by Jc Emery
Dad stops at the top of the staircase, peering down, and muttering to himself. “Fuck!” He kicks at the topmost spindle, which makes a cracking sound but remains intact. As his body pivots around, he finds us watching him. I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. He’s so damn pissy over Holly inviting herself to a club party—something I didn’t think she was even allowed to do—that he can barely breathe. His face is beet red, and his hands are clenched at his sides. “You could have decided to come earlier, ya know!” he shouts down the stairs. His eyes slide over to me. “What are you two looking at?”
Tracie’s eyes slide from side to side as she focuses elsewhere. I think I would, too, if I were her. But this is my dad, and if he thinks snapping at me can scare me, he’s so freaking wrong. It’d be like he doesn’t even know me.
“You’re in love,” I say. It doesn’t come out as teasing as I intend for it to. Instead, I sound almost surprised and amazed.
“What tipped you off?” he says with more snark than Tracie and I combined. Yeah, I’d never shoot him, but it’s a tempting thought.
“I’m perceptive,” I say, “like my dad.”
Slowly, his breathing regulates, and he grunts in irritation. Thank God. I hate to fight with him over such little shit. We get into it enough over everything else—attitudes, messy rooms, disrespect. Everything.
“You did good,” I say with a nod. “Letting her go. The old Dad wouldn’t have let her. You’d have just dealt with the breakup like you didn’t care.”
“Since when do you give me relationship advice?” Okay, so maybe he’s not changed that much. He’s still bitchy when he feels like he’s being judged.
“Just because you never brought women home doesn’t mean I didn’t notice every time you had to change your phone number.” My comment goes too far. The redness in his face comes back in a flash, and he’s breathing heavy again. I decide to change tactics because this isn’t working out the way I wanted it to. I was trying to be nice. Over the years, he’s alternated between regular hookups like he had with Elle and random chicks at the clubhouse—and the Lost Girls, of course—and when one of his regulars would get too attached and wouldn’t get the hint that he was done with her, he’d change his number. The only woman he never had to change his number with was Elle, which is why I thought something might become more permanent between the two of them.
“I love her, Dad,” I say gently. I wouldn’t dare warn him not to break her heart, because no matter how much shit he lets me get away with, that’s one thing he doesn’t take lightly. Not even I can threaten him and get away with it, which is why it’s a damn good thing he can’t read my mind. Like a bipolar grizzly bear, he calms down again. It’s a solid minute before he nods his head once and then leaves the room for the garage.
“Is he really that mad?” Tracie asks when he’s out of earshot.
“Nah,” I say. “He’s not used to having to check in with a woman. Grandma says he doesn’t like the loss of independence even if he’s happy with Holly. He’s probably going to enjoy himself more with Holly there. He won’t be wondering if he’s going to get busted for looking at some naked woman if it gets back to her.”
“Makes sense,” Tracie says.
We head into the kitchen, where we heat up some hot cocoa, and then to the kitchen table. I place my gun on the table, and we sit down. It’s early yet—we have another hour or so before the clock rings us into the new year. I try to block out what happens at club parties, not just because my dad will be in attendance, but also because someone new is going to be there this time—Jeremy. Even worse, it’s not just a New Year’s party at the clubhouse—which always gets really crazy anyway—it’s also for Jeremy’s eighteenth birthday. They’re bound to do something special for him.
Everybody’s going to be there, even Nic. She and the old ladies with small kids will be in the chapel where they can hang out in safety and without being surrounded by smoke and drugs and the Lost Girls. It’s too dangerous for the old ladies and the kids to stay home. Dad’s only letting me and Tracie stay home because he doesn’t trust me to behave at the clubhouse. The deal was that I keep my gun on me at all times and Holly and Grandma stay here with us. But I guess we’re down to Grandma now that Holly’s invited herself. Can’t say Dad doesn’t have reason not to want me there. No way in hell would I stay in the chapel. This house is like Fort Knox anyway. He’s not only got alarms on all the ground-level doors and windows, but he has a tracking service that tells him every time a door is opened or closed as well. He never checks that, though, so I guess it’s more of a deterrent to keep me where he wants me—not that it works so well. I live by Aunt Ruby’s motto—it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Just as we’re finishing off our cocoa, Dad and Holly walk into the room hand in hand. Holly’s wearing knee-high black boots with skinny jeans tucked into them and a sexy but modest flowing black blouse. She has large hoop earrings, and her hair is teased. She looks awesome for how quickly she got ready. Her makeup is mostly light, but her mascara is thick. She wears the look well.
