I was sitting on the couch watching the clock over our fireplace, seeing the minutes slowly tick by. Dad told me he and Genni would be home no later than 6:30pm, but as my eyes flicked back up to the clock, that long hand was nearing 7:30pm. Did he know what I had planned? Did Bear cross me and out my plans to my father?
That’s when I heard the rumbling engines of motorcycles and I released an irritated sigh. They were late, but we still had enough time. They pulled up into my driveway, the engines cutting through the silence of the house. I could hear heavy footsteps on my front porch and my brows crinkled with confusion until they kicked in my door, and instead of my father standing there, I found myself looking into the sadistic eyes of Barrett, the Hell’s March President.
Everything after that was a blur. The two men with him got a hold of me and managed to tie me up after a struggle, then I remember Barrett heading into our kitchen and opening the fridge. The distinct sound of a bottle opened and I immediately knew he was drinking Vic’s beer. The other two men with him had their faces covered by bandanas, the surface adorned with skull mouths. Even so, they were unfamiliar to me. I would recognize Bear if he was one of them.
I began to question everything and whose loyalty I had, if any at all, and regret began to set in. This wasn’t what I had planned. As that regret burned its way through my stomach like acid, I heard the sounds of a car door shutting out in the driveway, and my heart sank down so far into that pool of acid. I remember opening my mouth to scream when my own bandana was ripped out of my pocket and stuffed into my mouth.
All I could think of was my mother and praying they wouldn’t be interested in her. It was obviously Vic they wanted. Her keys jingled as she pushed them into the lock, and I could hear her frantically calling my name, realizing she must have seen the Hell’s March bikes parked beside mine. I tried to scream past the fabric in my mouth but only muffled, garbled sounds came out, then when that door flew open and I saw her panic-stricken face, I wanted to die.
Barrett stepped out of the kitchen, moving in front of my mother and blocking my view of her. I continued to scream around the gag in my mouth and desperately tried to work the binds around my wrists and ankles as I watched him drag her into the kitchen. Her screams still reverberate inside my skull. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the shrill pitch or how many times she begged him not to hurt me.
For the first time in my life, I’d wished we’d never met Vic. I wouldn’t have become a biker, I wouldn’t have entered a war I knew nothing about, and my mother would still be alive. I wish I could go back to when we escaped the first piece of shit I called my father, and instead of driving to Arizona, I wish we went in another direction.
I blink out of my memory as the tears drip off my jaws. No amount of praying or wishing can change what’s happened, and I can sit here and blame my dead stepfather, but I’m just as guilty. I let power manipulate me. The thought of running and leading my brothers was all-consuming, and I couldn’t see past the hood of prestige resting over my head. I wanted it all and I was willing to go to extremes to get it.
And where has it gotten me?
My family is all gone. The woman who loved me more than anyone in this entire world was killed because of my actions. My stepfather, who raised me as his own, was shot between the eyes in front of his daughter while he laid on death’s doorstep, and then there’s Genni, the girl who changed me from being an only child, lonely and filled with despair, into a big brother. I lost sight of what was most important and now I’ll suffer the consequences.
Do I regret what I’ve done? To an extent.
I also blame Genni Varga. I may be guilty of forgetting my duties as an older brother, but she was just as quick to betray me. She was going to take my legacy from me, she was going to haul the rug out from under my feet, the same one I had been standing on for years. I trained hard to deserve the position and she had no problem claiming it for herself.
I never wanted to hurt her, but I never wanted to see her again either. She made her bed when she accepted the role of President as if I didn’t exist, and she received her first dose of what it would be like as President of an MC.
And she failed.
Despite that, I underestimated her. I thought after she had been taken that she would be scared witless, never wanting to return home. When Quinton showed me the box he had opened, even though it was addressed to me, the sight of her hair and blood only served to solidify her failure of ever being worthy of a President’s position.
Am I heartless? It depends. When it comes to my brothers, to the club, I want the very best, but when it comes to my sister, I will only prove to her time and time again that she’s weak and unable to survive in my world.
Pushing the chair back from the table, I stand and place my hands on the tabletop, letting my fingers curl into the smooth surface. My eyes flick from chair to chair, remembering family dinners and birthday parties, blowing out candles on enormous cakes my mother baked. Finally, I look to the head of the table, to where the man I respected above anyone else sat, and my heart beats into my rib cage as my throat tightens with emotion. I try to swallow down the grief that hits me like a tidal wave, but there’s no stopping it once it’s been sucked out to sea.
My eyes burn, and as soon as I blink, I feel more tears hit the tops of my cheekbones and slip down over the skin to nestle into the growth along my jaw. Never have I been so conflicted, because as much as I love the man who occupied that chair, I also resent him for the duties he laid at my feet. I hate the final request he had of me, and how he knew I would concede. Not just because he was my President, but because I understood why he was asking me to do it. It made him selfish because now I’m alone and staring into his empty seat, wishing I could change everything. I loathe that he put this burden on me without thinking of the consequences, and I abhor that I accepted it wholeheartedly, thinking I could handle anything.
“I wish I could bring you back from the dead,” I say into the silence of the kitchen as my vision blurs with the tears that are coming from God knows where. “Just so you could see the agony you’ve caused. Your sickness made you weak and Vic Varga couldn’t be seen as fragile. You won, you succeeded, but now I have to live with what I’ve done.”
I open my mouth to berate the ghost of my father when my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. I straighten, peeling the palms of my hands off the table and leaving behind my prints on the polished surface. Reaching into my cut, I grab my phone as the screen shines bright in the darkened room, Laith’s name blinking across the illuminated surface.
“Fuck,” I growl out as I swipe my thumb to pick up the call and then put the phone to my ear. “What is it?”
“Prez, we got a problem here at the warehouse.”
“What’s the problem?” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and my forefinger, trying desperately to stave off the headache that’s threatening to split my skull in two. I fucking hate crying.
“Chino’s been drinking himself into a stupor every day and night, and the men are losing faith in the club and what it represents. We need our President.” Laith almost sounds like he’s chastising me.
He’s a voice of reason, and I know it must be dire if he’s calling me to lift the spirits of the men in our club.
“I’m on my way.”
My bare skin pebbles from the cool temperature of the basement. I was dumped down here, stripped of my clothes, and left alone for what feels like hours. Is Jaeger going to come for me? Is he a Hell’s March member now? Why is he working with them?
I try to piece together the events that led up to my being taken and I keep hearing about deals. The one Jaeger made, and the one apparently my father made, both with Hell’s March and seemingly both involving me.
I scream for what must be the one-hundredth time, the sound ripping through my vocal cords and sending agony up through my throat. Why am I here? I have done nothing wrong. I haven’t hurt anybody. What do they want to do with me?
My hair hangs down in front of my face in thick, sweaty strands, the feel of it only sending frigid shards of ice along my skin. I lift my bound hands to push the heavy strands from my face as a sob blooms inside my chest, escaping through my mouth in a wretched sound. They’ve wrapped my wrists and ankles with rough, thick twine, the material digging into my sensitive skin, and each movement only serves to grow tighter, cutting through my flesh like a sharp saw blade. The first few days I tried to bite through the threads, but the material was too strong and the knots around my ankles too tight to undo.
