Balling up a polishing rag in his hand, Torch took a step back and looked over the 1955 Panhead shining pretty under shop lights. It was almost midnight, but after a week of grinding away, they were finally done with restoring and customizing his eight vintage Harleys. All of them were already spoken for and due to be delivered the next day. Between the bikes and extra repo runs, they’d be sitting on about a hundred grand. One week and another hundred to go.
Christ, he was already fucking exhausted.
He knew it wasn’t so much the workload or lack of sleep wearing him down, it was the inner turmoil of trying to keep up appearances outside the clubhouse. His old lady was perceptive, she could read his ass like a book; if they hadn’t already, the pieces would come together in her head. Every time he so much as looked at her, he worried he’d somehow betray the brotherhood and show his hand. And his brilliant fucking solution of avoiding her as much as possible had just made things a hundred times worse because she’d been way too accepting of it. Now he was just fucking paranoid that she knew about Cora and would put her ass in danger to pay him off herself.
Did she? Would she? Was he reading way too much into it? There was no way to tell without straight-up asking and he wasn’t about to fucking do that.
In desperate need of a drink, he tossed the rag and walked over to the clubhouse.
The air inside felt thin, but it wasn’t the Colorado elevation at work. Tense brothers were milling around, obviously trying to get their minds off Buddha’s health and the debt owed to Cora by drinking it all under the table. But there was no escaping the black cloud hanging overhead. Even Liv, the woman whose smile could light up the darkest cave and who hopefully knew nothing about their problems, looked a million fucking miles away as she played pool with an equally somber Biff.
Where the hell had she been all day? He usually got at least a text to ask if he was breathing, but he hadn’t heard from her at all since leaving the house before she woke up that morning. See? Too fucking accepting.
Goddamn it, the fucking paranoia wouldn’t quit.
He glanced around and saw Buddha standing in the doorway of his office. It looked like something was eating at him too. Considering this was the first time he’d been by the clubhouse all week, his appearance didn’t bode well.
Buddha motioned for him to come in and closed the door behind them. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses were already waiting for them on his desk.
Was he even supposed to be drinking on chemo?
Fucking great.
“Have a seat,” Buddha said, pouring them both a shot.
Torch eyed him, his stomach feeling like he’d swallowed twenty pounds of rocks. “What’s going on, man?”
Buddha exhaled and threw back his glass, then poured another. “Got a call from the oncologist today, the treatment’s not working.”
Twenty pounds turned into forty. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. It’s time to face facts, son, I’m dying.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” Torch argued. “How the fuck can they know it’s not working yet?”
“It’s been six weeks of chemo, my blood work should be showing improvement but it’s not. They know. Hell, I know. My only chance is a bone marrow transplant—”
“Then we’ll get you a fucking transplant.”
Buddha looked down and swirled his glass. “It’s not that easy. They already tried to find a match in the national registry, no luck.”
“What about your sister in Orlando?”
“My sister was adopted. She got tested but it wasn’t a match.”
Shit.
Torch finally reached out and poured back a drink, trying to quell the nerves that felt ripe to explode. “Then we all get tested.”
“The chances are shit—”
He slammed the empty glass down. “A chance is a chance! And fuck you for sounding like you’re giving up.”
Buddha shook his head. “It’s not about giving up, it’s about being realistic. I’m gonna stop the treatment, son. I’ll have plenty of time to feel like death when I’m actually dead, I don’t wanna spend what time I’ve got left weak and shrinking away. How would that look?”
“Who the fuck cares how it looks?” Torch demanded. “What if the chemo starts working? What if a match comes up, but you’re too far gone because you’re more worried about club image