“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” Jethro says, his voice low as he leans over to me. “And we aren’t forgetting about what happened, Z. If you need to talk—”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I know he knows it’s a lie, but life goes on. It’s time we start moving forward. Forward to killing those fucking bastards.
“Pacino, I need a favor. Later,” I say.
He just nods, and I continue pretending that I’m fine. Like I’m not a mess of anger, rage, and hatred.
“Now, I’d like to talk a little more about the issues at Velvet,” Jethro says.
The rest of the meeting is just a blur. Aside from being told I’m good to take the lead to pay Tommy a visit, I couldn’t tell you a single thing we talked about. I spent most of the time trying to ignore how fucked up it was to see anyone but Johnny in that head spot. How Jethro will be wearing that PRESIDENT patch by tomorrow.
Time heals all wounds, but I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this. The man who raised me is gone. Mama is a mess but holds it together for Johnny’s daughter, Lainey. And both of the women in my family look to me for vengeance.
At least not leading the club means I can channel my rage into more productive means. Focus on Butch fucking Ballard. The president of Black Venom.
Chapter Three
Misty
“Come on, baby girl,” I call out. When I hear nothing, I sag my shoulders and groan. “Bernie, we need to go!”
My eight-year-old comes running down the hallway with two different colored socks and her purple glasses askew. Her quirks make me smile, and all annoyance at running late vanishes.
“I’m here, Mommy. I had to go potty.”
I reach out and straighten her glasses. “Couldn’t find matching socks?”
“I couldn’t decide which ones I liked better with my outfit, so I wore one of each.”
One yellow and one purple. Pairs very nicely with her dress of the same colors. My daughter, the original.
Bernie’s confidence makes me jealous sometimes. I don’t remember being this confident at her age. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been as confident as she is. “Ready to go? It’s your first day at the new school.”
“I’m ready! Do you think they’ll like my backpack?” Bernie asks as she slips it on.
We just moved to Gravelton shortly after Grandma passed away, and I hoped this fresh start would be what we needed.My anxiety shot through the roof last night as I tried to sleep because all I could imagine was how the kids would react to Bernie.
She’s the sweetest, funniest, happiest little kid out there, but all people seem to fixate on is her Down Syndrome diagnosis. We had to switch school districts a few years ago when the admin refused to step in and protect Bernie from bullies.
“I think they’ll love it,” I say, smiling at the purple bag we colored with glitter glue and iron-on multi-colored hearts.
It was more expensive than I wanted to pay, especially because we defaced it, but she wanted it. She’s always beat to her own drum, and I want to encourage that. And this bag definitely shows her personality and then some.
“Let’s go, baby,” I say, ushering her out the door.
Not only is it her first day of school, it’s my first day as the owner of Perk Up Café, the small business Grandma bought after Grandpa passed twenty years ago. She wanted to stay busy, and I suspect she succeeded with it being up and running for so long.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk in with you?” I ask as Bernie steps out of the car.
“Mom, I’m fine. I promise. Go to work!”
She runs inside, and I love her independence. The same independence that makes me nervous, but I learned years ago it’s better to let her do her own thing than try to baby her.
Is it really my fault that I just want to wrap her up in a soft, snuggly blanket and keep her safe and protected from the ugly world forever?
I know I can’t protect her from everything, and I have to let her have her own life experiences. But it doesn’t calm the storm brewing in me.
