The rest of life was easy after that, or at least until the doc found the lump. Everything went to shit so quickly after that, it seems. It was like life was normal one day…and then when I buried my mom, it was like my little teenage world couldn’t take it. It just shattered. And shattered. And shattered. Until there was nothing left that resembled it. Just dust of the past. And the same old walls of the club’s building that once felt so much like home…
I miss those days. The days before the partying. Well, the HARD partying. Along with the revolving door of women, sex, bikes, drugs, and rock and roll.
The biker life my mother had planned for the Cain family didn’t quite pan out the way she imagined, God rest her soul. Hell, I think I’ve actually heard her turn over in her grave a few times when I’m out there talking to her at the cemetery.
No…us Cain men, and the life we were supposed to have, the one Ma had envisioned for us, was nothing like the actual life we had after she died. After her motherly, or womanly, little touches faded around the club—which didn’t take long with the copious number of people my dad liked to keep around. Trash, and I mean trashy women. It only took two weeks and almost every member had moved into the compound that used to function as a shelter for abused women on the back of the property behind the club’s Church. The same Church we hold meetings at every Tuesday and Friday night, even now.
The compound quickly turned into more of a fraternity house than the club house Jacqueline Cain used to use it for barbecues and cookouts during the summer, and football get togethers for the MC in the fall.
And now?
Now, quite frankly, it reminds me of some of the most run down bars I’ve ever been in. And I’ve been in some hole in the walls, believe me.
I pull my bike up along the side of an eighteen-wheeler, and switch down a gear to speed up and get over in front of him. I usually prefer to ride long rides in a group. Not only because it’s safer, but also because it’s makes the ride livelier. I hate that all this shit’s caused so much turmoil in our club—I hate it. I can’t even tell you the last time we rode as a pack together. And I don’t know if it’s because Ilsa looks so much like Ma that this has happened. Or if it’s just history fucking repeating itself again with these two.
In the last foster home Eden and I stayed in, we had another kid living with us named Tracy. Tracy’s story, although much sadder than ours, wouldn’t be as sad had the young girl made a few different decisions. Like her proclivity to pickpocket every chance she got. But the girl kept money—which was something I’d been running short on. What with the price of the bus ticket, food and break stops, and any extra supplies I’ve needed? I’m lucky to have the one hundred and seven dollars I had. Well, at least before I picked up Tracy’s little proclivity on the bus ride over to the Big Apple.
I’m sitting in a bathroom stall when I count my last recovered, okay borrowed, dollar. Over two freaking grand! I somehow accumulated two thousand sixteen dollars between the cat ladies and the freaky looking pervs. I swindled my way into being a thousand-aire. Yeah, I like the sound of that.
Thousand-aire ain’t bad for a thirteen-year-old kid. Surely I’ll be a millionaire by my twenties, I think as I step from the dirty bus station bathroom, still packed to the gills with my luggage. After glancing at the main signs and deciding which gate to exit out of, I head to my left.
And I’m not sure if it’s because I’m in shock at the sheer magnitude of my surroundings or what, but I feel like I can barely breathe, much less catch my breath as I take the place in. The size of it alone is baffling. And I’m not sure if it’s because I’m distracted, or maybe they were a whole hell of a lot stealthier than I originally gave them credit for. I usually watch out for things like this to happen, though—that’s all I’m saying.
Freaking cops.
I’m in mid-motion, reaching out my hands to push open the double doors exiting the bus station, when suddenly…and I mean suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m being spun around and cuffed by two cops. As big as you please. And I never saw the first one. Not once.
“Ma’am, we have reports of a girl being seen coming off the bus from Chicago, and she matches your description. She’s being accused of pickpocketing some of the patrons on the bus. Do you know what Miranda rights are, sweetheart?”
The cold cuffs dig into the skin around my wrists to the point of bruising as soon as he slides them on. Then half a second later, I’m being wrenched off the ground, and my entire body's weight supported by the cop’s hold on the cuffs between my wrists. And then I swear, he yanks as hard as he freaking can.
I briefly remember wishing I still had my lucky charm necklace I swiped from Jacques’ bag before tossing it in the trash in the boys’ bathroom at the park before the darkness around the edges of my consciousness finally closes in.
