by Ryan Michele
“Go the fuck away.”
I kick his thigh hard with the toe of my boot, peering down at him though my shades. The disrespectful little shit knows better than to talk to anyone here like that. His line is getting thinner by the moment.
“Watch how you talk. Don’t make me pound your ass on your birthday.”
He shakes his head and looks at his hands on the table, saying nothing. He’s smart; that’s not his problem. It’s his maturity that’s lacking.
Being a brother in Ravage is something you must have a clear head about. It’s not just parties and rides. This is a business, as well. We have to trust each other and have each other’s back at any cost. Deke doesn’t have that reliability yet. Maybe in a couple of years, he’ll find it … or not.
“Deke! Come on, let’s go do something,” my brother, Nox, says from over by the fire pit, making his way to us.
Nox, short for Lennox, is fourteen-years-old, along with his twin sister, Austyn. He has the makings to be in the club, but he’s got some years to go before that’s even an option.
“What?” Deke barks a bit too hard for my liking, but I sit this out and wait. One thing I learned while being with the club is patience … for the most part. Some things trip my trigger, but I can keep myself in check. Fighting my kid brother’s battles when he’s more than capable of it isn’t a reason for me to go off cold-cocked.
Nox and Deke were pretty close growing up. They both got in hot water for different shit they pulled. Stupid kid things that really are a rite of passage. I admit, though, when they got together and stole a car, then spray-painted it with hot pink lettering, that was over the line, being that it was the school’s principal’s car. My parents and Deke’s parents, GT and Angel, blew up all over both their asses. Nox and Deke were on bathroom duty in the clubhouse for four months. That’s a job no one here wants, not ever.
“Let’s go to the lake or something,” Nox says with hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want to go to the damn lake. I’m going to hang out with my friends after I leave here.”
“Can I come?”
“Hell no. You’re fourteen.”
Nox’s shoulders slump just a touch, then rise quickly. One thing I have to say about my little brother is, he may be fourteen, but he holds his own.
“What? Now that you’re sixteen, you’re too good for me?” he charges back, and I try to hold back a smirk.
“Damn right.” Deke looks at me then back at Nox.
Thinking back, I did the same thing. Once I had the freedom of my own car, Deke and I didn’t hang out like we did before. Maybe that’s where his animosity comes from.
“Don’t be a dickhead,” Nox retaliates. “Just because you didn’t—”
Deke jumps to his feet and punches my brother in the face, knocking him to the ground.
I rise from the picnic table as Deke looms over him, pointing his finger in my brother’s face. “You need to keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Nox rises and wipes the blood from his lip, spitting it on the ground. With fiery anger burning in his eyes, he gives Deke a savage kick to the gut, then a punch to the face. Then Nox says in a low threatening voice, now pointing his finger at Deke, “Remember who you’re dealing with. I may be fourteen, but you putting your hands on me isn’t going to happen.”
Deke rises to his feet as brothers, their ol’ ladies, and the children begin to come over to see what the fuss is about.
I hold up one hand and get chin lifts in response. These two need to work their shit out, and it’s not to a point yet for anyone to step in.
“Screw you!” Deke says, lifting his fist as Nox backs up just out of reach, and Deke loses his footing.
Nox doesn’t attempt to hit him back. Instead, he stands there, watching and waiting. That right there, that simple thing, is why I respect my little brother. He has skill and tact, even at his age. It also shows where Deke is lacking. Sometimes patience will win the war. Deke’s half-cocked and ready to pounce rather than wait his opponent out. That, right there, will get you killed.
“What the fuck is going on here?” My mother comes up behind some of the guys and eyeballs the action just as Deke tries and fails to land another punch. “Told you, you should have practiced more, Deke. You forget; I taught my kids everything they know.”
Shocking the shit out of me, she doesn’t intervene. My mother is notorious for finishing fights, even if she didn’t start them, just for the pure fun of it. She’s something. I’m still trying to figure out what that is. Only thing I do know is she’s a kickass mother who loves her kids hard and has high expectations for us. Not to mention, she lets them be voiced as much as possible.
