by Zoey Parker
Gigi wasn’t my only student, though, and the rest of them needed my help. I turned my attention to a couple who were getting in an argument and told myself to think about Gigi after the bell rang. I needed some answers.
When the bell finally rang and I led two dozen excited seven-year-olds outside and I took a deep breath. It was chilly outside. I wondered if Gigi was warm wherever she was.
Linda, the other second-grade teacher, approached me. “No Gigi today either.”
I frowned, watching the kids run off to their parents, babysitters, school buses. “No. That’s a full week.”
“Has she ever been out so long before?”
“No.” I wrapped my sweater tighter around my waist.
“There was that nasty stomach bug going around,” Linda reasoned. “It might have been that.”
“For an entire week? Without a phone call, no less? I don’t think so.” I put a hand on Linda’s arm. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better.” She knew how special Gigi was to me. Every teacher had that one student, the kid who stood out for one reason or another. It wasn’t that Gigi was the most vocal, the showiest with her smarts. But she was easily the smartest in the class. She was also the sweetest, always concerned for the other kids. When she picked up a math problem somebody else didn’t understand, she would help them with it. She wouldn’t make the other kids feel bad for lagging behind her lightning-fast brain.
For all that, she had a quiet sadness. She reminded me sometimes of a broken puppy, one who had been kicked one too many times. Not that I ever saw bruises on her. It was more a haunted quality about her eyes that touched my heart. She had a quiet, gentle way about her, and a wisdom far beyond her years. No kid should have been as wise to the world as she was, poor thing.
“So, what are you going to do about it?” Linda walked with me back into the school.
“What makes you think I’m going to do anything at all?”
She laughed. “I’ve met you, that’s what makes me think it. Come on. This is me you’re talking to. I know how much you love that little girl. And I know you would go out of your way for any one of your students. So what’s the plan?” She sat on the edge of my desk while I cleaned up my classroom.
“I can’t say that I have an actual plan,” I admitted. “I was hoping to find out something about her whereabouts. I want to call the hospitals, the police if I have to. I’m hoping somebody will have an answer for me, because I’m just about going out of my mind with worry for her.”
“Do you think it’s really that bad?” Linda asked.
“You know as well as I do that her mother’s a drug addict. It’s not a secret.” I flipped my long blonde ponytail from one shoulder to the other as I bent to gather toys. “So if I jump to the wrong conclusions, I don’t think it’s unwarranted.”
“I never said it wasn’t. I’m wondering if you’re not getting a little too involved is all.”
I stood, scowling. “Now you sound like Vickie.” Our principal warned me all the time about my closeness with Gigi, but I couldn’t help it. I went to her office to recommend we intervene on several occasions—whenever it seemed as though Gigi was looking a little thin, or was underdressed for the weather, for instance. One day she came in wearing nothing but a t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers in an inch of snow. Poor thing couldn’t reach the winter clothes packed away at the top of her closet. When I asked her why she didn’t even wear a coat, she told me she couldn’t get her mommy to wake up. I drew my own conclusions. The poor thing had dressed herself, then walked six blocks in a snowstorm.
That afternoon, I took her out for a new coat and winter clothes. The following day, I received a reprimand—not because Rae had complained about her baby not coming home right after school, but because Vickie had seen me load Gigi into my car. The whole thing made no sense to me whatsoever. Why shouldn’t I do everything I could to help her? Her own mother didn’t care. I could see if the other kids in the class were also underprivileged and I ignored their plight, but that wasn’t the case. They were all well-dressed, well-fed, well-loved. Gigi was the only one who needed the sort of help I wanted desperately to provide. I couldn’t do it if Vickie kept hamstringing me the way she did.
“Please don’t say anything to her about this.” I nodded in the direction of the front office.
“Cross my heart.” Linda made an X over her chest.
“Thank you.” I grinned, then got my things together.
“Did you try calling her home?” Linda asked as an afterthought as I locked up my room.
“Of course. Every day. I never get an answer.”
Linda frowned, deep in thought. “Did you ever think that maybe, well, they moved away? She might have packed up, taken the girl and left for one reason or another. She might be on the run from the law or something.”
“God, I hope not.” I didn’t even like considering it.
“Why not? It might work out for both of them. Might be just the thing Rae needs. She might have family somewhere, and they might be able to help her care for Gigi.”
“Maybe.” I chewed my bottom lip, thinking about it as we walked out to the parking lot together. I couldn’t deny I didn’t want that to be the case. I didn’t want Gigi to be gone. I would miss the poor thing. I’d been caring for her for months, ever since she first walked into my classroom and I’d noticed the sad, ancient look in her eyes.
“There’s nothing you can do about it if that’s the case,” Linda reminded me. I knew she was only trying to help me. She was trying to warn me away from getting too close, from having my heart broken. Any teacher who’s ever really given a damn about their kids knew how it felt to get too close to the one or two who needed special attention.