“You look great,” Tracie says with a smile on her face.
“Thanks.” Holly flashes us each a big beautiful grin. “I don’t know what happened, but these clothes were already laid out when I went downstairs.”
“Right, then why did it take so damn long for you to get ready?” he asks. Dad hates to wait on anybody, especially women when they’re getting ready. “Longest damn five minutes I’ve ever seen.”
“Makeup, baby. I had to do my makeup.”
I suck air up through my nose so quickly that I snort and have to cover my mouth with my hand so as not to spit cocoa everywhere. She so didn’t happen to have her outfit lying around. Holly totally planned this, probably hoping Dad would ask her to go. Dad fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Either that, or he didn’t ask her on purpose to force her to invite herself so that she’d have to go. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to try to trick the other. While Tracie asks Holly about her boots, I get Dad’s attention and slyly mouth, “Sucker.”
Dad gives me a resigned smile as he slaps the kitchen table and says, “Come on, baby, or I’m going to take you on the table again.” Holly’s gasp of surprise is drowned out by the sound of my and Tracie’s chairs shoving back against the wooden floor as we scurry away from the defiled table.
Just when I had blocked that shit out, he has to bring it back up.
Asshole.
“Keep that gun on you, baby girl,” he says and points at me.
I nod and say, “Shoot first, ask questions later.”
“That’s my girl.” He gives me a proud grin and a wink that makes me feel like a little girl all over again.
They disappear out the front door, sneaking a chaste kiss on the way and laughing happily. When Dad thinks no one but Holly is looking, he smiles a lot. Even though it’s not at me as much as I’d like, it’s nice knowing he saves it for her. It makes it kind of special. Maybe he won’t destroy this relationship.
“Dude.” I elbow Tracie as I grab my gun and we walk up the stairs toward my room. “Dad left us alone. Totally unsupervised.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, my phone chimes. I shove the gun back into the waistband of my jeans and pull the phone from my front pocket. A message from Holly mocks me. DON’T FORGET GMA IS IN HER ROOM. GROUCHY SAYS YOU SNEAK OUT, YOU GO TO CONVENT. CONVENT=LAME=STAY HOME. BE GOOD.
My entire body turns to gelatin as I laugh heartily at the message. I love it when Holly calls him Grouchy. I bet anything Dad made her send me that message—he does that a lot—but I doubt he knows what she actually says in the messages. I show Tracie the message, which has her in stitches in a matter of moments, too. We give up on walking and park our butts on the stairs. I wince as my tailbone hits the barrel of the gun.
“Shit,” I shout and pull the gun out from underneath me and set it beside me. My tailbone throbs in pain, and I adjust my position on the stairs to lessen the discomf
ort. I could be missing my left ass cheek right about now if I weren’t so paranoid that I’d already checked the safety about twenty times since Dad made me get the damn thing out.
Tracie shushes me. “You’re going to wake up Lisa.”
“Grandma won’t wake up unless we throw a house party.” My fingers work quickly over the digital keyboard on my phone’s screen as I type out, DEFINE GOOD.
GROUCHY JR, she texts back with a sad looking emoticon at the end. I send back a heart emoticon and shove my phone in the pocket of my sweatpants.
“What are you thinking? All the good eighteen-and-up clubs are too far away, and you’re not even eighteen yet,” Tracie says. Ever since she turned eighteen, she’s been reminding me of all the things I can’t do. “Plus, you can’t go into a club packing.” She shifts her eyes to the gun between us. Tracie doesn’t know anything about the inner workings of the club, but she knows enough about the occasional danger that creeps up due to club-related problems. That doesn’t mean she’s comfortable having guns out in the open around her. She knows the score, though. It’s part of being connected, even loosely, to Forsaken.
