by Violet Blaze
Take care of it. Torture and kill a man in cold blood. Just a euphemism, my friend. Just a euphemism.
Everybody at school thinks I'm a bitch.
I'm not sure how it got that way to be honest with you. I spend most of my time hanging out with a small, close-knit group of friends, and I don't start shit. I don't speak up in class or spread gossip, don't run for student council president or prom queen.
Somehow though, the fact that my dad's a part of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club makes me all sorts of things: a cunt, a slut, a Wolf groupie, a drug dealer, a troublemaker. Even my teachers seem to have sipped the Kool-Aid. It sucks, and it's not fair, but I've learned to deal with it. In the past, I let it get to me. I tried to dress the way everyone else did, keep my grades up, my head down. But honestly, it didn't matter. I'd been pegged; I'd been pigeonholed. And if I've learned anything in my seventeen years on this earth, it's that when somebody decides to slap a label on something, that label sticks.
“You fucking bitch!” Nevaeh Burkhardt yells as she comes at me swinging. This week, I guess I've slept with her boyfriend which is totally weird since the only person I've ever had sex with is Saint. And then only that one time.
Saint.
My heart seizes in my chest and makes it hard to breathe.
If love were based in logic, I'd run far, far away. But, Glacier, he has my heart and I don't think I'm ever getting it back—even if he doesn't seem to want it. It's his damn it. His, his, his.
“Whoa,” I snap, stumbling back, lifting my forearms to block Nevaeh's wild fists. Who started the rumor that girl fights were all slapping and hair pulling? Nevaeh is throwing punches left and right, like she's one of the boys in a scuffle back at the clubhouse. “What the hell are you talking about? I'd never let that jock asshole of yours touch me.”
Nevaeh doesn't even hear me, mascara bleeding down her face in two black trails as she throws herself at me, knocking us both into the brick wall at my back. I don't like to start shit, but I can finish it. My dad is Jack Westbrook, one of the youngest men to ever patch in to the Wolves, and he's been teaching me to protect myself since I was seven years old.
My hands curl around Nevaeh's shoulders, and my knee comes up, hitting her right in the crotch. Even girls have a hard time walking away from a groin hit like that. Nevaeh screams as I shove her back and she falls to her ass on the pavement.
I'm breathing hard, shaking a little, when I hear a shout from the doors leading into the main building.
Crap.
It's Nancy Ferrera, the vice principal for Trinidad High.
“Serenity Westbrook!” she snaps, her voice echoing around the quiet courtyard. The only other person out here is Nevaeh's best friend, Bristol. Based on the guilty look splashed across that perfect face of hers, I'd bet anything that she was the one that slept with Nevaeh's QB boyfriend, Cooper. “What on earth is going on out here?”
I shake out my hands, bracelets jingling as I look from Nancy's squinched up face to Nevaeh's tear streaked grimace.
Before Nancy even says another word, I know; I'm going to bet blamed for this.
“Serenity,” she starts, but pauses suddenly, looking up at the sound of heels on pavement. I follow her gaze and nearly die with the intense rush of relief. “Mrs. Mayor,” Nancy sputters, her face turning pink with either excitement or embarrassment, I'm not sure. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I'm here to see Serenity,” Lyric Rentz-McBride says, her small form draped in an elegant black jumpsuit, her green eyes sharp and commanding. The woman is, like, all of five two but she seems a hundred feet tall when she stares Mrs. Ferrera down like that. “Picking her up, actually. Ms. Westbrook's managed to snag a job at the mayor's office.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Ferrera says as Bristol helps Nevaeh to her feet and the two of them make a rapid escape while the getting's good. Before she climbs into her friend's car, Nevaeh turns and flips me off with both hands, making my fists curl at my sides. Jesus. How ridiculous. Until four weeks ago, I was a virgin. Like, a super virgin. I'd kissed a boy, but I hadn't done much else. I was the 'school slut' then, and I guess I'm the still the school slut now. At least at this point, I can say I lost my virginity to an outlaw.
My skin flushes red, and my heart starts to palpate. Lyric glances at me, but if she notices, she doesn't let on.
