Bound by Ravage

by Ryan Michele

  I didn’t understand at the time. When my mother told me it was because my gender and girls don’t become members of the club, I cut my pigtails off so I’d have short hair like a boy. I think I was six or so. It was totally irrational, but being so young, belonging meant everything to me. It didn’t work, of course.

  My life has revolved around cookouts, brothers coming to our house, and charity runs where I’d ride on the back of my dad’s bike because my mom didn’t want to go. All of it felt like I belonged, but in the end, I don’t. I’ve never fit in anywhere here, and that realization is a punch to the gut.

  In my heart, I always knew it, but never thought about it, taking the avoidance route. Regardless, my father is right. I’m not a part of this. I’m an employee who happens to be the vice president’s daughter and sister to three members. That’s it. However, it’s the fact that my father thinks that way that hurts most of all.

  Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. No way in hell. I’m stronger than everyone gives me credit for. Stronger than this hurt. If anything, it’s making me realize that I somehow need to carve out a life for myself, one that doesn’t include Sinisters. Would that exclude my family, too?

  I clear my throat before answering, keeping my tone as low and calm as possible, not allowing an ounce of the hurt to shine through. “I’ve got it. Can I call the bank please and tell them that I won’t be coming?”

  My father shakes his head. “I’ll have Stone bring the receipts, and you can apologize to him.”

  The hole in my heart grows wider. Not only do I get reprimanded, told I’m not a part of the family I love and have supported, but now I have to apologize? Great, just great. And if I don’t do it, I have no idea what my father will do. Judging from his demeanor, I don’t want to find out, either.

  My bed is cold when I climb into it, the sheets cooling my overheated skin. After apologizing to my brother and entering all the receipts, I came home.

  Home. It’s not so much that anymore with my mother gone. She left a hole so deep that the warmth she had disappeared. I don’t stop the tears from rolling down my face as I allow myself to miss her. So. Damn. Much. She would’ve had the advice I need. She would’ve pointed me in a direction. She would’ve put her hand out, yanked me out, and stopped me from drowning. She would’ve guided me or talked to my father and see where all of this is coming from.

  Grabbing the pillow, I tuck it close to me and cry myself to sleep.

  Instead of calling in sick the next day and avoiding work altogether, I go in, do my job, am cordial to people and leave as if yesterday never happened. I get weird looks, and my brothers stay clear of me. There is no way I will let them see they got to me. Not happening. The day goes by quickly, thank God.

  As I sit in my living room, twirling my phone, thoughts run rampant.

  “You take care of yourself, Bristyl. Don’t get messed up in this world. You’re too good. Be safe.” Cooper’s last words to me make me want to laugh. He doesn’t have a clue that I’m in this shit as far as a woman can get without being in it. Father a VP, brothers are members, Mom was an ol’ lady. I’m too good? Too good for what, exactly? For him? Please.

  He has no idea that I grew up with the Sinister Sons. That thought makes me pause, because I kind of like it. I like that I don’t have my association with the Sinisters hanging over my head. I’ve been asked on plenty of dates, but I never get a second date because my brothers scare the piss out of them.

  They always say, “Any man who takes my sister out had better be able to stand up to us and show his worth.” Cooper would. He wouldn’t back down from them. He’s that kind of man; I can feel it in my bones. From the way he was at the rally, making sure we were safe, I know he wouldn’t back down from anyone.

  I swipe my thumb over the screen of my phone and go to the recent calls, scrolling down until I find a Georgia number. The same number that called me from the laundromat.

  When people call me, they don’t realize they are getting my cell phone. They figure it’s a landline, but what’s the point? Unlimited minutes and all. Not only that, I really don’t get that many calls, and most of the time, they go to voicemail and I return their messages later.

  My finger hovers over the number like a magnet, urging me to push it, so I click. A screen pops up with a phone and an envelope. I choose the envelope. Text messaging first. Why not?