I remember the cold feel of it against my hand when I’d pray.
I always wanted a crucifix growing up. Always. They’ve always been so beautiful to me. So simple, yet significant.
But no one has ever really taught me much about religion, besides my grandmother. My mom doesn’t believe in anything, or at least that’s what I get from her spiel about reincarnation and how the body returns to dirt ‘cause the body was from it. My sister and I were named by our grams. She taught us what she could before our mother took us from Florida when we were really young.
I’ve read snippets of the good book. Or scriptures. That’s what Grams called them. She was more churchy than Mom pretended to be. And when I lived with Donna and Darrell, we usually only went to church on Easter. And even then, it was hit or miss. But from what I’ve gathered from the few scriptures I’ve read, I like to believe in a greater power, I think. I don’t like the idea of turning into dirt after I’m buried. I don’t like the idea of becoming worm food, not one bit. My last nagging thoughts then finally cease when my face connects with the hood of the cop car. And as I feel the good officer’s knee shove between my thighs before the metal grate of the car’s grille digs into my hip bones, the car under me tilts sideways…and then the world just goes dark.
And it’s only my prayer I hear as the outside world spins on around me. Only my prayer, and my prayer alone…
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake…
***
I was booked into New York’s Juvenile Department of Corrections when I was just two months shy of my fourteenth birthday. And that was over two fucking years ago.
To say things have changed since then, that I’ve changed, is an understatement to say the least.
As far as I’m concerned, on most days, it’s all fucked up now—just like Puff Daddy said.
“O’Malley!” The relentless sliding of metal against metal is my only constant these days. It’s like everything changes here, constantly—except the bars and the cold. That shit stays the same. Always.
The people change, the guards change, your level of freedom even changes. But not the frigid temperatures, and not the damn metal bars sliding on their tracks.
I slip my hands between the bars for the cuffs, and only slightly hesitate when the guard waves my hands back into my cell.
“Not needed, Juvi. Not today,” the overweight Pillsbury dough-looking boy tells me as he slides his key in the lock before turning it. “Today’s your lucky day. You’re busting out, kid. Congrats.” When the guard smiles at me, his eyes stay on my chest a little too long and I visibly shudder, even as his words finally settle in the confused thoughts and questions circling my mind.
“Busting out?” I blankly mimic his words and step from behind the bars before they slide closed and lock loudly behind me.
“Yes, ma’am. Busting out.” He nods then holds his arm to the side and ushers me forward.
I aimlessly wander in front of him, waiting for any cues such as straight forward, left, or right down the long dark corridors. And when we finally come to another gate, exiting the main building,
the concrete floors turn to carpet. It’s shitty and navy, but it’s still the first time I’ve seen carpet in over two years.
“O’Malley, step this way.” I’m guided through a few halls, and once we’ve entered the third or fourth door, we enter a hallway with an elevator. After Pillsbury the dough guard smashes his big fat finger on the arrow button pointing down, a petite brunette woman steps up and smiles at me.
The initial freak-out wears off when she quickly introduces herself. “Hey, Eve. I’m Matilda, your social case worker. How are you doing, sweetheart? Are you ready to get home?”
I blink a handful of times at her before blandly speaking. “How am I doing? That’s rich, Mati, even for someone as simple-minded as you. And home, did you say?” My chuckle sounds a bit harsher than I intend it to, but I don’t correct it. I let the sinister chuckle spill from my lips before going dead still and even more quiet, then I remind her, point blankly, “I don’t have a home, Mati. Check your files next time before you speak.” I step around her and into the elevator when the doors slide open.
And after Pillsbury the dough guard explains that I’m to follow the kind social worker to the next floor where we can start the proceedings, Matilda hits the elevator button for the ground floor. What proceedings, you may ask yourself… well, don’t fret, because I’m asking myself the same damn thing.
When the elevator doors close, I glance up and watch the number change. And when we’re at our designated floor, the elevator slides open, and it’s around this time I realize I haven’t heard metal sliding against metal in the last five to ten minutes. Then I shiver, only to realize it’s warm where we’re at. The tension that’s been wrapped and strung so tight around my bones, finally, blessedly releases its hold…just a tiny bit. But it’s enough. ‘Cause I can breathe. For the first time in two years, I can breathe.