“I see,” Mrs. Ferrera continues, giving me this slow, judgmental once-over, taking in my black combat boots, my short skirt, my midriff top, with no small amount of distaste. I know what I look like and I don't care. My body, my business, my choice. “Well, fighting on campus is still an offense worthy of suspension.”
I go completely stiff, staring Mrs. Ferrera down with eyes the color of the sea, navy and frothing, waves crashing. If I could, I'd bring a tidal wave down over this woman's head. She's had it out for me since day one, all because her son almost died of an overdose when he was in tenth grade. Like my dad's club made him buy drugs. Like I did.
“I didn't start that fight,” I say, but I don't have to go any further, let my anger carry me out to sea. Lyric steps between us, her short hair fluttering in a breeze that smells like salt and sand, fresh off the ocean. Even from here, I can hear the waves. It might be late April, but spring is relative when you live this close to the ocean. There aren't exactly discernible seasons around here.
“Ms.—” Lyric starts and then waits for Mrs. Ferrera to fill her in.
“Nancy Ferrera,” the vice principal says, pulling her eyes away from my face, albeit reluctantly. It's like she wants to punish me for something today. Already she's pulled me aside in the hallway twice today and told me to change my skirt. I didn't because she told me I was distracting the boys, and you know what? Fuck them and fuck her. If they're such animals they can't do their work because my thigh is showing, then they can go to hell. I won't participate in gender oppression or slut shaming or any of that crap. I grew up in a motorcycle club. I've seen it all before and it's not okay.
“Listen, Ms. Ferrera—”
“Missus,” Nancy emphasizes, like we just have to know that she's married or the whole world will go to hell. Maybe she's just ecstatic that she was actually able to find a partner that would put up with her shit? “It's Mrs. Ferrera,” she continues, her smile so fake it could fall right off her face and look more natural. “And Mrs. McBride, I really would love to chat, but—”
“Miz,” Lyric emphasizes, and I feel my face burst into a brilliant grin, “it's Ms. Rentz. Or even Rentz-McBride if you want. Ms. Mayor is probably best though.”
Oh. Shots fired. Go Lyric.
Don't ask me how the president of my father's motorcycle club managed to snag the hand of the lady mayor because for the life of me, I have no clue. Of course, she wasn't exactly the mayor when he started dating her, just the mayor's daughter, but outlaw … politician. Those two things don't usually go hand in hand.
“Clearly,” Lyric continues before Mrs. Ferrera can get another word in, “Serenity didn't start this fight. I saw the whole thing from my car. Now, if you can't trust the word of the mayor, then who can you trust?” Lyric pauses for a moment, reaching in her purse and pulling out a pin. “Here. Take this and don't forget to vote for me in the next election.”
Lyric turns and gives me a small smile over her shoulder, as if the matter's already been dealt with and dismissed.
Whoa. Remind me, when I grow up, I want to be Lyric Rentz-McBride.
“Serenity, you've got your stuff?” she asks as I lean down and grab the strap on my messenger bag, hauling it over my shoulder and flashing a naughty little smile at Nancy that I just know I'm going to pay for later.
“That was bold,” I tell her as we walk toward the big red pickup truck sitting in the parking lot. Lyric used to have this sleek, black sedan, but the night my mom got shot, it was riddled with bullet holes. Honestly, I think I saw it sitting outside the club's auto body shop waiting for repair. “She's totally going to hate you now.”
�
�I'm used to people hating me,” Lyric says as she unlocks the doors to her husband's truck and flashes a small smile at me. “That's politics for you. You either learn to ignore it or you crumple under the pressure.”
“Good advice,” I say, swinging myself up into the cab and setting my bag on the seat between us. “Of course, being a politician sounds like one of the last things I'd ever want to do, but you have my mad respect.” I put a hand over my black midriff top and give Lyric another smile. “Thanks for what you just did, by the way. Mrs. Ferrera has it out for me. If you hadn't stepped in, I probably would've been suspended—again.”