  I type, Hey, it’s me. Bristyl. Then delete it.

  It’s Bristyl from the rally.

  Delete.

  I’m thinking of you.

  Delete fast.

  Fucking hell, what’s wrong with me? I feel like a damn teenager, afraid to talk to a boy for the first time. All my thoughts turn into a mangled mess of words.

  I type, Hi. Then, before I chicken out, I press my thumb down, sending the message. My damn hands begin to sweat as I wonder if he will text me back or blow me off. He more than likely didn’t save my number in his phone, so he has no clue who it is.

  I’m seriously losing it. I met the guy twice. Twice, and I’m acting like a damn fool.

  A few moments later, I get a, Who is this?

  I reply with shaky fingers, Bristyl

  I wait for a response.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  When it doesn’t come, I toss my phone on the table and click on the television. I guess that’s that. Can’t say part of me isn’t let down. It is. Expecting any differently than what I got, though, is on me.

  Bye, Cooper.

  10

  Cooper

  Five hours later, Bristyl’s name still stares back at me from my phone. And hell yeah, shocked doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling. I thought I called a business phone. Wrong.

  Two weeks, and the woman still won’t get out of my head. It’s like she’s glued and has adhered herself to me in a strange way. Now here she is, contacting me.

  Rubbing my hand over my face, I collapse on the bed. The clubhouse is calm tonight. I didn’t want to go home with Ryker, Green, and Jacks. We rent a house five minutes from the clubhouse, each having our own space. That doesn’t mean that they leave me alone. I needed some time to myself to digest this sudden turn of events.

  It’s funny because, last week, I thought about taking a drive down to Florida after a long-haired blonde came to the club and Bristyl immediately came to mind. Instead, I took a ride, needing to clear my head. Something kept me close to home.

  Looking at her name on my phone, my finger hoovers over her name. That connection I felt with her, was it the moment or something else?

  My father’s words haunt me. He’s right. Damn.

  I type: Hey, are you there?

  The clock reads midnight, so the chances of her responding are slim, especially if she has to get up and work tomorrow.

  What do you want? Surprisingly, my phone lights up with her response, and I chuckle, liking her direct tone.

  To talk.

  That sounds so dumb. Having a conversation with a female over text is a new thing for me. If the guys knew, they would razz the shit out of me and I’d probably end up punching one of them.

  B: I’m sleeping.

  Me: No, you’re not.

  B: I was.

  Me: Now you’re awake. How are you?

  My phone turns to black as I wait for her text. I kick my boots off and move up the bed, resting my head on the pillow, arm behind my head, holding the phone with the other.

  B: Tired, but fine.

  Me: Any explosions of water lately?

  B: No, thank goodness.

  A goofy-ass smile spreads across my face. All I can do is picture her in a damn wet T-shirt, cleaning up all the water. Damn, now I’m hard.

  Me: Tell me something about you.

  B: Like?

  Shit, what do I want to know? I’m not used to actually asking a woman questions about herself. Hell, sometimes I don’t even get a name. That may make me a dick, but it is what it is. This is s
o out of left field for me, I should be in a different state. Maybe Florida.

  My brother and sister come to mind.

  Me: Do you have any siblings?

  B: Three brothers.

  Me: Damn, beat me. I have a brother and a sister—twins.

  B: That’s kinda cool.

  Me: They’re good kids, but a pain in the ass.

  B: I know the feeling.

  I sit there for a while, liking the conversation and trying to think of what to say next. Are you a true blonde? Definitely not asking that. Are your tits real? If this goes any further, I’ll find that out myself … Fuck.

  Me: Why did you text me?

  There’s a long pause, and the screen goes black again. It’s an honest question that I’d like to know the answer to. Have I been on her mind? Does she dream of me? Or am I just a biker for her to get her kicks on with. Okay, so I don’t believe that last one because she would have acted differently with me at the rally. Damn if I can get my mind to stop reeling.

  The phone lights up.