Nox again does nothing, simply stands alert and ready. “Why do you have to be such a dick?” he asks.
Deke looks around at the crowd, then charges my brother, knocking him to the ground. Fists fly, grunts echo, and blood appears on their skin. Everyone watches. I have no doubt someone is going to jump in there pretty soon.
This teenage quarrel is just a day in the life of one of our family gatherings. Most of the time, it doesn’t get this far, but Deke now has something to prove with Nox’s little throw down. He wants his cut and doesn’t want to be seen as a pussy in front of the guys. This is what happens when you raise a group of strong-willed kids together. There are bound to be disputes.
Each of the two take hits as I see my father and GT stand off to the side, arms crossed as they watch the chaos.
My brother somehow maneuvers Deke to his stomach with him on top. Deke’s arm is extended as Nox holds it down. Deke tries to get free, but my brother holds his own. They’re a pretty even body match, even with the two-year age difference.
“Alright, enough,” my father calls out in that tone that makes everyone around him listen and take notice.
My dad has been with Ravage for years. He met my mother here when she got out of prison. My mom is club through and through, and if that means she had to do time for some shit she wasn’t even guilty of for the club, she would do it again. It’s a long story for a later time.
Nox looks up at our father, nods once, and stands up, moving away from Deke. Deke spits out curse words, no doubt feeling like an ass as he stands up.
Just as he’s about to charge again, he halts at his mother’s voice.
“Deacon Alexander Gavelson!” Angel yells, marching through the grass. GT gives a slight chuckle. “What the hell?”
Deke’s eyes are on my brother, nostrils flaring, the animosity still burning bright. This is definitely not over.
“We’re going home,” Angel announces, walking up to Deke and grabbing his arm. He rips it out of her grasp, and she gives off a gasp as she steps back from the force.
When GT comes up, Deke’s face remains pensive, but the small twitch in his left eye tells me he’s scared shitless. He should be. GT’s a fierce motherfucker, and he sure as hell won’t let anyone disrespect his woman, especially not his own kids.
“Show’s over,” GT tells the crowd then marches Deke to the car they just bought him for his birthday that I doubt very highly he’ll be driving anytime soon.
GT shoves Deke in the passenger seat, slams the door, gets in the driver’s seat, and speeds off.
“Well, hell, that can’t be good. Nox, come with me,” my mother says.
Nox looks at our father, who lifts his chin, and then follows Mom into the clubhouse.
“Never a dull moment.” Ryker clasps me on the shoulder, laughing, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
He patched in with Ravage a couple of years before I did, and we got pretty tight since I joined officially three, almost four, years ago.
“Such is life.” Giving a shrug, I turn toward him. “What’s the plan?”
He inhales then blows out the smoke. “I don’t give a shit. One of the brunettes wants me to meet up with her later, but the bitch is getting too needy, and I need to cut her off.” He’s referring to one of the club mommas who h
angs around. Their names all seem to intermingle after a while. Sex with them is release, plain and simple. There’s no emotional attachment, no relationships, or any of that.
Don’t get me wrong, I respect them, but I have yet to find one who I want to change that outlook for. I’m not looking for anything more than to get off. As soon as one of them thinks there’ll be more, she’s out.
“I’m ridin’ for a while.”
Ryker crosses his arms, tattoos splaying. He gets closer then opens his mouth, baring his teeth while moving his head back and forth.
I step back. “What the fuck are you doin’?”
He chuckles. “Checkin’ my teeth. Those mirrored shades you wear are perfect for it.”
“Asshole. You just wish you could pull this shit off.”
“Nah, I’m hot enough.”
I laugh. Ryker is definitely comic relief.
“Coop?” I hear my sister call as she walks up to us. Her eyes are on Ryker, though, and not me.
