Long Way Home
Page 32
You’re such a good girl.
Speak.
Girl.
Yep, not happening.
Mom doesn’t mind being a dog. She likes being told to sit and stay. Likes it when someone pats her head and gives her attention and then is fine with being left behind to sit in front of the fire waiting for her master to return home.
I imagine she’d be a labradoodle because she’s fancy like that. Specifically bred to be something different than the raw rest of us. Hypoallergenic. Cute and pretty and squishable.
Like right now she’s across the yard flittering about the clubhouse helping the other “Old Ladies” make dinner. It’s a warm day, so the bay doors of the clubhouse are rolled back and I can see most of what’s going on from the porch.
Mom wears her Terror Gypsy cut. It’s black leather like the men’s cut, but there’s no half skull with fire blazing out the eyes on the back. Just the name of the women’s support group, Terror Gypsy, and a single patch that contains the name of the member they’re an old lady to. Mom’s patch says Frat. Still causes my chest to ache whenever I see his name.
Even though he’s dead, Mom will always be a Terror Gypsy. Just like I’ll always pay for this MC’s sins if I stay in this godforsaken town.
It’s the old ladies’ job to support their men and support the club the men love. They’re woman and can never be a part of the Reign of Terror. The most respect they’ll receive is that cut and a single patch underneath.
Sit, girl.
Now stay.
Speak.
No, thank you.
“Is it my fault you were kidnapped, Vi?”
My head jerks in Brandon’s direction. His cheeks are flushed red and his blue eyes are watery. In the background, there’s a growl of motorcycles as I slip my legs off the swing. Pain spikes through my knee, but I ignore it and grab my brother’s hands. Brandon is worth speaking to. “No.”
“I’m scared it is.”
“It’s not.”
“Then whose fault is it? It has to be somebody’s fault.”
The crazy coiled within me unravels and I lean toward my brother. The Terror. They’re to blame.
“Stone,” Oz calls. “Come play with us.”
Brandon lights up. He loves playing football with the guys. Makes him feel accepted, normal and loved. All things I try to make him feel, but somehow fail at providing.
Then it’s like someone blew out the sole candle in the room. He doesn’t want to leave me. To be honest, I don’t really want him to leave me either, but I don’t want him moping around over what happened. I need to be strong for him.
“Go on.” I give a smile I hope appears real. “Go play. I’ll watch from here.”
Brandon bounds down the stairs and jogs across the yard to where Oz and Razor are waiting for him. Oz tosses him the ball and the two go off for the open field. Razor, on the other hand, hangs back and he’s watching me. My forehead furrows.
Razor and I are close. Not like me and Chevy, and not like siblings who hate each other like me and Oz. We’re friends. Used to be great friends, but life became complicated after Dad died and Razor fell into the realm of messy.
He’s watching me, like he’s waiting—because he knows me—for a reaction? I scan the yard searching for what I’m missing and then my head tilts. Cyrus, Eli, Pigpen and other guys from the board are heading into the clubhouse and Chevy’s with them.
The guys from the board have been MIA. Now they return and Chevy’s with them? Hell, no. They are not leaving me out of this.
Ignoring my crutches, I hop down the stairs on one foot and then half walk, half limp for the clubhouse. They’ve been gone about our kidnapping and there’s no way they’re going to talk to Chevy without me. Like him surviving, his life, is worth more.
Razor strolls up beside me. Strolls, because I’m angry-hobbling and my full throttle is his stroll. He assesses me head to toe as he keeps pace. “Where’re you going?”
A glare. That’s all I’ve got for him and it causes him to chuckle. Razor’s taller than me, but not by much. He’s blond hair, blue eyes, most girls’ daydream in real-life form, but he’s just as dangerous as he is pretty. “They aren’t going to let you into Church.”
Nope. They won’t. Odds are I won’t even make it to the stairs. They have guys whose job is to hang out in the clubhouse and appear like they’re cool and calm and just hanging out, but they’re there to make sure no one reaches the boardroom. Even if I do make it, the door will be locked, but I’ll be damned before I allow myself to be shunned.
“Ah, hell.” It’s Oz, and he’s muttering it from behind me. Seconds later he’s on my other side. “What’s she doing?”
Razor shrugs. “Ask her.”
“They aren’t going to let you into Church,” Oz says. Seriously, when they’re indoctrinated into the club and receive a cut, do they reprogram their minds to speak alike, too?
“I told her that,” Razor responds.
“Then why is she still heading in that direction?”
Razor loses the humor and his eyes grow so cold I shiver. “You going to tell her no?”
Oz’s lips thin out as he continues to walk beside me. We enter the clubhouse and we catch the other members’ attention immediately. A few look pleased, like my voluntarily limping in here is the long-awaited prodigal-daughter-returning-home moment they’ve all claimed they have been waiting for since Dad died, but they are sadly mistaken.
