I’m nothing more than a shiny toy to the bikers, but who am I to judge? It’s not like they’re anything more than a good time.
“Who do you think was driving the vehicle?” I ask.
“That’s what we’re trying to work out,” Vex says.
Carter takes another step down from the veranda. “It’s probably nothing, but we have to tread with caution. We don’t want you getting hurt.”
Translation: they don’t want me crossing paths with the driver of the black car in case it reaches the wrong ears.
I can sulk and keep hitching my arms further up my chest, but it’s not gonna change anything. As long as I get back by tonight, everything will be fine. Sadie is taking care of Otis.
“Okay.” I advance toward the veranda and keep my arms crossed as I pass Carter. “But I’m in need of a drink. An alcoholic one, preferably.”
I plonk back down onto the barstool like it’s déjà vu all over again.
The bikers move through the clubhouse, discussing the wild turn of events with their friends. Everything here is taken so seriously. Men take anxious sips of beer with tense jaws and rigid body language.
Seeing men three times my size look frightened isn’t helping matters.
I dim the tight feeling in my chest with more sips of my drink until I’m requesting a refill at the bar from a tall man who goes by the name Ash.
But the sips soon turn into big gulps. My mind starts to create new branches, brainstorming new ways that all of this could get back to Otis.
How I’m no better than my own mother.
How, no matter how hard I try to be a better parent than she was, the apple will never fall far from the tree.
It’s 4:40 p.m. when I make it back from school. As usual, the curtains are still drawn, the windows closed, trapping in the potent smells of warm alcohol and nicotine.
I take the half-full bottle of vodka from the windowsill and throw the rest of the contents down the sink. The stuff has been marinating all day in the sun.
But that won’t stop my mom from finishing it.
I dump my school bag on the kitchen table amidst other bottles of liquor, trashing them in the recycling one by one.
On my way to Mom’s room, I almost fall on my ass, tripping on her shoes abandoned in the middle of the hallway.
I’d be in a rush to get my heels off too if I was dancing in eight-inch stilettos until sunrise.
I open her door and find her sleeping with a man in her bed. A new one.
The only thing she recycles is her empty bottles of vodka. You’ll never see her recycling men.
“Why should I, when I can have a new one every night?” is her argument.
I open the door, the creaking hinges waking the man up. He springs out of bed completely naked. Thank god I don’t see anything. He scrambles for an item of clothing and places it over his crotch before my eyes travel south on their own accord.
“Um, nice to meet you too,” I mutter at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“You mean in my own house?”
That shuts him up.
I can smell his breath from the other side of the bedroom. He’s covered in tattoos, but it’s too dark to read what they say.
Not like I need to know. He has “alcoholic” written all over him.