Austyn’s had a thing for Ryker for years now, and I wish she’d get the hell over it. He’s about nine or ten years older than her, so it’s not happening. Hell, even if they were close in age, it still wouldn’t happen. I love Ryker, but that shit’s not cool with me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
She sweeps her long, dark hair behind her ear, her big blue eyes coming to me. I fully admit she’s pretty, and I’ve seen more than one guy stop and pay her attention, but no fucking way.
“Dad wants to see you,” she tells me before glancing back over at Ryker.
“Hey, little one.” He ruffles her hair.
Her fists clench and shoulders tense. “Hey,” she growls before stomping off, running her hand through her hair.
I just shake my head and move into the clubhouse. Either Ryker is blind or is damn good at ignoring it. Either way, I’m good with the way he’s playing it.
When darkness fills my vision, I remove my sunglasses, hanging them on the front of my shirt.
My mom sits next to Nox, and I hear, “Make sure to bend the wrist back,” as I walk by. Only our mother would teach better maneuvers after a fight while she’s patching up a bloody lip and chin.
My dad sits at the bar, beer in hand as I walk up to him. “What’s up?” I sidle up on the barstool next to him. Riley, who’s prospecting, hands me a beer, and I take a heavy pull.
“Your mom and I are going away this weekend. Need you to watch over the twins.”
The bottle stills on its way to my lips. “You’re shitting me.” His raised brow tells me he’s not. I love the little shits, but that doesn’t mean I want to babysit them. “They’re fourteen; can’t you just leave them home alone?”
“Only need you Sunday morning until we get back. Ma’s going to stay over at the house Friday night, Saturday during the day, and Saturday night. Need you to take over when she leaves.”
“Again, can’t you leave them home alone?”
He turns his whole body toward me. “No, I can’t fuckin’ leave them home alone.” Dad just went into the danger zone with his words. I know I need to back up a bit. I don’t want to, but that’s what family does.
“Fine. What time do I need to be there?”
“Nine”—his eyes don’t leave mine—“in the fuckin’ morning. I don’t give a shit if you don’t sleep Saturday night; your ass better be in my house Sunday at nine.”
Great. Just fucking great.
Chapter Three
Frustration hits me in the gut as my eyes sweep all the figures on the spreadsheet then to the little adding machine, pulling out the roll of paper and looking at them again. The numbers aren’t adding up. I did them four damn times and got four different answers.
“Bristyl, what’s goin’ on?” my father, Regg, asks from the doorway of the office.
I rub my hands over my face, letting out a groan. He’s stoic like he often is. My father is a rock of solid strength for me, for my brothers, and for his motorcycle club, Sinister Sons.
“Same old shit. Trying to get everything to iron out.” Even keeping the laundromats and storage units separate, sometimes people write out of the wrong checkbook, and I have to figure it out.
The “people” I’m referring to are my brothers. I have three older ones who are a pain in my ass. Literally. They do this all the fucking time, along with not giving me their receipts. I’m over it. A woman can only take so much.
“Who did what?” he asks, taking a seat in front of my desk.
“Hunter wrote a check for the new water heater out of the unit account. Then Racer wrote one for gravel out of the laundromat account. Each of them are wrong. Not to mention, they didn’t put the prices they paid, and I had to call the bank to get them. Then I had to talk to the bank again because I didn’t get receipts for some things and needed to know what went where so I could get everything to balance.”
“But everything’s straight?” he questions with a crinkle of his forehead.
My dad is a handsome man. I’m biased, of course, but I don’t give a shit. He’s a hunk, meaning he’s bulky as hell. When he wraps his thick, tattooed arms around me, I feel so damn little inside them. His hair is silver, along with his mustache that runs above his lip, down both sides of his mouth, and down to below his chin. He’s had this look for as long as I can remember. It’s all him, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, even if he’s been a little off lately. I just haven’t figured out why.
“I really wish you’d impose the rule that they have to get the checks from me, or at least give me a receipt when they’re done.”
He says nothing, just stares at me, waiting for an answer to his question.