“I have to try to find out. I’m going to check at her house first. I’ve been calling, but I never dropped by.” Not because I didn’t care, of course, but because I hated the idea of going there. It was a terrible neighborhood, though it was only six blocks from the school, and the run-down condition of the house only reminded me how bad Gigi had it. I hated the reminder when there was nothing I could do for her.
Rae was trying to find work. I reminded myself of this as I got in the car. She was always looking for a job, it seemed. Four times during the school year, Gigi had come in with a big smile to tell me her mommy found a job. All four times she lost the job for missing a string of days. She never seemed to keep a job for more than a few weeks. Then it would be the same thing all over again—welfare money spent on booze. She stayed away from drugs—she’d told me that much herself, during our first parent-teacher conference. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was a recovering addict. She didn’t touch heroin anymore, or any other drug. She did, however, drink. One crutch for another.
But she was trying. I told myself that again and again. She was trying. It couldn’t be easy trying to fight an addiction with a little girl. She couldn’t exactly go away to rehab when there was a seven-year-old to worry about. Still, I’d think Gigi would be reason enough to do whatever it took. Again, I had never been in her shoes. I could only guess at how it felt.
I pulled up in front of the tiny house with a shudder. The vinyl siding was peeling. One of the shutters on the front windows was crooked. The screen in one window had been slit—somebody might have tried to break in, maybe to steal drugs from Rae. Who knew? The front lawn was pockmarked with brown patches. It was pretty pathetic.
There weren’t even any toys in the yard. Other kids had swing sets, a bike, that sort of thing. Gigi didn’t have anything like that. I’d thought of buying them for her, but knew word would eventually get back to Vickie. Somehow, it always did.
There was no car in the driveway, but that wasn’t a surprise. Rae didn’t own one. I walked up the cracked, broken driveway and went to the front door. There were no lights inside, no TV. I pressed my ear to the door. No sound coming from inside either. I held my breath, straining to hear even the littlest thing.
One of the wind
ows had several broken slats in the blinds, so I cupped my hands around my eyes in order to get a better look inside. Darkness. My heart sank. Maybe Linda had the right idea when she guessed that Rae took Gigi away. The house looked deserted. Then again, from my memories of the place, it never looked exactly furnished.
I looked around the street. Most of the houses were pretty depressed looking, but none as bad as Rae and Gigi’s. Two of the houses had cars outside, so I went to the closest house to see if I could find out anything. It was better than doing nothing.
I got an answer after a minute or two. “Yeah?” The woman standing in the doorway wore a housedress, curlers in her hair and slippers. There was some overwrought soap opera playing on the TV just beyond the door. I didn’t know there were any soaps still on TV.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile. I didn’t want to come off condescending or panicky. “I’m Gigi’s teacher.” I pointed to the little house three doors down.
“Oh, Rae’s kid?”
“That’s right. She hasn’t been to school all week, and I was pretty worried about her. I wondered if you knew anything about her. Is she sick?”
“Oh, Rae didn’t tell you anything?”
“No, not at all.”
She smirked. “Not surprised, knowing her.”
“Where are they?”
“Rae dropped her off with her daddy earlier this week.”
“Her father? I never heard anything about her father.”
“That’s not a surprise either, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering who he is.” She was so cryptic, so withholding, I thought I might scream.
“And who would that be?”
“He’s the leader of one of them whaddya call ’em, those motorcycle clubs.”
My blood ran cold. “Gigi’s father is in a motorcycle club?”
“Yup. I don’t think they exactly have what you’d call a relationship.” She shrugged. “But Rae said something about her little girl needing to know her daddy, and Rae didn’t look too happy when she said it. A little shaky, even. She was always getting into trouble, though. You know that, I bet.”
“Yeah, I know that.” I shuddered a little. A motorcycle club? That precious little girl? What the hell had Rae been thinking?
“Do you know which club he’s the head of? Gigi’s father?”
“Oh yeah. She said the name. Oh, what was it.” The woman looked up at the sky, thinking. “Somethin’ about a storm. What was it…oh! Fury’s Storm. That was it. I remember, it made me think of my stories.” She jerked her head in the direction of the TV.
“I won’t take you away from them anymore,” I said, thanking her for the information before hurrying back to my car.
A club? Fury’s Storm? Who in their right mind would leave a little girl in a motorcycle club? Had Rae gotten herself into trouble somehow? Was she on the run? It was literally the only excuse I could think of that even came close to making sense. Otherwise it sounded like a clear-cut case of neglect.
