Chapter One
Eight
I rip into the parking lot of the Sagebrush Middle School, not giving a shit that my Harley is one decibel away from a violation for disturbing the peace. I’m fucking pissed. I hated school as a kid, hated it even more as a teenager and now here I fucking am, called to the principal’s office by the school secretary, her tone implying that I’m the one in trouble.
Goddamned Oscar, always getting into it with this Henri kid. I can’t count the times I’ve told my kid to beat the snot out of the little bastard, but for some reason he won’t listen. He’s no more a pacifist that I am and I don’t think he gives a shit if he’s expelled from school, so what the fuck is wrong with him? And now the feud between him and Henri has escalated to the point where Henri’s mom and I have been ‘invited’ to meet with Mrs. Summers, the principal.
I’m fucking busy despite the enemies of Hell’s Jury, my one-percenter bike club, being dead or doin’ other shit. We got gun runs to the border, businesses to manage, and fucking deadbeats thinking they can screw around in our territory. Since fall, we’re down three brothers and scrambling to replace them before the Blackbeards, our rival club, wake up and realize how vulnerable we are. Thank god for our Vegas chapter lending us support or we’d be in big fuckin’ trouble.
I park my bike next to a piece of shit Toyota from the late ’90s that’s taking up two spaces in the staff-only section of the school lot. If it weren’t for some asshole in the back seat yelling at a fucking German Shepherd, I would’ve thought it was abandoned. I’m tempted kick the side door, not that anyone would notice through the dents, scrapes and rust.
When I get inside the school, I draw the attention of three teachers who are huddled in a group, talking like they’re planning a funeral. When they glance up, their eyes widen. I’m dressed in my Hell’s Jury gear, ratty T-shirt under my cut, worn biker boots, bandana around my head. Then the bell rings and the fucking kids swarm out of the classrooms like wasps. Some stop and stare, giggle, whisper, the brave fuckers heading towards me.
“Fuck off,” I say as one boy gets too close.
A teacher gasps.
“Where’s the office?” I snarl at her.
She points.
I forget to say thanks as I stalk down the hall.
The woman behind the counter looks like Princess Di, not the face, but her dyed blonde hair cut in an eighties do, makeup, the clothes, even a fucking blue hat that’s tilted on her head.
“Where’s my son?” I bark at her. I hold back the ‘fuck’ and try to stay civil because I know Oscar gets hassled by the teachers because of who I am. The kids treat him with respect or maintain a respectable distance. Except for fuckin’ Henri.
“You’re Mr. Brody?” the bleached blonde says with that shy Diana smile that she must’ve practiced for hours in the mirror.
“Yeah, Nate Brody, Oscar’s dad. You fuckin’ know that already.” So much for civility.
The smile drops from her face and she looks at me like I’m shit on her shoe. “In Mrs. Summers’ office.” Head held high, she primly leads the way to the principal’s office, then knocks on the door.
“Come,” says Mrs. Summers in that imperious manner I fucking hated back in the day. Different principal, same bullshit.
Her Royal Highness opens the door, then stands back as I stalk inside. She slams the door behind me as if it will shake me up enough to apologize on my way out.
Mrs. Summers and I’ve never met, but we’ve talked too many fucking times over the phone, most not legit. Oscar has a target on his back and every time he steps out of line, he gets a verbal shit kicking. And unlike Max, the prez’s son, Oscar is tightlipped. Takes the crap doled out to him and moves on. I love the kid, but don’t deal well with the petty stuff. He knows it, so when he bitches, I shut him down. Tell him to handle it himself.
Oscar’s sittin’ in a chair on the right side of the office, glaring at Mrs. Summers. “Thanks for comin’ dad,” he says redirecting his anger to me.
“Coming,” Mrs. Summers corrects. “Don’t drop the ‘g’, Oscar. You’re not a savage.”
I close my eyes and count to ten before turning to the woman on my left. She stood up when I entered and looks like she wants to set me on fire.
She’s medium height, a little too lean for my tastes as if I had any. High cheekbones on an angular face, faded blue eyes that look like half-moons, and long hands and fingers that could use some hand cream.
I doubt she looked in a mirror before she walked in. She’s got a headful of light brown hair, which is partly hanging out of her ponytail. There’s a smear of what appears to be oil on her forehead, her cheek is streaked with dirt, and her chin is scraped up like she fell on some gravel. Her jacket is ripped at the shoulder and her tee-shirt’s half untucked from a pair of jeans that are rattier than mine.
And she’s definitely packing and not even tryin’ to be discreet about it.
“You Henri’s mom?” I growl at her.
A face pops out from behind the woman, a girl with the same brittle features as her mom.
“Yeah. Selkie Fleming,” she says in a low cool voice as she shoves the kid back. “Your fuckin’ kid’s a bully.”
My hackles go up. “My kid? Your little bastard’s been knockin’ him around for weeks.”