  B: I’ve been thinking about you.

  Strange how those five little words fill me with happiness.

  Me: Oh yeah?

  B: Yeah.

  Me: Care to tell me more?

  B: Not really.

  I full-out laugh, loving the way she says what she wants. That spark in her is an attraction I can’t hide.

  Me: You’re making me bust a gut here.

  B: Am I that funny?

  Me: Yeah, and cute.

  B: I’m not cute.

  Me: Yes, you are.

  B: No, I’m not.

  Me: Yes, you are.

  B: Are we really going to argue about whether I’m cute or not? Which I’m not.

  Hell yes, she is. Even over texting. I can only imagine her in person or on the phone.

  Flirting. That’s exactly what I’m doing, and it feels damn good.

  Me: Yes, I like it.

  B: You like arguing with me?

  Me: What did you do after the rally?

  B: Way to avoid.

  I write nothing back and wait, wanting to know exactly what she did. The thought of some asshole getting with her doesn’t sit right with me one bit.

  B: Dropped off Leah and went home.

  Me: Home to …

  B: You’re baiting me.

  Yes. Yes, I am. I need to know.

  B: To my house, ALONE.

  At that, I reach over to my small nightstand and grab my old baseball. I lay flat on the bed, toss it up into the air, then catch it. It’s been a long damn time since I played. Luckily for me, I can text with one hand.

  Me: Damn shame.

  B: I’m used to it.

  Me: Being alone?

  B: Yep.

  Me: Are your parents around?

  I’m not sure why, but her saying that she’s alone doesn’t sit right in my gut. Her not having someone for any reason pisses me off. She has brothers, but are they not around or do they live all over the place?

  B: My dad is.

  I relate to this a lot. I have to ask …

  Me: Your mom?

  B: Died.

  The ball drops to the bed as I stare blankly at the ceiling. Funny how this part of our lives is similar. What are the odds?

  Me: Damn, babe. Sorry.

  B: It’s the circle of life or whatever.

  The urge to tell her about my situation hits me. I never shared that part of me with any woman before, and I’m not sure doing it over text is the right thing. It’s a bit heavy. Not everyone can handle the fucked-up story of my biological mother who didn’t care for me and ended up dead because she was stupid. My father only told me the full story when I got older. Truthfully, the entire thing only allowed me to appreciate my mother, Princess, all that much more.

  It’s strange even contemplating talking to her about it. Deep inside, the words want to come out.

  Me: Remind me sometime to tell you my story.

  B: You assume there’ll be a next time.

  Me: I can promise you that.

  The feeling swirling inside of me from this one conversation feels too damn good to not have again.

  B: My eyes are drooping. I need sleep.

  Me: Get some sleep, beautiful.

  B: Night.

  I fall asleep with Bristyl on my mind.

  Chaos surrounds me like a shroud of darkness. The weight on top of me pushes my small body hard into the linoleum floor of the clubhouse. All the while, screams echo the space.

  Leggs slaps a hand over my mouth and whispers in my ear, “Shh … Cooper. You’ve gotta stay really quiet.” Her weight holds me down to the point I can’t move my legs or arms.

  I squirm, wanting to get free.

  I look around, lifting up to see a man holding a gun to my grandma’s head. He’s yelling, or at least with my one ear covered it sounds like it.

  Fear hits me as the man holds the gun out, aims, and fires. The sound is loud and cracks like a whip.

  My head jerks to the side as I watch my mother fall to the ground with dark red blood coming out of her leg.

  “No!” the words are muffled by a hand that grips tighter, Leggs’ words for me to be quiet ignored.

  I use every bit of strength from my tiny body to try to get free, wishing I was big like my dad, then I could move.

  My mom is only a little bit away from me. I just need to get to her.

  Tears spring from my eyes as she holds her leg, making sounds she shouldn’t be making. No, Mommy!

  I bolt up from bed, gasping then blinking. A light sheen of sweat coats my skin.