Desperate to change the subject, I mentally inventory our options for the evening. “Well,” I say slowly. The idea’s forming in my head, but it’s stupid. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Ever. The only thing that can come out of this is a majorly broken heart.
“Yeah?” Tracie says, eyes widening and waiting for me to finish.
“What if we... sneak into the party at the clubhouse...” I shove my face into my hands. I feel like an idiot. Jeremy and I had one date—one truly awful date—and we haven’t had a kind word to say to each other since I threatened to push him out of my bedroom window after he tried to maul me. But the idea of him turning eighteen at the clubhouse with all the Lost Girls and the wannabe whores who haven’t earned the title yet leaves an uncomfortable feeling in my gut. I just want to know, to see what’s happening for myself. Daniel’s going to be there, too. He’s still texting me, and I’m texting back now, so I kind of also want to know what he’s up to. If he’s hooking up with someone during the party, then he doesn’t like me enough for me to continue to let him pursue me.
“You don’t actually have to sneak in. The doors will be open,” Tracie says. “It’s so loud and dark in there, I doubt anyone will notice us.”
“No, they’ll have security this time. Things are kind of tense with the club.” I wave the gun in the air. It’s a fine art, telling the truth without telling too much.
“They have prospects at the gate, and I highly doubt any of them would be stupid enough to turn you away.”
I lift my head slowly as some things over the last few months start to make sense. The times Tracie was MIA, and when she started to tell me that there’s a major difference between sex and love. Then there’s the looks she gives Dad and my uncles when they’re around and how many times she’s commented on how attractive they all are.
“You freaking slut,” I say, still half in disbelief. She so hasn’t partied with the club. She can’t have. She’s still in high school. That’s so... wrong. She’s my age. Ugh.
“Stop being such a prude. How is it possible that you’re Bloody Knuckles’s daughter and yet you’re so sheltered? Your dad is a legend among the Lost Girls.”
“That’s gross.” I slap at her knee. “And I’m not a fucking prude. But come on! That would be like me hooking up with one of them.”
“Not really,” Tracie says. “You’re being a baby.”
“Who have you hooked up with?” If she says she hooked up with my dad, I’m going to push her fucking ass down the stairs and call it an accident. I know my dad better than that, but until I have verbal confirmation, I’m keeping my options for retribution open. Like sisters or no, you don’t hook up with your best friend’s dad. Ever.
“Diesel,” she says quietly. I cast a glance long enough to find that she’s staring at me nervously. I’ve always liked Diesel. He’s fun to be around, got some pretty awesome muscles, killer tatts, and his video game knowledge is out of this world. I squeal and grin, slapping at her legs like a crazy woman, demanding that she tell me everything. I can totally handle her sleeping with Diesel. As long as she keeps her hands off anyone I call “uncle,” I think I can live with this.
“It was... hot,” she says in a breathy tone. “I mean, I thought high school boys knew what they were doing—but I only hooked up with two guys at school before I started hanging with the club.”
“Is he the only one you’ve hooked up with?” I ask.
“No,” she says and lets out a breath. “I hooked up with Aaron before…” Her voice trails off, and we stay silent for a long moment. She can’t bring herself to say it, but what she means is before Aaron died protecting Holly and Mindy. Before some sick bastard shot him in the back of the head. Before everything went to shit.
“Did you like him?” I ask, because if she did, I should probably offer some kind of condolences. I can’t say I’ve made peace with what happened to him, because we were friends. He was funny and kind and was completely devoted to the club. But I cried my ass off at his funeral, and I promised Uncle Jim that I wouldn’t waste any more tears on the dead. Aaron wouldn’t want it, he said. So I try not to do something that Aaron wouldn’t like. Instead, I’m dedicating myself to finding out what happened to him. It’s too late to fix that crap for Aaron, but there’s still time to fix it for Holly and Mindy.
And by fix it, I mean once I find out who did it, I’m turning the evidence over to the club so Dad can kill them. Because he would, and they’d deserve however he makes them suffer.
