Page 14

“It is what it is.”

Cut knows the things that I’ve been through in my life. He’s listened to plenty of drunk confessions, yet he’s never once brought any of that shit up. He’s like a fucking vault. Once that shit goes in, it ain’t never coming back out. That’s why he makes such a great leader. We trust him. That’s key. You can’t lead people if there’s no trust. And any one of us would lay down our lives for him.

He’s the only fucker in my life that I trust. Hands down.

“You think your sister went through the same shit you did?”

Just the thought pisses me off. How did I not see the signs? “I’m not sure. I never had the chance to find out. Once Betsy left, I took off.”

I was lucky I had some place to go. I always wondered where my sister ended up. Devin Sr. got the word out for me. Had other charters and other local clubs looking for my sister but it was as if she’d vanished.

“You know you don’t have to go through all this shit alone, Lick. We got you.”

“I know.” I turn and look at my best friend, my president. “But some shit you’ve got to do on your own.”

“I agree, but mourning the loss of a family member is not one of them.”

He, more than anyone, would know. When he found out that a rival MC raped, tortured and killed his sister, his anger consumed him. He was the big brother, the next in line to head the family and the club, and he’d failed one of the people who depended on him. His family needed him. His father needed him, and he wasn’t there. Devin was killed trying to bring his daughter’s body back, and Cut didn’t find out for days afterward. He still lives with that regret.

“There’s shit I gotta take care of that no one needs to worry about. That’s it, man.”

“I hear ya.”

“My sister went down the same fucking rabbit hole that our mother went down and that pisses me the fuck off.” I chuck the glass beer bottle out into the darkness, barely able to hear it hit the dirt. “She was so fucking stupid to think her life would turn out differently doing the same fucking shit. You don’t see me sticking those rigs in my arm.” My hand pounds at my chest. “You don’t see me needing my next fix!” I scream into the night. “Only pussies need that shit!”

Tilting my head back, I take in the night air. “I spent years paying for the selfish ways of my mother. The demons of my past are crawling to get free, and the shit eats away at my mind. The years of memories. I can’t get that shit out, man. Every night they replay. It’s like I’m a fly on the fucking wall watching as adults torture a child. A grown ass woman stroking a barely teenage boy’s dick. Watching some high as fuck bitch take the little boys virginity. Seeing that Teddy fucker as his dick fucks that little boy’s mouth while tears roll down his cheeks. But I’m not watching, man. It ain’t a fucked-up movie. It was my fucking life for three fucking years. I relive that shit on a nightly basis, man.”

My fist beats against my chest. I pound out the pain, out the grief and the hurt of a soul that was lost, probably long before she took off. “Now my sister…” Taking a deep breath, I stand up and set my eyes on my best friend. “She’s lying dead in the fucking morgue on a cold sheet of metal in a cold as fuck room. And that kid who was raped physically, emotionally and verbally—that kid who had all that shit happen to him? It was all for nothing.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

He doesn’t need to rehash the shit I just spewed. He doesn’t need to repeat the words or ask if I’m going to be all right. This ain’t a goddamn boo-boo. My knee ain’t scraped. My sister is fucking dead.

“Now I’m going to go tell my father that his daughter is dead and it’s all that bitch’s fault.”

Before going to prison, my father was a mechanic. He was magic when it came to using his hands. His father taught him, and once I was able to sit long enough to listen, he taught me. I always thought that one day, he and I would work together. Own a family business doing what we both loved.

It’s because of my father that I became an asset to the club. Not only am I able to fix the bikes, but I’m able to fabricate and build the actual engines. Crate motors are always easier and faster, but having a custom chopper is like the precious unicorn. My engines can either run with a purr like a kitten or rage like a screaming bitch.

It’s because of my father that I’ve been able to create some of my passion. My father was just a few years older than I am now when he was sent away. Once Devin started paying me, I took the money I had earned and rode the bus up state to see him. I wanted him to see what I had created, what he taught me, but I was naive, and the guard and warden didn’t give a shit what some inmate’s kid did. My first visit was on my eighteenth birthday. I hadn’t been able to see him before then since the bitch refused to take me and they didn’t allow minors without adult supervision. The next time I went to visit my father, I took a picture. After that, I continued to bring photo albums, and our visits became like brainstorming sessions. My father was able to teach me again.

Like clockwork, I’m patted down and my pockets emptied. It’s been fifteen years of visitation and I know it’s procedure, but somehow it feels personal. Once I’m cleared, they escort me with a few other family members of other inmates to the outside area. Big trees shade the green grass area, and picnic benches decorate the area.

I hear the familiar clanking of the metal doors and see my father’s figure come out into the sun. He instantly brings his hand up over his eyes to block the brightness, scanning the area before his gaze lands on me. I usually see my father once a month. I was just here last weekend, so I’m sure he’s wondering what I’m doing back so soon.

He approaches me and grabs my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. We do the typical pat on the back before he pulls away and studies my face. The time behind bars has been hard on my father. He’s a good man. Decent and loving. He always had a good heart and the best intentions when it came to others.

“Son.” The concern is written all over his weathered face. “Tylan?”

“Let’s have a seat, Pop.”

Turning, I plant my ass down on my side of our usual table. He takes a seat and folds his hands in front of him. I clear my throat. Eight years ago, I had to make this same visit to tell him that his murder conviction was for nothing because that miserable piece of shit he called the love of his life took her own life at the tip of the cold needle. Alone, laying in her own shit and piss with two fucking used condoms wrapped around her arm as a tourniquet.

“What’s going on? You okay?”

I give him a slight nod, not really sure if I’m okay or not. “Betsy’s dead.” I say it straight, like ripping off a Band-Aid. There’s no reason to beat around the fucking bush.

“How do you know?”