Page 6 of Grumpy

Sophia glanced down at her and smiled. “Welcome to the family, Kelly. Don’t worry about your job; it’ll be there when you get back. You have my number. Let me know if you need anything.”

Kelly bit her lip. “I hate to ask. I know the club has something else going on, but I can’t make myself leave. Is it possible to have someone swing by my house and check on my mom? She’ll argue about needing help, but I don’t feel right leaving her alone like this.”

“You got it,” Sophia nodded. “Take care of our boy. We got your mom.”

* * *

The waiting room television droned in the background, one of those cable news channels that cycled the same stories every thirty minutes. Kelly had stopped really watching it hours ago, her eyes fixed on the screen without actually seeing it. Grumpy had been in surgery for—she checked the clock above the nurses’ station for the hundredth time—four hours and seventeen minutes. This was his second round of debridement, and while Kelly knew that was a good thing, the thought of what he was going through made her queasy.

Grumpy’s mom, Margery, was due sometime today. Kelly had spoken to her twice on the phone over the past two days. They were brief conversations where the distraught woman had been warm and grateful, calling Kelly “sweetheart”, and making Kelly feel guilty for having barely eaten or slept since arriving at the hospital. At least she’d showered. Jasmine had come to sit with Grumpy while Kelly had used the staff shower, arranged by Tessa.

Grumpy was still alive. Kelly knew she should be counting her blessings for that, given his extensive injuries, but he still hadn’t woken up. She just wanted him to wake up, to look at her, to tell her in that gruff, no-nonsense voice of his that he was fine. Knowing him, he’d try to play his injuries off as “just a scratch”.

On the television, the anchor shuffled her papers.

“—turning now to an update on the Mount Grove explosion. It has been three days since a bomb detonated inside Demon on the Rocks bar in the small borough of Mount Grove, Pennsylvania, claiming four lives and leaving a fifth victim fighting for his life. Our correspondent has the latest.”

Kelly's eyes snapped to the screen, immediately recognizing the outside of the hospital behind the reporting newscaster.

“Thank you, Sandra. Three days after the explosion that shook this tight-knit community, Mount Grove is grieving, and waiting for answers that local and federal investigators say are still forthcoming.

“The four victims killed in Tuesday evening’s blast have been identified as Dru Deininger, thirty-four, a local physical therapist; Frankie Archer, twenty-four, a private childcare worker; Monica Argent, thirty-one, an employee of Demon on the Rocks who was working at the time of the explosion; and Scott Pan, twenty-nine, an off-duty deputy with the Mount Grove Sheriff’s Department, who was at the bar as a patron that evening.

“A candlelight vigil held last night drew hundreds of mourners to the Mount Grove town square. Sheriff Carlos Santiago, who served alongside Deputy Pan for nine years, was visibly emotional as he addressed the crowd.”

The footage cut to Carlos at a nighttime vigil, his jaw tight, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. Next to him was Zoe, his wife and the mother of his three sons. Several of the club were visible, but Kelly’s eyes narrowed when she saw specifically who was absent. Ghost, Lucky, Bulldog, Bear, Ranger, Keys, Scar, Angel… Many of them officers, and arguably, the club’s heavy hitters. Something was happening. Many of the ol’ ladies were around, wearing their cuts. It was like they were fill-ins. Trying to keep the club’s presence noticeable without drawing attention to the missing members.

Carlos spoke to the crowd, his wide-brimmed hat over his heart. “Scott Pan chose to serve this community every single day. He was at that bar Tuesday night because he’d worked a double shift and he’d earned a beer. He deserved to go home. All four of our people deserved to go home, and I will spend every resource this department has making sure that whoever is responsible for taking them from us is held accountable. Thank you.”

The footage returned to the woman outside the hospital.

“The fifth victim, Jesse “Grumpy” Bell, forty-one, a member of the Via Daemonia Motorcycle Club, a resident of Mount Grove and local mechanic, remains in critical condition at the Johnstown Burn Center, where he has undergone multiple surgeries since Tuesday evening. Sources close to the family say he remains in critical condition.”

Kelly rubbed her hands down her face, wishing the television wasn’t behind a glass case or that the remote was nearby. She didn’t want to be hearing this. She didn’t want facts and data about Grumpy, like he was nothing more than a statistic. Peeking over her fingers, Kelly saw others in the waiting room were watching the television in warped fascination. The eagerness on their faces for more gruesome details made Kelly feel sick. If she’d eaten anything recently, it might have even come up.

“The investigation remains active, with federal agents from the ATF confirmed on the ground in Mount Grove as of yesterday morning. Sheriff Santiago declined to name any persons of interest at this time, citing the ongoing nature of the inquiry.

“At a press conference this morning, the sheriff stated, quote, ‘We are following every lead available to us. I am not in a position to discuss specifics, but I want the people of Mount Grove to know that this investigation is our absolute priority.’

“In Mount Grove, the question on everyone’s mind remains unanswered: who planted the bomb, and why? For a community more accustomed to Friday night football and Sunday farmers’ markets than federal investigators and crime scene tape, the silence from authorities has only deepened the unease.

“Funeral arrangements for the four victims are being handled by…”

Kelly stood, bolting from the waiting room. She didn’t go far, only to the small vending corridor around the corner. She needed to be out of earshot of the television, but still close enough if a nurse or doctor came looking for her when Grumpy was ready to return to his room. Kelly felt empty, hollow. The room went quiet except for the hum of the vending machine in the corner and the distant sound of a cart being wheeled down the hallway.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth and curled herself against the cool wall until she was sure she wasn’t going to cry. She’d done enough of that in the last two days. She needed to be steady. She needed to be here, present, functional, because there was nobody else. Whatever was going on with the club was serious enough that several prominent members were absent from not only the hospital but also the candlelight vigil. She hadn’t asked, but Sophia, Jasmine, Harper, and the other ol’ ladies that had been by were being closed-lipped about it. Did they know something? Did they know who had blown up their bar? Did they know why Grumpy was currently in surgery?

Were they going after them? The club had their own code, their own rulebook. Kelly wasn’t a part of their inner circle, but she watched, she listened. She knew enough to not question the club’s actions. They weren’t outlaws, but she also wouldn’t call them law-abiding citizens.

If they were out there now, hunting down the monster who had done this to Grumpy, to Frankie, Monica, Dru, and Scott, then Kelly was more than happy to keep her mouth shut, to not draw suspicion about the club’s absence. She might not be a gun-wielding badass, but she could help by taking their mind off Grumpy. She had him, so they could get the monster who’d harmed him.

While taking nekamah, personal vengeance, was forbidden to her people, Kelly considered what she believed the club was doing a pursuit of din, justice. Besides, she wasn’t feeling very forgiving right then. Not when Grumpy still had not opened his eyes.

Kelly bought a can of soda from the vending machine. She wasn’t thirsty, but for some reason, she felt awkward leaving the vending alcove without buying something.

A woman in her mid-sixties stood in the doorway, a travel bag over one shoulder. One of the club’s prospects was behind her with two very large suitcases. Her eyes were puffy behind her large, round glasses. Marcus, the prospect, saw Kelly first and ushered the woman who could only be Grumpy’s mother over to her.

“You must be Kelly,” she said in a tired, but warm, voice. “I’m Margery, Jesse’s mother.”