Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
I thumb the safety off.
She laughs. “Go on, then.”
Chief is moving. Faster than I can process, he’s between me and Jaq, his back to me, arms out. “I fucking said enough.”
I lower the gun, and the room goes very, very still. Travis is behind me, I don’t even know when he moved, nor did I feel his hand on my back, almost gently begging me to put the gun down and yet at the same time, letting me have this moment with a woman who has been a thorn in my fucking side since the moment I met her.
He knew deep down, I didn’t have it in me to shoot her.
But it still feels good, to think I could.
“Get the fuck out. We’re done.”
Chief’s voice is thundering, but it isn’t at me, it’s at Jaq.
Her eyes widen, and I lower the gun, not moving my gaze away as Travis takes it from me. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t fuckin’ stutter, get the fuck out and don’t come back. We’re done.”
Now she has the audacity to look flustered. “But...”
“But what?” Chief growls. “You’ve only ever been easy pussy because I’m too fuckin’ lazy to do the work. You were never going to be an old lady, Jaq, and you never will be. Get the fuck out.”
“We have been fucking for years, Chief. Don’t tell me I’m club pussy.”
“Very well, I won’t say it again then. You can leave now.”
“Fuck you,” she shrieks. “You and your spoiled bitch of a daughter.”
“Nobody comes in here and disrespects my family, nobody. Get out before I have you removed.”
“Go fuck yourself, Chief. You’ll regret this.”
Then, she turns and storms out, slamming the door so loudly the items on the desk rattle.
Chief turns, without a word, and pulls me into a hug, the tightest I’ve ever felt from him. For that second, I’m five years old and building forts with him, laughing as he tells me a joke. For that second, nothing hurts at all.
Chief’s voice is warm. “You okay, baby?”
I swallow, nodding. “I hate her, Dad.”
“I know. She’s gone. Never should have kept her around this long.”
I pull back, swiping a lone tear from my cheek. “Let’s talk about Mom.”
He nods. “Yeah, let’s.”
Later that night, we sit around a bonfire. I drink cheap beer and listen to Travis on the guitar, his voice raw and beautiful, the firelight flicking on his face as he gets lost in his own little world. Chief watches, his expression blank, arms crossed, never more than a foot away from me. I can see the pride in his eyes, though, even if he won’t admit it. He looks at Travis with respect.
When we are ready for our next beer, Travis and I make our way out to his truck, sitting on the back, looking up at the moon that has finally come out from under the grey clouds. With a beer in hand, Travis pulls me closer to him. “That was a fuckin’ hectic day.”
“Yeah,” I laugh, softly.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nah, I think I’m good now.” I lean into him, breathing in the scent of his cologne, mixed with the smell of fire. Sharp, edgy, and fucking delicious.
He taps his chin on my head, feigning thought. “Wanna split a bag of Doritos and make out?”
I elbow him. “God, at least get me drunk first.”
He laughs. “Well, fuck, drink up then.”
Bill walks over, smoke between his lips, stopping at where we are sitting. “You did good today, kid. ‘Bout time someone got that bitch out.”
I laugh. “Thanks.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder, rough and surprisingly gentle. “You know, sometimes the only thing you can do is outlast the storm.”
“You know, I think you’re right.”
He chuckles. “Always right, darlin’.”
I look over at the bonfire, at the men who raised me, the old ladies who taught me to cook, the shadows of the past that cast ten feet high on the fence. I close my eyes and let it all in, the violence, the love, the threat and the promise, bound together.
I’m not my mother.
I’m not my father.
I am the best of both, and that’s exactly what I want to be.
I’M SITTING AT THE long, battered table in the club’s back room the next night, a half-eaten piece of garlic bread in one hand and laughter bubbling up every few seconds. The air is thick with the smell of sautéed onions, sweet tomato sauce, and the faint tang of beer. Around me, the other club members are teasing each other, passing a huge bowl of spaghetti back and forth and trading stories about near-misses and angry cops.
To me, this place is home. The clatter of plates, the low rumble of voices, the way everyone looks out for each other. I lift my piece of bread and sink my teeth into it, the garlic and butter and crust all mixing in perfect, greasy harmony. I laugh at something Tate just said about nearly getting run off the road by some asshole with a badge, and then I hear Chief’s gruff voice.