“Why was that girl after you anyway?” she asks as she starts the truck with a roar, backing out of the nearly empty parking lot and heading right, towards the mayor's office.
I sigh and shove some strands of red and blonde hair over my shoulder.
“She thinks I slept with her boyfriend.”
Lyric's brows shoot up.
“Oh?”
I smile.
“I didn't,” I assure her, both hating and loving the fact that she knows my secret. She's the only one, the only person in the whole world that knows I had sex with Glacier. I want to bring it up, talk about it, yell about it maybe, but I don't. Some things are better left buried. If only. See, the thing about Glacier is that he didn't just take my virginity; he also took my heart. I want it back. Or I want him. I don't know. “I have a reputation at school,” I gesture loosely with my left hand, “because of the club.”
Lyric's face tightens and the corners of her mouth turn down.
“That's not right,” she says, and that's true. It's not right. But the world isn't right, and it is what it is. “Does this kind of thing happen a lot?”
“Every now and again,” I say as I lean against the window and examine the red polish on my nails. Even something as simple as that reminds me of Glacier, of his nails, painted black to hide the blood underneath. The other Wolves don't even tease him about it because they know why he does it and, truthfully, I think they're all scared of him.
But I'm not.
“Well, if you ever need someone to come in and talk to your teachers or anything …”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I can handle myself.” I've been doing it for years. It's not that Mom wouldn't come in, but it'd only make things worse. Nobody at the school wants to talk to one of the Wolves' old ladies. They'll only treat her like crap anyway, like a second class citizen or something. Yeah, personally, I couldn't imagine being a club wife myself, but she made that choice a long time ago and she loves the life. Or maybe she just loves my dad so much that it doesn't really matter?
“The offer stands if you change your mind,” Lyric says as she turns into the parking lot of her office, the ocean stretching across the horizon like a ribbon of navy blue, rocks jutting out against the gray sky. That's something about Trinidad that I've always hated, how gray everything is. It's always foggy or rainy or stormy. Sunshine is a rare commodity, even in summer.
Lyric parks the truck in a space marked just for her and turns to look at me with a gentle smile on her face. I already know what she's going to say, so I point to my messenger bag with a red nail.
“I brought a change of clothes,” I say and Lyric's smile gets a little more genuine.
“I'm not ragging on your outfit,” she tells me and I grin, “but … I'm already fighting a rising tide here, being married to an outlaw and all. If I have to make compromises somewhere, I guess dressing my new intern in slacks is a sacrifice we'll both have to make. Come on in and I'll show you where you can change. There's a bathroom downstairs with a shower in it, too, if you need it. My dad had it put in because so many of us were working overnight during election time.”
I nod and follow Lyric out of the truck, listening to the ocean crash against the cliffs to my left.
“How is your dad doing anyway?” I ask as she holds open one of the glass front doors for me. I don't miss the slight cringe when I mention the previous mayor. Well, technically I guess he still is the mayor? I don't know how this stuff works exactly, just that Lyric's dad got so screwed up he can't work anymore. Both his hands are broken, his jaw and cheekbone fractured. I know he had to have surgery because of some internal bleeding or something.
Lyric was the deputy mayor for the city and now, in his absence, she's acting mayor. Plus, she's running in the upcoming November election anyway and everybody knows she's a shoo-in to win. To this town, she's a bit of a local hero. And all of this—her dad's injuries, Lyric's heroism, my job in this office—it all comes back to the club. Just like always. In this life, the club is law, this all encompassing hand that holds us in its grasp.
I promised myself I'd never let myself get wrapped up in it. And yet … I can't stop thinking about Saint Nordin.
“He's … doing okay,” Lyric ventures, her face twisted and tight, like maybe this is a sore subject for her. “Obviously, he's not thrilled about having a son-in-law, but he's just going to have to learn to live with it.”
“Royal McBride, somebody's son-in-law. I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it for myself,” I say and Lyric laughs, taking me inside and past her sister's desk. Her older sister, Kailey Rentz, is the secretary here and the look she's throwing me, at least it doesn't seem like she hates my outfit.