Speak.
Girl.
Yep, not happening.
Mom doesn’t mind being a dog. She likes being told to sit and stay. Likes it when someone pats her head and gives her attention and then is fine with being left behind to sit in front of the fire waiting for her master to return home.
I imagine she’d be a labradoodle because she’s fancy like that. Specifically bred to be something different than the raw rest of us. Hypoallergenic. Cute and pretty and squishable.
Like right now she’s across the yard flittering about the clubhouse helping the other “Old Ladies” make dinner. It’s a warm day, so the bay doors of the clubhouse are rolled back and I can see most of what’s going on from the porch.
Mom wears her Terror Gypsy cut. It’s black leather like the men’s cut, but there’s no half skull with fire blazing out the eyes on the back. Just the name of the women’s support group, Terror Gypsy, and a single patch that contains the name of the member they’re an old lady to. Mom’s patch says Frat. Still causes my chest to ache whenever I see his name.
Even though he’s dead, Mom will always be a Terror Gypsy. Just like I’ll always pay for this MC’s sins if I stay in this godforsaken town.
It’s the old ladies’ job to support their men and support the club the men love. They’re woman and can never be a part of the Reign of Terror. The most respect they’ll receive is that cut and a single patch underneath.
Sit, girl.
Now stay.
Speak.
No, thank you.
“Is it my fault you were kidnapped, Vi?”
My head jerks in Brandon’s direction. His cheeks are flushed red and his blue eyes are watery. In the background, there’s a growl of motorcycles as I slip my legs off the swing. Pain spikes through my knee, but I ignore it and grab my brother’s hands. Brandon is worth speaking to. “No.”
“I’m scared it is.”
“It’s not.”
“Then whose fault is it? It has to be somebody’s fault.”
The crazy coiled within me unravels and I lean toward my brother. The Terror. They’re to blame.
“Stone,” Oz calls. “Come play with us.”
Brandon lights up. He loves playing football with the guys. Makes him feel accepted, normal and loved. All things I try to make him feel, but somehow fail at providing.
Then it’s like someone blew out the sole candle in the room. He doesn’t want to leave me. To be honest, I don’t really want him to leave me either, but I don’t want him moping around over what happened. I need to be strong for him.
“Go on.” I give a smile I hope appears real. “Go play. I’ll watch from here.”
Brandon bounds down the stairs and jogs across the yard to where Oz and Razor are waiting for him. Oz tosses him the ball and the two go off for the open field. Razor, on the other hand, hangs back and he’s watching me. My forehead furrows.
Razor and I are close. Not like me and Chevy, and not like siblings who hate each other like me and Oz. We’re friends. Used to be great friends, but life became complicated after Dad died and Razor fell into the realm of messy.
He’s watching me, like he’s waiting—because he knows me—for a reaction? I scan the yard searching for what I’m missing and then my head tilts. Cyrus, Eli, Pigpen and other guys from the board are heading into the clubhouse and Chevy’s with them.
The guys from the board have been MIA. Now they return and Chevy’s with them? Hell, no. They are not leaving me out of this.
Ignoring my crutches, I hop down the stairs on one foot and then half walk, half limp for the clubhouse. They’ve been gone about our kidnapping and there’s no way they’re going to talk to Chevy without me. Like him surviving, his life, is worth more.
Razor strolls up beside me. Strolls, because I’m angry-hobbling and my full throttle is his stroll. He assesses me head to toe as he keeps pace. “Where’re you going?”
A glare. That’s all I’ve got for him and it causes him to chuckle. Razor’s taller than me, but not by much. He’s blond hair, blue eyes, most girls’ daydream in real-life form, but he’s just as dangerous as he is pretty. “They aren’t going to let you into Church.”
Nope. They won’t. Odds are I won’t even make it to the stairs. They have guys whose job is to hang out in the clubhouse and appear like they’re cool and calm and just hanging out, but they’re there to make sure no one reaches the boardroom. Even if I do make it, the door will be locked, but I’ll be damned before I allow myself to be shunned.
“Ah, hell.” It’s Oz, and he’s muttering it from behind me. Seconds later he’s on my other side. “What’s she doing?”
Razor shrugs. “Ask her.”
“They aren’t going to let you into Church,” Oz says. Seriously, when they’re indoctrinated into the club and receive a cut, do they reprogram their minds to speak alike, too?
“I told her that,” Razor responds.
“Then why is she still heading in that direction?”
Razor loses the humor and his eyes grow so cold I shiver. “You going to tell her no?”
Oz’s lips thin out as he continues to walk beside me. We enter the clubhouse and we catch the other members’ attention immediately. A few look pleased, like my voluntarily limping in here is the long-awaited prodigal-daughter-returning-home moment they’ve all claimed they have been waiting for since Dad died, but they are sadly mistaken.
