches it out with one of his own; his .380. I guess he hadn’t
quite run dry. Eddie surges ahead of me and reaches my bike two steps ahead. I
hear the engine roar to life as my own ass lands on the back and I nearly flip
backwards off as he surges forwards. The race is on!

We make it to the gate and out as the second and
operational SUV is backing up. It’ll take them a bit to reach the exit and turn
around. Hopefully that will give us enough of a head start. With a little luck
we’ll have enough of a lead to make it to town before they can catch up to us.
I squeeze my thighs together as tight as I can manage so I don’t become
unseated by my brother’s erratic steering. With my shotgun in my right and
Eddie’s .380 in my left I prepare for what could be the last battle of my life.

About a quarter of a mile from Oakland the SUV catches
us. I turn and put one well -placed shot through the front windshield. That
forces them to back off. Unfortunately at that distance the pellets from my gun
fail to penetrate the thick front window of the SUV. It’ll make visibility
hell, but it won’t hurt them. I can feel various parts of my bike shudder under
the impact of bullets but so far I haven’t been hit. I believe back at the yard
Eddie took a bullet but he doesn’t show it. Probably the adrenaline is keeping
him from feeling it or experiencing the full effects of being shot. As the SUV
moves up on us again I turn and empty my brother’s .380 in they’re direction. A
sudden hole appears in the vehicles windshield but I doubt I hit anyone. I let
the empty gun drop and focus my efforts on my shotgun and the remaining half a
dozen shells left.

About 500 feet from the edge of town we finally catch a
break. There’s a cop parked on the edge of an empty parking lot. Sadly I have
to relinquish my favorite shotgun. It would not due to be pulled over with a
hot shotgun in my hands. The gun goes skittering off the edge of the road and
into the tall grass before the cop takes notice of us. Eddie hits the breaks as
we pass and immediately he lights us up. I don’t have to look back to know that
our pursuers have given up the chase. 

I force my heart to settle and take a few deep breaths
trying to not look like I was just in a gun battle for my life. In front of me
I can see Eddie doing the same. This better be a quick stop. It won’t take a
genius to see my bike has been taking fire.

My aunt told me I’m a good person. She also said to do
the right thing. The thing is I don’t know what kind of person I am. I have
been an unfeeling cyborg since my mother died fifteen years ago. I have been
devoid of many of the things that make’s a person human. How do I get that
back? How do I become human again?

A half a dozen calls and three hours later I have my
first appointment with a shrink. I always knew my insurance provided for mental
health services but I would not have thought in a million years that I would be
using their services. My first appointment is in two days. I’ll stay holed up
here until that appointment. They’ll know how to handle my calling Cade.
They’ll know what I should say to him. They’ll know how to become human again.

Tuesday Morning at the offices of Doctor
Hart…

“So Morgan, what brings you here today?” Dr. Hart asks.

I’m sitting across from him on his proverbial couch (a
chair really), and still wearing my sunglasses. I haven’t the slightest idea
how to begin so I just talk.

“I uh…I guess you want to know stuff about my parents and
my childhood and shit like that right?”

“Yes, we psychiatrists always like to hear about that…
shit
,
if you will. But only if you want to talk about it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me how to do this?”

“There is no right or wrong way to do this Morgan.
Talking is always good though.”

“What about…um, if I tell you about a crime… well not a
crime but something illegal, are you gonna tell the cops?”

“Are you hurting a child Morgan?”

“Hell no.”

“Are you hurting someone or planning on hurting someone?”

“Fuck no!”

“Do you plan to kill yourself then?”

“No.”

“Do you know of an ongoing crime?”

“No way.”

“Well I guess I’ll have nothing to report.” Dr. Hart
concludes.

“Okay…um…great. I guess I’m here because my life is a
fucking mess.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“My boyfriend…well maybe he my ex now, but he was the
president of an outlaw biker club. Now he’s just…I don’t know what he is
actually. I kinda ratted on him a little.”

“Is your life in any danger Morgan?”

“No, not at all.”

“Really? My understanding of outlaw biker clubs, well
they don’t take kindly to people ratting on them.”

“I didn’t turn him into the police if that’s what you’re
thinking. I just let another brother know what he was up to; for the good of
the club. So yeah he’s pissed but he’s not after me or anything. So no, my
life’s not in danger.”

“So why are you here then?” Dr. Hart asks.

“I haven’t cried since I was 13. Actually that’s not
totally true. I did cry the other day but that was the first and only time
since I was 13 so that makes about fifteen years.”

“Have you had good reason to cry since then?”

“Well yeah…I mean, doesn’t everybody?”

“Some more than others. Why does it bother you that you
haven’t cried?” He asks.

“I didn’t even cry when my dad was killed in a car crash
when I was 14. But when I say I haven’t cried since 13, accept of course last
week.”

“What prompted you to finally cry?”

“I thought I had murdered my boyfriend, I got suspended
from my job, I’ve been drinking like a fucking fish, my aunt whom I haven’t
spoken to for ten years because she has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t know who I am
called me, and she was lucid….and I think I just lost my only friend in the
world.”

There I said it. I actually feel a little better.

“That’s a lot Morgan. Any one of those things could bring
a person to tears.”

“But I couldn’t cry. I was like a cyborg. Well, I was
until I cried.”

“So you cried. That must have felt good.”

“Actually if felt like shit. I was hung over for like the
fifth day in a row and vomiting for about as long so yeah, I pretty much felt
like shit.”

“Do you have any alcoholism or any other addiction in
your family?”

“Geeze, I’m not here because I’m an alcoholic or
something doc.”

“So why are you here?” He asks quietly.

“Cause I wanna become human again…”

“It sounds to me like you’re well on your path to
becoming just that. Humans feel things. They react to things. They cry, they
get mad, depressed, lonely, bored, excited, and confused. Any of that ring a
bell?”

“All of it.” I reply, not sure of where he’s going with
this.

“You sound pretty human to me Morgan.”

“Maybe now but I wasn’t. But there’s another problem
here.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not a good person. I want to be a good person but I
don’t know how.”

“Are you a child molester Morgan?”

“Fuck no!”

“Are you a murderer, a thief, a pathologic liar, a serial
killer, a drug dealer, a methamphetamine cook, or a scammer of the elderly?”

“Hell no!” Well I thought I was a murderer but you don’t
need to know that.

“Do you contribute to society in any way shape or form?”

“I’m a stockbroker.”

“So you help people invest to plan for retirement and
better their lives in general, right?”

“Sure.”

“Then you sound like a pretty good person to me Morgan.
You probably have your issues like we all do and you’re here to work on those
issues, like everyone else. You’re a normal woman…a human being.”

I’m not convinced.

“I guess I am.” I finally say.

“Seems to me like you do a lot of good. Your paperwork
says you’re a senior vice president for Capital America. You can’t get to that
position in that company if you were not doing a hell of a lot of good for
people. Relax, you’re a good person.”

I don’t know what to say about his assessment.

“I don’t seem to have the normal range of feelings.” I
say to him. I’m going to try once more to prove to him I’m not human.

“And I think you do.” He replies.

He’s starting to piss me off.

“Am I making you angry?” He asks.

I nod.

“More proof.” He says with a smile.