  Rubbing my hand over my face, the memories cling to me like a dark cloak. In that moment, I knew I’d do anything to protect those I love. Whatever price. Whatever it took. My family comes first. We are bound together. If I could only shake the dreams.

  The Ravage MC has two businesses. Besides Studio X, we have Banner Automotive. I work at both, but mostly at the shop. Since the time I could hold a damn wrench in my hand, my dad taught me how to work on bikes, cars, trucks—hell, anything with a motor. Luckily for me, my skillset is good at picking up shit quick.

  Angel, GT’s ol’ lady, Deke’s mom, and my aunt, brought her ’56 Chevy in today for an oil and transmission fluid change. She insisted on helping, having once worked here when she was younger, hanging tough with all the guys. She knows her way around any type of engine. After Deke was born, though, she hung up her rags. Still, she comes in whenever her car needs something.

  She loves that thing. Her and her dad Bam restored it. Bam was a member of the club, but died years ago. She keeps that car for the sentimental value.

  She has a minivan, too. I think it’s hilarious seeing GT drive the beast. It gives all of us something to razz him about. His big-ass body climbing in and out of that minivan is a sight.

  Angel works while I stand back and watch. Once she gets going, it’s best to just leave her be. She just pushes us out of the way, anyway. Hell, it’s her car, so why do I give a shit?

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, seeing “Bristyl” on the screen, and swipe the screen as the excitement hits. Damn, this is strange.

  B: How’s your day?

  Me: Working. You?

  B: Me, too.

  Me: At the laundromat?

  I look around the garage, seeing everyone busy, including Angel, which is a good thing. No one needs to know about Bristyl.

  B: And the storage units.

  Me: ? Damn, you’re busy.

  B: Always.

  Me: You have storage units, too?

  Storage units. That rolls around in my head. Empty spaces to rent out would be good if Ravage needs to store anything. That could be a possibility to our situation.

  B: Yeah, about an acre of land with 220 of them.

  Me: Damn.

  My thoughts run with the storage unit idea. This could be what we need.

  “Girlfriend?” Angel asks, wiping her hands on a cloth.

>   I stuff my phone in my back pocket, not realizing exactly how much time has gone by while my eyes have been glued to my damn phone. “Nah.”

  “I call bullshit. I don’t think I’ve see that goofy-ass smile on your face before. Who is she?”

  I look around, making sure none of the guys are around to hear me. One word of a woman, and I have no doubt that any of the brothers would put it together. It’s nothing, and I don’t need shit for it.

  “No one. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Her brow quirks. “Oh, man, you’ve got it bad.”

  I get up in her space. “I mean it. Don’t give me shit, and do not tell GT.”

  She uses her index finger and thumb to show me she’s zipping her lips, all the while wearing a smile on her lips. That’s about as good as I’m going to get with her.

  Shit, it’s only a matter of time before my mother, Angel’s best friend, finds out. Too bad duct taping ol’ ladies’ mouths isn’t an option.

  “Come on, let’s finish this.”

  Me: Call me.

  This text was sent to her about ten minutes ago, and not a word. It’s only eight, so I don’t think she’s sleeping. We did the text thing off and on throughout the day, but I’m over it. I want to talk to her and have a real conversation. One where her purring voice comes through the line, and I can distinguish her jokes, sarcasm, and seriousness without having to guess all the damn time.

  The house we live in is your typical bachelor pad. Everything is industrial because shit gets broken more times than not. Hell, our coffee table, Green and I made it out of two-by-fours and sheets of plywood to make sure it was strong. I can’t tell you how many times Ryker has jumped on top of it when the Bulldogs scored a touchdown or won a game. It holds sound every damn time.

  The couches are used and abused. We got them from Green’s parents, who were getting new ones. They’re comfortable, and that’s all that really matters. The best thing in the space is our eighty-inch television, which is in the center of the wall with all the couches facing it.