The Biker's Doctor

Chapter Five

Realising I was one of the last to leave the theatre, I swung my favourite black leather saddlebag strap over my shoulder and made my way towards the theatre doors.

As I walked out, I spotted the small brown briefcase that Dr. Kline used as he was locked in conversation with a student, asking questions. The case suited the Doctor’s business-like appearance well.

My own black leather saddlebag did not suit me, I knew that. It was bulky and oversized, and most definitely looked like it should have been strapped to the back of a big Harley. Against my petite 5”3 frame, it looked largely out of place.

The saddlebag was my father's, and I didn't have many of his belongings. He was far from materialistic.

The apartment that my aunt Elenora helped me sell in San Francisco after he passed away was easy to clear out. A few pieces of old furniture, books, and clothing were donated to charity before the place was put on the market. Just like my father, I was not sentimental about keeping things.

In fact, the saddlebag and his Harley bike were the only two things I had actually kept because they were valuable to him. The bike, which I would never actually ride myself, was at my Aunt’s place because she had a garage that could store it, and my apartment did not have the kind of space that could store a Harley as big as his.

I lifted the large fold that opened the bag and heard the familiar clunk of the bronze latch straps as I put my notebook away. The saddlebag smelled like him. Pine wood, tobacco from his favourite Marlborough cigarettes, and leather. I loved that the bag reminded me of him every time I picked it up. As if he were with me, watching over me. He used this bag every day to travel on his Harley motorcycle.

The creases and scratches on the leather were not just from me in the last six months; they were from him and his history for as long as I could remember.

I had removed the badge that showed it belonged to a member of the Devil's Protégés. It had taken me nearly an hour to carefully unstitch the patch so that it would not be damaged. I could have cut it off, but something at the time prevented me from doing so. Even though he had retired from the club, I showed the badge the same respect that he had always given it, for it had always held meaning in his life. Still, it had to be removed. I did not want anyone recognising the insignia of the Devil's Protégés on what was now my bag. If anyone saw my bag with the badge still on it, then it would raise unwanted questions. Or worse, an actual member could see it, and that would not have a good outcome because I was not a member.

I kept it folded inside the bag’s interior pocket purely for nostalgic purposes.

Someone might consider that badge nothing but a black-and-red-stitched piece of stiff fabric. The name ‘Devil's Protégé’ was displayed in an arch along the top, followed by a small MC, which stood for motorcycle club. Beneath was written San Francisco, the faction my father belonged to and the largest branch of the group in California. Two crossed bones were the colours in the centre, where the two stood as the mark of my father's position as General. In contrast, three bones indicated the President, one showed a bodyguard, and no bones marked an initiated member.

The badge was much more than just a piece of red and black textile. It was a potent sign of belonging that carried with it a powerful weight unknown to most of polite modern society.

It was hard to explain the power of belonging to a motorcycle club. If a man was in a bar wearing this badge and a bar fight or something else troublesome was about to happen, it meant anyone else wearing these colours was obligated to step in and help. If a man on the other side of the country called for help, then it was the duty of whoever they called to drop whatever they were doing and help in any way they were able. Such benefits of belonging to the club were just as equally weighted by the obligations to fulfil those benefits.

To me, the benefits of being in the club did not outweigh its deadly obligations. I had not forgotten how my father once took a bullet for the President of the California faction.

The only reason my father, Dean, was allowed to retire was that he took a bullet for the President, a man by the name of Jackson Detroit, a little over seven years ago. A few polite games of pool and an occasional good story among friends were not at all an equal trade in that potentially lethal bargain.

I also did not forget the repercussions of what had unfolded after my father was shot. I had been told that a rival—the Italian mafia—tried to take out Jackson. I remembered my father proudly retelling the story of how he saved Jackson's life. My recollection of the event was far different.

I had been sixteen when I saw my father shot in the shoulder, and fear mingled with desperation was not a moment I wanted to relive or remember as a matter of pride. My father had often laughed off the event. I didn't see how taking a bullet for someone else was humorous.

Jackson and my father were leaving the club’s favourite ground, namely a bar at San Francisco Wharf called The Red Gate. A man who my father said 'simply did not look like he belonged' removed a gun as he and Jackson were leaving the bar. In the split second that it took to react, my father stepped in front of the bullet. That bullet was a through-and-through for my father, but it was meant to kill Jackson.

I, unfortunately, was a witness to all of it.

A great General saved a great President’s life within the club. The story became a legend among members. When asked what Jackson Detroit could give my father as payment for risking his own life, he shocked all his blooded brothers when he asked to retire in peace with his only family still alive, me.

I don’t think that Jackson Detroit, or any other member of the club, for that matter, liked me after that. I think they all blamed me for losing their General. But my father did not care about that. He made the decision, and just like that, we were free. I don’t think that he ever regretted it either. He didn’t want me to be endangered by that side of his life. But I do believe that he missed his friends, as I know he thought of them as being just as important as family.

Choosing me over them must not have been easy. I knew that.

I was not a member of that club. My father got out, and with him, any affiliation of his daughter. Usually, that was not possible. Not if you wanted to remain among the living. It was Blood in and Blood out. No alternative.

That retirement felt so long ago. I wish it had been sooner. The lifestyle of a motorcycle club member had inevitably led to a death at only 55. I could not place all the blame for my father’s death on his history in the club. Despite my best efforts to get my father to stop smoking for his health, he never gave up the small, vile, toxic packets that he enjoyed, just like my mother Eliza had. And as much respect as he had for my education to become a Doctor, he did not listen to one of the many lectures I gave him, telling him he needed to change his daily habits. He even continued to smoke past his final diagnosis.

When he knew death was around the corner from a cancer similar to the one that took my mother, he did not seem to care, as if it were a payment for a deal he had already made long ago with the devil. His only disappointment seemed to be leaving me behind.

When the theatre doors swung shut behind me, I saw that I was, in fact, the last to leave the surgery theatre, as my co-students were already ahead of me, dividing into their respective groups. The first were the close-knit friends, those who were more into parties and discussing which fraternity or sorority they were going to visit tonight, heading off to their exploits in debauchery.

The second to leave was the study group, which I had aptly dubbed the nerd group, and consisted of four boys. They were suck-up geeks intent on staying behind and asking Professor Kline redundant questions as they walked back to his office to lock it up.

If I had decided upon any group to 'belong to', it would have been those four. Even if they were nerds who sucked up to every Professor to secure favouritism, something I disapproved of, at least they were concerned with actually becoming doctors from this university experience rather than professional partiers.

I doubt that if I tried to be a part of a group, they would even let me because I was a woman.

The ratio of men to women studying medicine at my level at Stanford is about 10:1, but it doesn't matter. I didn't need study mates or want them. I enjoyed my solitude. I walked out alone. I was in every definition of the word: a loner. I didn't have one friend in this place, and I was okay with that.