Road Refugees (The Bare Bones MC #10) - Layla Wolfe Page 0,1

taking you right there. We had a difficult time getting medication on the compound, so I couldn’t use “mother’s little helpers” all day long. There was never a good time to be sober.

“What?” I said to Brighten, injecting the word with apathy.

“Are you going back upstairs? Or out to the stables? Because we need you at dinner. Orson has an announcement.”

The sour cream Tabitha folded into the meat strips made me want to puke. “Okay. Can I go upstairs for ten minutes?”

“Sure. I know Orson used you again today. Not to lecture, but your idea of anesthetizing yourself is just going to make things worse.”

“I know.” I didn’t know, really. Had I seen any bad side effects? Sure, I passed out in strange places. But that was the entire point. “Okay. Ten minutes. Something’s wrong with my shoulder.” It pinged with a stab whenever I looked down, which was the preferred position for dealing with Orson.

“I know,” said Brighten. “Doctor Higbee will be around Tuesday.”

“Right.” What was the use with Higbee, when he offered no x-rays? He might give you some opiates, then not return for another six months. During which time you wanted more opiates. “I’ll be right back.”

Strangely, when I went back upstairs, Chip followed me, not staying by the food. It cheered my heart to see him there, obedient to me as I was supposed to be to Orson. So I talked to him. “You’re a good boy, Chip. I love you.” I was pretty sure he knew what “I love you” meant. I was twenty-eight, sealed to a man, a “polyg,” yet I was engaged in the deepest, most extraordinary relationship with a dog.

Reaching the sunroom, I swiftly unscrewed the bottle cap. Where is my glass? How could I have fallen asleep on the floor without my glass? I took a few swigs straight from the bottle and looked at Chip. “Chipper Chip. You’re a little mangled, right? Well, so am I. I understand. He can break me, but never destroy me.”

After such a valiant speech, I felt a little sheepish about heading back for the door to find a glass. “How did you get to be so good, Chip? Why are you such a good b—”

Splat. I was nose-deep in Orson’s repugnant chest.

Twice in one day? Why me? Why not Tabitha? Should I have been cooking? Was that it? He didn’t want to take Tabitha away from cooking. Oh, good God in an evil world. He grabbed on and wrenched my bad shoulder.

“Need one of these?” He shoved a squat glass in my face. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed me back into the sunroom. Orson Ream was a high priest, the owner of two construction outfits, and had the requisite three wives to obtain the highest level of heaven. He had wanted his third to be a teenager—our Prophet decreed he’d had a revelation telling him so. But the mother refused, and fled with the girl to a nearby town, Avalanche, a place discussed in code language because it seemed to offer hope to the downtrodden.

Grabbing the bottle, Orson glugged a good three fingers’ worth of booze into the glass. With a sneer he reached inside his vest pocket. I knew what he was going for. Chloral hydrate. A “Mickey Finn” they used to call them. He glopped another blob of the tangerine syrup into the brandy.

“Heh.” Yes, he said that aloud! “Here’s your cocktail, my servant. Drink up.”

“The whole thing?” That was too much even for me.

“The whole thing. Your tolerance is up. It takes more and more to turn you into Nurse Judy.”

Orson liked Nurse Judy. I only discovered I played her when I came to one night and found a stethoscope and a speculum on the ground. He admitted it with a chuckle and told me Nurse Judy “sure likes her pelvic exams.” I was so sore I bled all night onto my sheets. When Doctor Higbee arrived two weeks later, I needed surgery to correct the problems.

Now? I no longer cared what happened to me.

For the umpteenth time, I gulped the fiery liquid. My eyes watered and the pit of my stomach resisted when it hit, but I got it all down. The sooner I turned into Judy the better.

To pass the time, I asked, “What is the announcement you’re to make at dinner?”

Chip was trying to get in between us. Orson might be a wife beater, nasty to the core and mean as a wolverine, but he did