“Okay, and I’m afraid to ask, but how exactly did you end up partying with Forsaken?”
“It was one of those days when Diesel was here. You were off somewhere with Holly when I caught him looking at me. We flirted. He invited me to a party. I went and we hooked up.”
“You make having sex sound so simple and easy,” I say in disbelief. “I never get a freaking moment alone with a guy because my dad is a helicopter, always hovering. Even the few times I have managed to get a base or two in, I barely know what I’m doing.”
“That’s because you’re hung up on this idea of being in a relationship. That’s the difference between us, Chey. You’re Holly and I’m Elle,” she says, referring to my dad’s on-again-off-again hookups with Elle. While I don’t care for her using my dad’s relationships as an example, because that’s just awkward, I know what she means.
“Why do you think Elle doesn’t want a relationship?” I ask. Then I correct my question to what I actually mean. “Are you saying you want to be a club whore?”
“Some women are built for relationships, and some of us just want to have fun. If it’s right, it’ll happen, like with Duke and Nic.”
My heart rate speeds up in fear that we’re about to get into a fight. I hate fighting with Tracie, and it’s been happening more and more lately.
“Do you know how many women show up at the clubhouse thinking they’re going to whore their way to being some guy’s old lady?” My voice is soft. My heart hurts for her if she thinks whore to housewife is an easy road.
“I didn’t say I want to be someone’s old lady.” Her tone is defensive. “I just said if it’s right, it’ll happen.”
“Okay. I just hope you know what you’re doing,” I say.
“I do, and speaking of knowing who I’m doing... we better get ready if we’re going to crash this party. If we get there too late, all the hot guys will be taken for the night.”
I don’t say a word as we stand from the stairs and head for my room, which we ransack in search of the right outfits in order to blend in. I waffle on how sexy I should be. If I’m wearing too little, I might be more visible. But then if I’m dressed like a nun, I’ll stand out. By the time we’re ready, it’s nearing in on midnight, and if we don’t hurry, we’re going to miss the countdown.
Do they even do a midnight countdown at these things?
CHAPTER 10
December
16 months to Mancuso’s downfall
Walking into the clubhouse in this outfit makes my palms sweat and my breath catch. I shouldn’t be here and especially not dressed like this. If Dad catches sight of me, not only will I be embarrassed that I’m treated like a child, but I’ll never get over Dad seeing me in these clothes. Even though it’s almost officially January and cold and wet outside, Tracie convinced me to wear a pair of my cut-off jean shorts with one of Holly’s numerous pairs of high-heeled leather boots. I have my black-and-hot-pink plaid shirt that I wore on my and Jeremy’s one and only date rolled up and knotted atop a tight tank that shows a few inches of my midriff and is cut low at my breasts, showing off some cleavage. My thick brown hair is down and teased, held in place with half a pound of hairspray.
High heels suck. They are so uncomfortable, but at least I look taller and hopefully more mature, too. Between the heavy black eye makeup and the dark red lipstick, I’m hoping it’s not as easy to recognize me. While Dad is Public Enemy Number One, I wouldn’t put it past any of my uncles or the other club members to make this situation really suck for me. Thankfully this place is crowded, and just like Tracie said, it’s too dark in here to really shine a spotlight on anyone. Rink gave me a little crap at the gate, but I promised I’d bake him some cookies the next time he was at the house, and he let us go with the warning that I’d pay for it if Dad finds out and reams him for not ratting on us. I don’t know where the nickname came from, but Greg’s nickname should be Oink or something rather than Rink. He’s got a worse sweet tooth than anyone I’ve ever met.
I’ve never really seen the clubhouse like this. The lights are low, smoke fills the room, suffocating me the first few minutes until my lungs adjust, and the temperature is higher than I expected. Pulling at the knot of my button-up, I squirm under the heat of the other bodies in the room.
“Take it off if it’s that uncomfortable,” Tracie says, catching my movements. She threw on a pair of tight jeans and some hot pink pleather heels she had stored in her trunk—especially for this occasion apparently—with a low-cut pink tank. She’s pushed her boobs up in her bra as far as she can without her nipples falling out.
