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“Sure. Yeah. I’ll stay with her and watch him.”
“Good man,” he says, giving me a pat on the back.
When he walks off, heading inside the open door of motel room I was just waiting inside, I walk over to the group of Fultons to try and eavesdrop.
The tall blonde woman is on her cell phone. When she hangs up, she tells us all, “They’re going to stitch RJ up, and the ER doctor will probably order some brain scans. If everything looks okay and it’s not too serious, they may even let him come home tonight.”
“Thank god.”
My words of relief are echoed by everyone else, so at least I’m not singled out as the weirdo from a rival MC getting all weepy over their friend and brother I should barely know.
* * *
RJ
“Do you remember how you got here?” The guy in scrubs and a white lab coat shines the light in my eyes yet again.
“By an ambulance,” I answer with a wince as I squirm around on the hard, uncomfortable hospital bed. That damn light makes the constant throbbing at the back of my head hurt even worse.
“I meant do you remember what occurred to put you in the hospital?”
I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say to that. Other than waking up in the woods, it’s all a blank. But I doubt if I should even say that much. I glance over at my brother for his advice. Crossing his arms over his chest, he shakes his head side to side slightly, just enough to give me my answer.
“No. I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay,” the doctor says to me, then to my brother. “Some short-term memory loss can occur with concussions. The scans only show a concussion, but I would feel better about releasing him tonight if I could confirm his long-term memories are intact.”
My brother takes a step closer to the hospital bed. “RJ, do you know who I am?”
“Yeah. You’re my brother.”
“What’s my name?”
“Ah…you’re my oldest brother, right?”
He looks to the doctor with a deepening frown, then back to me. “Our son-of-a-bitch father insisted on naming us all after guns. You know your name, right?”
“Yeah, it’s RJ.”
“What does RJ stand for?” the doctor asks.
“Ruger James, like the gun,” I tell him. “Oh! You’re Remy, short for Remington. See? I remember.”
Both men look relieved when I tell them my name and my brother’s, as if that’s some huge accomplishment. They really do have low expectations of me, but what else is new.
“And our other two brothers?” Remy asks.
“Bear and Colt.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve just got a headache; I’m not a complete idiot.”
“It’s okay if you can’t remember things,” Remy says. “We’re just trying to figure out how badly your brains got scrambled.”
“My head hurts like a motherfucker.”
I reach up and run my fingers over the back of my head and find some sort of bandage around it. “What’s on my head?”