“Hey there,” she chirps as we swing past and Lyric shows me to a heavy wood door with a fancy plaque on the front that says Toilets, like we're as British as Royal McBride over here.
“Why don't you change and meet me upstairs? I'll introduce you to everyone and show you where to get started. I think you're gonna like it here,” Lyric says and her unspoken words hang heavy in the air. Better than the club. You're gonna like it better than the club.
And I know then that she's trying to save me from myself.
I can't help but wonder if it's already too late.
“Just fucking kill me!”
That's what Miguel Saldaña says to me when I step into the basement room where he's being held. I haven't even touched him yet and he's begging for death. This is going to be a short night. Royal wants me to press the man? Well, I will, but he's not going to talk. I have a feeling he doesn't know half as much as our president might think.
I grab the extra chair in the room, spin it around and sit with my front to its back, crossing my arms and resting my chin against the tattoos. Each one is like a shield, a piece of armor to block out the world. I keep thinking I need more, more, more, but they don't do anything except advertise what I am. I've been told that I'm pretty, that my blonde hair is soft and my mouth full, my eyes blue as a summer sky. But someone like me? I shouldn't attract attention; I should repel it.
I chew on my snakebite piercings for a moment, spinning the silver rings on either side of my lip with my tongue.
“Miguel,” I start and he screams again, dried blood tracing the side of his rugged face from yesterday's session. “I'm gonna need you to calm down a little.”
He doesn't listen, screaming and thrashing against his bonds as I tilt my head to the side and study him carefully. Should I feel sorry for the man? Fuck. I don't think so. Not even my brothers seem to care about the scum we drag down to this basement—and this room, it's reserved for guys like this. Murderer. Drug dealer. Sex trafficker. Those are just a few of Miguel's illustrious titles. His crimes, well, they probably outnumber my own.
Oh, wait.
No, they don't.
“Am I supposed to care that you're screaming?” I ask him, my voice cold and empty but sharp, like ice. I try my best to keep this side of myself hidden from my brothers, but every once in a while … it comes out. “Am I supposed to give a shit? That police chief from down south, did he scream for his life before you cut his head off?”
Miguel ignores me, his voice echoing off the cool cement walls around us. Maybe if I let him go long enough, he'll tire himself out?
“I don't mean to be clichéd or anything,” I say as I stand up and Miguel goes deadly
silent all of a sudden, “but down here, no one can hear you scream.”
“Go to hell, pendejo,” he spits at me, followed by a few more, choice lines in Spanish.
“Hell,” I muse as I look down at the man in front of me, one of the last few living members of the Saldaña Cartel, a drug running, sex trafficking, territory poaching bunch of fuckups. They came up here on a highway known as the 101, hit our quiet Northern California town with everything they had … and they lost.
Because that's what happens when you mess with the club.
“Miguel,” I say, and the edge of my voice is so sharp it cuts. The man actually flinches as I lean down and look into his dark eyes. There's nothing there but burning rage and hatred. The world … it won't miss a man like this. “I'm going to kill you tonight unless you tell me what I need to know. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”
“Eat shit.”
He tries to spit at me, but I've been here, done this before and I manage to move out of the way, rising to my full height as I head over to the three tables behind his chair, set in a U-shape against three of the walls. Miguel can't see what I'm doing, can only hear me as I examine the tools of my craft and make a decision, hefting a hammer into my hands and curling my fingers around it.
Miguel starts to scream again.
This really is going to be a short night.
“Are you bloody serious right now?”
The president of the Alpha Wolves MC is staring at me with a tight frown creasing his mouth. I barely acknowledge him when I lift my head and let a sideways smirk roll across my lips. It doesn't mean anything, but it goes with the persona I've picked for myself. It's something the guy I wish I was would do, smile like that.
“Maybe if you spoke American, I'd understand you. It's the only language I'm fluent in.”
“Jesus Christ, Saint,” Royal McBride growls, shaking his head and giving me a look that says he's not impressed with my jokes. Too bad for him. It's his fault for being British, isn't it? This, making fun of the president, I almost actually enjoy doing it. Almost. “This isn't a goddamn game.”