I looked up the club on my phone, hoping I could find some information on them. Where were they located? What was the name of the leader? Who was I looking for? It wouldn’t do to show up at their headquarters—if I managed to find it—without a name to reference. I had to show authority if I was going to convince him to give up his child to me. I didn’t know the first thing about those motorcycle people, but I had the impression from hearsay that they were very proud, very secretive. I didn’t want to upset anything, didn’t want them to close ranks and shut me out. Gigi’s life was in the balance.
Strangely enough, when I googled the name, an address to their headquarters came right up. I thought that was hilarious, but then again, maybe there was no reason for them to be secretive. Why hide who they were? I thought that was a good sign, that sort of transparency. It boded well.
Still, it was no environment for a little girl. My blood boiled when I thought about Rae leaving her child there. I turned on the engine and headed straight for the address in my GPS. I had my sights set on the club’s leader: Lance Richmond.
Chapter Two
Lance
When I woke up on Monday morning, I was still hung over from Saturday night. And I didn’t know the chick in bed beside me.
I rubbed my eyes, taking a chance on sitting up quickly before my head fell off. I held it in my hands, feeling it throb. I hardly remembered there being a Sunday, but I did remember hooking up with whatshername, the woman in bed. She didn’t come home with me on Saturday night. Saturday’s hookup had been a redhead. This one was a blonde.
My stomach felt like somebody had poured acid into it. I was getting too old to party the way I did, and I knew it. Still I did it because it was all I knew how to do. There were times when I would go all week long, drinking and screwing every night, hardly getting any sleep. Riding my bike, playing cards with my buddies, going to the bar or the strip club. Just an entire week of that, night after night, one day bleeding into the next day. I’d never feel the effect, ever.
Once I hit the big three-oh, everything seemed to change. I couldn’t hang the way I used to. Plus, I inherited an MC.
“Inherited” wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t passed down by blood or anything. But it was handed over to me just like I was the heir, anyway. It was expected. When Rico stepped down, I would take his place. He groomed me for five years—nothing could prepare me, though. No teaching in the world could get me ready for what I needed to do. I had dozens of men depending on me to make the right decisions, to lead them in the right direction. It would be enough to stress the hell out of anybody. Some nights, I even lost sleep. So if I wanted to party, getting a little drunk, have some fun…who could blame me?
I heard groaning from the other side of the bed, and I froze. I didn’t want to wake her up. I wondered if I could get away with lying back down, pretending to be asleep. That was how much I wanted to avoid having to talk to her. I didn’t even know her name or remember what she looked like. She was on her stomach, face turned away from me. She didn’t move, so I guessed she was only having a bad dream or something. Good. Let her stay there until I’m ready to leave for the day.
I felt shitty for event thinking it, but I couldn’t help myself. It was bad enough having to talk to a woman the day after screwing her, but when it was a stranger, there was nothing worse. It was awkward, uncomfortable, clumsy. I wasn’t the best at conversation even on a good day. No way I could get along without making an ass of myself. Better to get showered and dressed, and let her know I was leaving for the day. It was easier than kicking her out and looking like a douche for it. I didn’t wanna be the bad guy.
That was one thing about me my friends never understood. I was all about having fun with women, doing what I wanted with them, whatever. I couldn’t see the point in hurting them, too. Why make a woman feel like a whore just because she fucked you and you don’t feel like hanging out with her? The worst part was, I saw those same women hanging around the clubhouse all the time, wanting to get back into bed with the same assholes who hurt their feelings. It didn’t make any sense to me.
I winced when the water hit my head—that was how much pain I was in, that even the shower hurt. I needed to stop drinking so damn much. Even so, when I found a half-drank beer sitting on the bathroom sink, I picked it up and drained it. The hair of a dog and all that. By the time I finished washing up, I felt a little better. The beer probably helped that.
I went to the bedroom again—the girl was still asleep, which was fine with me—and dried off, then pulled on a set of clean clothes. T-shirt, jeans, socks and work boots. My leather kutte with the patch from my club on the back, the President patch sewn on the front, over my heart.
When I was finished dressing and the blonde still wasn’t awake, I cleared my throat. It was getting ridiculous, her sleeping. I needed to get the hell outta there—I was running late enough. I didn’t wanna be an asshole, but she w
as making it tough for me not to.
“Hey. Hey, are you okay?” I nudged her as gently as I could, wondering if she was even still alive. She was, and she moved a little.
“Hmm?” She opened one eye, smudged makeup all around it.
“I asked if you were okay. Are you?”
“I think?” Her voice was thick with sleep.
“I’ve gotta go. I have to get to the clubhouse. Do you, uh, need a ride somewhere?”
She blinked once, twice. She didn’t understand what I was trying to say. Why did she have to make it so damned hard?
“I’m gonna need you to leave,” I finally said. “I have to get to work.”
Her face changed. I pissed her off. Of course I did.
“You’re kicking me out?”
