Claimed by the Biker Giant (Maxine and Tank) novel Chapter 60

Max POV

I finished packing up our gear and put what I could in the van, and went in hunt for food, to top up my bag of treats, and water bottles, I found the breakfast bar was ready for us, and I grabbed what I could, topped up what I wanted, and headed out with a tray of food in hunt for Tank.

He was at the bike, tying down the few things I had left there.

“Hungry?” I called out as I approached him. He looked up with a huge grin and eyed the tray in my hands.

“You were reading my mind,” he finished what he was doing and came to join me. I was sitting on the ground, near the front of the bike. He tucked into the food, and it was not long before it was all gone.

“We are heading out in half an hour, do what you need, we’re going to ride through, only stopping for fuel once, no meal breaks,” Tank said. I am glad I stocked up on snacks. I returned the tray and made some bacon sandwiches. I am positive Tank wanted during our trip home; it was going to be hard and fast.

A quick trip to the toilet and I was back at the bike, getting my leather jacket on, and waiting for Tank. I watched as everyone rushed about, getting last-minute tasks done, yet I couldn’t see Tank, Bruiser, or Prez anywhere. Guess they were having another pow-wow.

Tank soon arrived and started his bike. He was focused, not the jovial man I had grown used to seeing; he was all business. I climbed on and sat still, my arms around his waist.

Prez took off, then some of the boys followed. Bruiser was about in the middle of the pack, and we were holding up the rear. This was different; the music came on, and I hummed along with it. It took about an hour of breakneck speeds before Tank said something that made my blood boil.

“They hit the club last night.” I had a lot of questions running through my mind, but I held my tongue.

Tank said no more, and it didn’t take long before we slowly made our way forward. Whether he was told to move up or not, we were moving fast. But we didn’t stop at the front. Tank flew by Prez and continued, like his tail was on fire.

We reached the fuel stop, and he did what he needed to do. I made a quick toilet break and climbed back on.

An hour later, my stomach grumbled, so I pulled out a bacon sandwich and held it out so Tank could see it. He took it, and I heard, “Thanks.” I ate one myself and then offered him the other, which disappeared just as fast. Then, I offered him a drink, he slowed briefly to eat and drink, and then he was back on the throttle.

We reached the outskirts of town, and rode through the broken gates, and to the clubhouse, where there were little fires where cars had been burnt, and windows smashed. Some guys came out to greet us, looking a little battered and bruised.

“Report,” Tank demanded once he was off the bike.

“Five in hospital, no deaths, on our side, a lot of wounded.” The guy went on to give Tank a full briefing, and for the first time, I got to see Tank do his thing. He got the guys organised, some to fix the gate, others to sort out the inside, and board up the broken windows. I went inside and found wounded lying on blankets on the floor, someone trying to treat them.

I grabbed the first-aid kit and got to work. I had someone take me to the worst of them, and I spent the next two hours bandaging and suturing men. No woman needed treating; they had been hidden away. I never thought I would need to do this; I hadn’t had to sew someone else up in years. Part of being part of the streets, you learned to give yourself first aid, and your friends, if you could call them friends. I had no real training; it was all self-taught, with a bit of help from my grandparents, too.

I looked up as the sounds of motorcycles arriving filled the air, all that needed my help had been seen, and I was in the middle of cleaning up the small area that I had called my treatment area. You required my help, you came and sat in one of the chairs, and waited for your turn. I had to get Tank to help me a couple of times, to hold someone down, while I treated them.

When the ladies walked in, expecting the worst, they were all shocked at the destruction that the rival gang had caused. Tank went with Prez and Bruiser, and a few other guys to the back, guess talk time. War had been declared, and we won’t be taking it lying down.

“You looked shagged.” Cricket said as she came to help me finish throwing away the dirty material, while others were making new bandages, and Sticks was taking inventory on what needed to be restocked. Others had been given chores and started dinner. The boys were hungry, having missed lunch and having ridden hard to get here. Everyone who could was working to get the clubhouse into order; others were sent to lie down somewhere quiet and get some rest.

“Go shower and change, you look like sheit,” Cricket said when I sat down hard. I nodded and headed to our room, and was glad to see that they never made it upstairs, that all the fighting was on the ground floor and in the yard.

A quick shower, a change of clothes, and I descended the stairs to the smell of food. My stomach grumbled, and I was surprised that, after all that had just transpired, I could still eat.

“Max, office.” I sighed and changed direction.

In the office was Tank, Prez, Bruiser, Stoner, Slug, and Zero, who had a black eye, his arm in a bandage, and a kind smile, because I had sewn him up earlier.

“Report,” Prez demanded, and I frowned. Report what?

“The wounded,” Tank said softly, but hadn’t left Prez’s side; he was on official business, but he tried to help me when he saw me struggling.

So, my report was on how many I treated, according to the guy keeping notes, and what the worst was. Who had been taken to the hospital and what their condition was, according to reports I had been given. I was no medic, but no one else had a clue how to sew up wounds; the people who would usually be the medic were on the couple’s trip.

“Thank you. Dismissed.” I looked at Tank and left, hunting the kitchen. This was my first time in a war zone, and to be honest, I didn’t like it one bit.

In the kitchen, the girls were busy; a lot had been accomplished in a short space of time. Cricket came to me with a plate of food and a cup of coffee.

“Why don’t you go to your room and eat, and get some rest? You have been one very busy, chicklett. I took the plate and coffee and trudged back upstairs. I hadn’t yet investigated whether my workshop had been vandalized, and I didn’t have the heart to go out and check.

I ate in silence, my mind rewinding the scene from when we arrived: the moans of pain, the words of thanks, when I started to sew up wounds and provide general first aid, the emotions turned off, the mind blank as I did what was needed.

But then suddenly, I wasn’t here anymore, I was in another place and time, where the streets were at war. Many street kids died during a bloody battle that lasted two weeks. If you went out at night, you were fair game, and I played medic then, too. Not coming home for two weeks, I tried to save as many homeless people as I could, but in the end, too many died. A lot of friends I had patched up went out and got hurt all over again. Easy prey, because they were already injured.

I lay down on the bed, curled into a ball, and cried.

I cried for those downstairs or at the hospital, I cried for those I lost years ago, and hadn’t realised I had never wept for them before today. Maybe this happening was a way for me to cry and heal from some of my memories, and put them to rest at last.

There was a time to cry, and a time to heat, tonight was a time to cry.