But the time had come for me to stop being Red Raven’s son in more ways than just by changing my name. Becoming Phoenix wouldn’t do any good if I remained in the nest my father had built. I had to become my own man.
I turned to Jess.
“It’s an odd thing for me to process,” I said, now actually talking to her. “There is no denying that he was a wonderful father to me, and I will always appreciate that part of him. But there is also no denying that he betrayed the Black Reapers, and I will always wonder why.”
I shook my head.
“In the MC life, we can forgive a lot of stupid shit. We’ve had club members sleep with each other’s girlfriends or even wives; we’ve had arguments that turned bloody over stupid shit like who was supposed to get alcohol. We’ve gotten arrested for a ton of shit, although we do our best to keep Springsville... or, Ashton, at this point, safe. But one thing we never, ever, ever fucking do is become a rat. We never, ever sell ourselves out to another club or to the authorities. It’s not a joke to say having a gun drawn on you during a fight or being called a slur is less of a problem than being a rat.”
Even those words didn’t feel like they did a good enough job of saying how much my father had hurt the club. Even if he hadn’t succeeded in killing Lane, he’d killed much of the club’s confidence and spirit.
“I know I have to become my own man. These photos... it’s like if I let go of them, I’m somehow letting go of him. I know that’s ridiculous. I need to break out of his shadow. But... fucking shit. That’s a fucking huge shadow to get out of.”
I turned away and stared back at the blank screen with all its suggestions for movies. We weren’t going to get to any of those. I wasn’t even sure we were going to have sex anymore. I wasn’t mad about it. I just...
I wasn’t anything.
I was spent.
At least I had Jess curled up on my arm, cuddling me. That felt nice. But it wasn’t going to change my father’s forever-tarnished legacy.
“Did I ever tell you that I ran away from home at fourteen?”
What?
No, no she had not. I turned to her. We held hands as she continued talking.
“My mother died when I was young,” she said. “Your father started off great and ended poorly, but my father started off horribly. He drank so damn much. So much. So…”
Her voice was not yet cracking, but I had no idea how she’d maintain her composure. Not with what I was hearing.
Not with how I knew issues of fathers could make a person feel.
“He would come home from work and yell at me before he passed out. Hit me a couple of times. Never abused me sexually, but that didn’t mean life wasn’t hell. I couldn’t focus in school. We were poor, so I got made fun of for that. Life was about as miserable for a preteen and early teenager as you could get. I always told myself that I’d run away, but what was I supposed to do, get a job at twelve?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of humor.
“Well, eventually, one night, at fourteen, it hit a breaking point. I locked myself in my room. My father demanded I come out. I refused. And he broke down the door. He put all his weight into it and slammed against it. He literally broke it off its moorings.”
Jess paused. Her eyes were on me, but it looked like she was looking at something in her past—as if she could see her father breaking down the door at this very instant. It was surreal and more than a little bit unsettling.
I could do the very same with the moment that I had seen my father murdered.
And to now see it with the knowledge that Butch may have been justified…
“He didn’t do anything after,” Jess said, bringing me back to her. “In fact, he passed out on the floor, but that was the moment I knew I had no safety in that house of any kind. So... I ran away. I just... sort of lived life as a vagabond for the next several years.”
“Jesus...”
“I hopped around and took jobs wherever I could. I was homeless for a while. I would lie about my age and just take jobs wherever I could.”
There were a lot of uncomfortable questions that I wanted to ask but I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea—I didn’t think Jess would really want to say, for example, if she had ever given up anything for rent or a job. It wasn’t my place to know, anyway.And if it was, would I really want to know?
“I take it you haven’t spoken to your father since?”
To my surprise, though, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, too, not a sad or weary one.
“Actually, that seemed to be the wakeup call that he needed,” she said. “I didn’t speak to him for five years, though he would reach out to me frequently in that time frame. He kept saying that he’d gotten sober. He kept saying he was making his life better. But even then, he... he didn’t then invite me back.”