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Yes, everything’ll be fine. I just need to work this out.”
He rises from his chair. “We’ll work it out.” That’s what he always says. Then, when it’s time for me to do the books, I have a clusterfuck because my brothers can’t keep their shit together. It’s a never-ending vicious cycle, and I’m getting tired of it.
My dad turns and walks out of the small space. The logo on the back of his cut says it all. Sinister Sons MC. That’s what we are. Who we are. Well, what my family is. Me, not so much. My dad is the vice president of the club and overlooks all the outside sources of income, such as the garage, laundromats, and storage units. This means he watches over me because I do the books for two of those. Daily. Sometimes hourly.
I love him, I do, but ever since my mother died, he’s been almost impossible. Sadly, my brothers are worse.
Six years ago, when I was sixteen, my mother passed away from an aneurism. It was a total sudden shock. She was my best friend. I know that’s probably weird and all, but she was. We could talk about anything together, and she always had the best advice. She even schooled me in the art of dealing with a big house of bikers.
It’s a different lifestyle we live in. My place here is to listen and do as I’m told. Not in a way that belittles me, but in a way that I respect the men in my life and their positions. Outsiders don’t understand. My mother did, though, and she taught me all she knew. Only, she’s gone now, and sometimes, it’s really hard to bite my tongue. When you work with family, lines get crossed more often than not.
Life without my mother hasn’t been easy, but we push through. Her spirit is everywhere, and that’s what I hold on to. Me and my brothers, we’ll get through. Somehow, we always do. Each day the void is still there, but we keep pushing.
Pulling out my round lip balm, I smear it on my lips. A man must’ve created this just wanting to see a bunch of women put their lips around something. Every time I apply it, it looks like I’m giving head. A chuckle escapes me as I twist the cap on and toss it into the desk drawer.
The damn books on the desk mock me. I’m going to let my brothers hear it. How damn hard is it to bring me a receipt?
Three hours later, my music is turned up and I’m on my last bit. After getting off the phone with two banks, it’s finally straight. I just have t
o crunch a couple more numbers, and then I’m golden.
“What the fuck is this shit?” my youngest brother, Hunter, stalks into my office, snags my phone off the speaker dock, and turns off the music.
“I was listening to that.” I make a grab for my phone and snatch it back, only because his hands are full of papers. Most of the time, he’s quicker and just has to hold it over his head since he’s tall.
“That’s shit music.” He’s always thought my music choice is stupid, but I don’t care. If I want to listen to pop, rock, and rap, so be it. Whatever mood hits me is what I listen to. Hell, my tastes change moment to moment.
Huffing out a breath, I ask, “What do you need?”
The stack of papers he has in his hand comes fluttering down on my desk, scattering all over the books and my notes like leaves falling from the trees; some even falling to the floor.
“What the fuck?” As I rise from my chair, I notice they are receipts, and while I’m happy he gave me the damn things, he just tossed them on top of everything, making another mess that I have to clean up.
I lose my temper and my tone, but a woman can only take so much.
“Watch yourself, Bristyl the pistol. Noogie time.”
Jetting my hand out on my hip and cocking my foot, I call this the brother-kiss-my-ass stance. “Hunter, don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.” He makes a move to come around the desk, but I don’t move. If he’s going to act like a goofball, it’s best to just let him do it and get over with.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to him and not rubbing the hell out of my hair.
“What’s wrong? I know we fucked up the receipts, but you’ve been acting weird.”
An audible sigh leaves my lips. No way I’m talking to him or anyone about this shit. Instantly, though, I calm and feel bad for my attitude, wishing they would listen to me so my job would be easier.
“Period.”
His arm leaves my body like a snake is about to bite him, and he jumps back. It’s funny, so I laugh. One thing is for certain, living with men has taught me that one mention of the time of the month has them backing the hell off. Hunter even brought me chocolates one time, and truthfully, I was just feeling off. It had nothing to do with the cramps. Now, it’s just everything—
