Burn Down the Night by M. O'Keefe

the rattle of the handcuffs I’d grown used to.
    But the handcuffs were gone. Surprised, I touched my head, the shaved bit around a row of stitches.
    I sat up and braced for the room to spin, which it did in dizzying arcs. But whatever. It was time to get on my feet. Figure out where I was and how to get back home.
    Time to go back and deal with the fucking cowards who shot me.
    Revenge.
    It was time for revenge.
    You want the club, fine. Great. It’s all yours you fucking sociopaths. But you don’t get to shoot me and get away with it. No. You shoot me and I bring death to your door. I’ll salt the earth where you stood.
    But first I had to take out my own catheter.
    Jesus Christ.
    A
catheter.
Surgery. Joan was full of surprises.
    I grabbed the rubber tubing and pulled, feeling like I was ripping out the inside of my dick as I went.
    Fuuuuu­uuuuu­uuuuck.
    It popped out and fell to the floor. I braced myself against the bare mattress, panting through the pain. Sweat trickled down my back despite the arctic chill from the air conditioner. I put my feet down on the plush carpet beside the bed and got to my feet, taking my time. Letting the world settle around me after every step.
    I knew how to do this. The concussion. The broken ribs. The bullet wound—none of it was new.
    The catheter, though, that was some fresh fucking hell.
    I’m an MC president. A 1 percent. The life span is short and brutal.
    I put weight on the leg that had been shot and winced at the pull. The deep muscle burn. Damn. That hurt. I limped to the dresser—where my cut was laid out, blood staining the white badges across the front. Breathing, slow and steady through my mouth, I pulled open the dresser. There was a small stack of boxer shorts. Red-and-green plaid. They were big, but I slipped them on feeling like I should have a Santa suit to put on over them.
    Whatever, my junk was covered. If I had to fight my way out of here, at least I had that working in my favor. In another drawer, there was a golf shirt. I passed on that. There was a pair of flannel pajama pants. I pulled those on.
    Beside the dresser there was a plastic garbage bag. But inside it were only women’s clothes.
    I lifted out a bright orange thong.
    Joan.
    There was a hollow thunk and some humming from another room in the condo. Had to be her. And the smell of food made my stomach, silent until now, wake up and take notice.
    I split the blinds and peered out onto a dark beach, a bright moon over the ocean.
    We were in a low-rise condo, next to another low-rise condo.
    My gut said Florida. Like the ocean waves rolling up on that sand were familiar to me.
    I stopped searching for clothes and instead searched the dark room for a weapon. There was nothing but a lamp on the bedside table. It had a solid glass base, so I tore off the lampshade with its pink feathers and useless fringe. I wrapped the cord around one hand and held the lamp in the other. I’d bash in some heads and strangle anyone between me and the door.
    Clothes would have been nice.
    I eased open the door to find a dark hallway and another door to my right. To my left was a brighter living room—I could see the edge of a blue couch. The wall behind it was empty. There was the sound of a door opening and closing. A woman said “shit” and something got dropped on the floor. The voice sounded like Joan, as much as I could be sure of her voice. But I had no idea who else was working with her. The woman—last time I was fully conscious—had bombs going off at the push of a button.
    I could not underestimate that crazy bitch ever again.
    I eased back into the shadows waiting for her to come down the hallway but she didn’t.
    The kitchen, with its sounds and smells, must be off the living room. I slipped out of the room, sliding along the wall of the hallway until I got to the corner of the living room—which was empty. Eerily empty. Just the love seat, a chair, and an empty TV stand.
    There was a statue of John F.