Chapter 2
Lydia slammed the apartmentdoor hard enough to rattle the thin walls.The sound echoed through the cramped two-bedroom unit and then faded into silence.She stepped inside alone and yanked the helmet off her head, letting it drop to the floor.It bounced once, rolled, and finally came to rest against the wall.
She stood there, chest tight, listening.
The motorcycle engine snarled outside, loud at first and then fading.The sound stretched thin as it receded until it finally vanished completely.Relief washed over her.Her legs wobbled, and she grabbed the wall to steady herself.
Sonny dropped her off at the apartment and headed to the clubhouse.
That meant he wouldn't be returning until tomorrow.
She pressed her forehead against the door and exhaled a trapped breath.The calm in the room was fragile, as if it might shatter if she moved too quickly, but it was hers for the night.For as much as she hated Sonny, the anger that burned the deepest belonged to her mom.
Maureen James had left her like a half-smoked cigarette resting in one of the many ashtrays around the apartment.She had just taken off with some guy Lydia barely remembered.No goodbye.No plan.No phone call after the first week.She swallowed hard.The familiar ache pressed against her ribs.Sonny wasn't even her stepdad.He was just...there.A leech who had once attached himself to her mom and decided that gave him the right to shove Lydia around and bark orders as if she owed him something.
She pushed away from the door and walked down the short hallway to the bedroom she used.The light flickered when she flipped the switch.The room stood bare, almost aggressively so.The furniture didn't belong to her.The bed didn't belong to her.The dresser didn't belong to her.
Nothing belonged to her except a worn backpack slumped in the corner, a duffel bag shoved against the wall, and a photo album full of strangers that she liked to stare at and pretend were her family.
She wasn't even sure where the album came from.Her mother gave it to her when she was little to keep her quiet.Some kids received Dr.Seuss books.She received a book full of strangers' pictures.
Mom had no relatives, and apparently, Lydia's dad died before she was even born.
She dropped onto the edge of the bed.Everything she owned fit into those two bags.Clothes, sneakers, and some makeup items she almost never touched.Every time she'd tried to wear any of it, Buddy's eyes lingered too long, his mouth twisting in a way that made her skin crawl.She quickly learned not to give him a reason to look at her.
Lydia stood and lifted the mattress, muscles straining as she shoved it up.Her fingers found the crinkled plastic bag taped to the box spring.She pulled it free and let the mattress fall back into place.
The bag bulged with cash.
She sat on the floor and opened it, counting out of habit.There were two thousand, nine hundred, seventy-four dollars.It was everything she had left after paying Buddy his share for rent, food, utilities, and whatever excuse he chose to use that week to take more of her paycheck.
Her job at the restaurant barely paid enough to survive.Long hours, aching feet, and a greasy uniform that never quite lost the smell of fried chicken.Buddy acted like handing her twenty dollars after she cashed her check made him some kind of saint.
What he didn't know was that she never brought all her money home.
Tips disappeared into her bra at work, then into the plastic bag under the mattress when she got back.A few dollars at a time.Over the last two years, it started to add up.She almost had enough money saved.
She hugged the bag to her chest and stared at the wall, heart pounding.Freedom was so close, she could almost touch it.She wasn't going to look for her mom.That door was closed, no matter how much it hurt.She didn't want explanations or apologies that would never come.
All she wanted was a fresh start.
Somewhere safe.Somewhere far from run-down apartments, angry men, and motorcycle engines roaring in the night.Somewhere she could work, pay her own way, and breathe without fear.
Cusclan Motorcycle Club had a reputation.The men were outlaws who would rather knife someone in an alley for half a pack of cigarettes than buy their own.As she got older, living with Sonny and around the bikers became more uncomfortable.
Lydia secured the bag and slid it under the mattress, then lay down on the bed fully dressed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, Sonny would come back.
