Page 6 of Property of Mongrel

I know I told Rio I was pretty sure what it was about, but in reality, I don’t have a clue. When I turned eighteen, I received a letter from my grandma’s attorney advising of a small inheritance she had left me, plus my portion of what was left from my parents’ life insurance will be disbursed once I hit twenty-five next year. What Grandma left me bought me my bike and my truck, before I put what was left into a money market account. Having money in the bank settles something deep inside of me.

I suspect it’s because some of the foster homes I was placed in struggled, even with the checks they got from the state. Food was often scarce, and I often found myself eating less so that the younger kids could get their fill. Much like I would’ve done for my own siblings. Even though food has been plentiful for a long time now, ever since I walked through the gates of the Triple R and began working the ranch, those memories are seared into my brain. So, I save the bulk of what I make these days, only purchasing what’s absolutely necessary. For me, it’s not about building wealth like some financial gurus say, it’s about making sure I’ll never go hungry again.

“Just go ahead and open it, you chickenshit,” I tell myself. “What if it’s got something to do with Uncle Leroy, Jonah, or even the girls?”

It’s that reminder that I’ve still got family out there that I need to find that has me slitting the envelope open and pulling out the heavy, cream-colored page. Rolling my eyes, I quickly scan the letter, then read through it again. By the third read-through, I’m pacing my room as anger simmers below the surface.

Looking at it again, I read it out loud, wondering if it’ll still sound as ridiculous as it did before. As if I’d ever help that man. Not fucking happening; he threw us away and broke my grandma’s heart while doing it.

Mr. Shepherd,

We are sending this letter to advise you that your grandfather, Germaine Shepherd, will turn sixty-five in six months. In accordance with the company’s policy, the oldest son is to take possession of the company business as its CEO and owner.

Because your father is dead, it passes down to you as his oldest son. Please contact our office at your earliest opportunity, as paperwork needs to be signed and filed accordingly.

Best regards,

Dewey Hartman, Esquire

A small chuckle bursts free when I recall the old joke about a law firm called Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe, wondering how much shit this attorney received growing up, especially once he hit law school. Deciding I need some input from someone who’s not so close to the situation, I head downstairs in search of one of my brothers that might have a bit more life experience under his belt than I do.

Even though I know I’m going to refuse them.

Even though I know if I had nothing to my name, I’d never do something to benefit him, or any of the family who felt like he did. Unfortunately, after his declaration all those years ago, I realized that with the exception of Grandma, Uncle Leroy, and some extremely old great-aunts who I’m sure have passed since then, everyone else pretty much felt the same way. They all just ‘made nice’ with my dad’s choices because otherwise, they wouldn’t benefit from their jobs at our family-owned business. Hell, I get monthly dividends now that I’m old enough, and I know that me not accepting my role will hurt all of them.

I know, even though I haven’t seen him in years, that Uncle Leroy won’t care. He didn’t work for the family; he made his own path in life because that man made it clear that he didn’t think much of Uncle Leroy’s choices as far as who he was attracted to and disowned him. Grandma never did; she said she didn’t care because her God taught her that love was love was love. Personally, I don’t care either. It may not be my personal choice, but what someone else does in their bedroom isn’t my business. It doesn’t negate their character, and Uncle Leroy is one of the best men I’ve ever known.

Next to my club brothers, of course. And the ranch hands, who taught me more than they realized when I first showed up that long-ago day. They must have seen something in me, something that needed to be soothed and settled, because before I knew it, I was taking care of the horses. Mucking out the stalls, then putting down fresh straw, making sure they had sufficient feed and water, then taking them out into the paddock and exercising them.

It probably wouldn’t have been glamorous to a lot of older teens, but to a kid who went through six foster homes in the five years I was in foster care? It was absolute bliss. I was fed well, they didn’t care that I was finishing up my degree, having already obtained my associates, and then one day, Rio approached me about becoming a prospect for the Kings of Anarchy.

I’ve never told him this, but him giving me the prospect name of Mongrel suited me thanks to the slurs I was called while growing up. It’s also another reason why I wouldn’t let them give me another road name. As a kid, it angered and hurt me, like it was intended to do. As an adult, I’ve come to realize how brave my parents were to fly in the face of convention. I know they weren’t the only interracial couple out there, but the heritage that my grandfather eschewed for me, being mixed, is now a badge of honor for me. Because that means my mom and my dad defied the odds that were against them.

I wonder, sometimes, if my dad was aware of how his own father felt, then decide it doesn’t matter. Regardless of his feelings, at the end of the day, the five of us were still little kids and while I know as an adult that unfortunately, racism is alive and well around the world, I choose the company I keep.

Still, me being mixed means I’m lonely. I don’t want to be a woman’s ‘token’ walk on the wild side, nor do I want to make a hasty decision that I’ll end up regretting down the line, like my grandma did. She’s going to have to be someone special and thanks to the women who are ol’ ladies, as well as the wives of the ranch hands, I’ve had some excellent examples of what to look for in a prospective ol’ lady of my own.

She’s gotta be kind, treat others the way she wants to be treated, and love kids. Everything else will be dressing; how she looks, how she dresses, what she drives. At the end of the day, I want to see the evidence of a good person with a heart for others.

“Try this one,” Gretchen encourages, holding up a cake pop.

While I was hunting for one of my brothers, I was waylaid by Doc’s ol’ lady and I now find myself in the kitchen. Since I know what my decision will ultimately be, and I previously expressed it to Rio, I focus on the here and now. I can always see if Abyss or BamBam are available later. Hell, I may even run it by Doc too.

“What is it?” I ask, taking the stick in hand as I look it over.

She giggles while looking at Constance and Maria, who’ve become unofficially part of Gretchen’s team. “Hummingbird cake pops,” she says.

I take a bite and a low moan escapes as the flavors vie for priority. “Tastes like cream cheese frosting,” I say, taking another bite. “And are those chopped pecans?”

“Yep,” Gretchen replies, grinning at me. “I know I’ll need to make sure to put nuts on the label and probably pack them separately in case someone has a nut allergy, but I think they’re really good.”

“They are,” I admit, finishing off the treat. “And honestly, since they’re so rich, this is the perfect size as far as I’m concerned. How did you get the dip to taste like cream cheese?”

“I found a site where I can buy flavored additives. It’s still vanilla almond bark, but because of the colors in the cake, I thought marbling them would be a good idea.”

“Well, I think they’ll be a hit,” I tell her.

“That’s what I was wanting to hear,” she teases. “Now, we’re taking you tomorrow for surgery, so don’t forget, nothing to eat or drink after midnight.”