“Your grandmother, meaning your mom’s mom, was sick and in and out of the hospital for a while. Do you remember her? Eleanor Blakeney? Your mother says the two of you know each other pretty well…the three of you lived with her in Florida…” Her words trail off when I simply stare at her with no reaction and I attempt to piece my response together. And for justifiable reasons that have way more to do with this than hormones, I speak as coldly and clearly as I possibly can.
“I don’t have a mother. Nor a grandmother. And if you’d look a little closer to the file in your hand, you’d see it’s more than quite obvious that you and Mr. Pillsbury the dough cop have the wrong fucking kid. There’s some sort of mix-up. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been completely stranded in the last known city my mother occupied for the last two years. Without so much as a single word from Ilsa, Eleanor, or Eden. So, no, Mati. Check again. Because I’ve gotta a lotta reasons to believe right now that I have no freaking family.”
The nice social worker blinks. And nothing else for a good minute or two. “Ahh…” Her brows furrow again just before her eyes skip down to the file in her hand, and she seems to debate with herself on whether or not she wants to actually open it and verify what I’ve just said.
But I couldn’t care less. Nor could I give a shit what her file says. I know the truth now. As much as it hurt to learn it, and as many times as I had to learn it—every single day. I fucking know the truth.
Two years? Hadn’t I been through enough? At fourteen? I didn’t take anything I didn’t need. I didn’t steal money for fun; I stole it because I was freaking hungry. Or afraid of getting there. And I couldn’t work. I was fourteen! How the hell was a fourteen-year-old supposed to get home so she could help her mother? With no money. No car, or transportation. What did they expect me to do?
And the system? How’d they help out the situation?
They punished me. That’s what they did. They cut me off, took all my possessions, threw me behind bars, and then they left me. There to rot. Without any real explanation. For two fucking years.
And no one even cared enough to check on me. No friends. No family members—no one.
So, no—I don’t have anyone. Not a single freaking person I know who loves me.
In the end, ol’ Mati did flip the file open and double check my story. But as soon as my grandmother walked into the little anteroom, outside what I assumed was a conference room, it wasn’t necessary. I knew then whatever I said would be treated like it was when I was eight years old, screaming I was having a heart attack when the good ol’ doctor came in and called me a liar.
Child’s gibberish. Whatever I said, however I balked, would be brushed aside in order to assist in the transition of a child in the system to a child in a happy home…
Excuse me while I gag.
“Miss Eleanor?” The social worker’s brows furrow to new depths and get deeper the faster she flips through the file. “Eve is saying…she doesn’t have any family. Now, as the State’s family counselor explained, there will be a few setbacks involved with our progress. But that’s to be expected. You need to keep Eve’s feelings in mind, no matter how rough the road ahead gets. Her feelings come first, but always to an extent.” The good social worker smiles warmly at both me and then my grandmother, and I decide in that moment, I freaking hate her. Probably a bit prematurely, but hell—we all know I don’t do the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed type.
After the lady standing beside me who looks a lot like my grammy, only older, nods, she steps towards me and reaches for my hands, smiling. “Sweetie, ya’ve got family. You know it? Grammy was sick, darlin’. I didn’t know. I didn’t know any of this was happening. And then when I found out, I couldn’t get better and strong again quick enough. But I’m here now, my Evie. Grammy’s here.” It’s her embrace, in case you were wondering, that makes me crumble so quickly. Well, that and she smells like fucking chocolate chip cookies. Either way, my arms circle her round middle and I bury my nose in the crook of my Grammy’s neck before inhaling.
And instantly…cue the waterworks. My resolve, it seems, is much more prone to crumble without the frigid cold temperatures and the constant clanging of metal against metal in the freaking background. Tears flood behind my eyelids at the same time my sinuses flood with snot. To the point where I have to pull slightly away in order to catch my breath. And as soon as my eyes land on the only other pair that match mine on this planet, I smile crookedly at the woman who halfway raised me, before muttering, “I know. I know. I’m sorry you were sick, Grammy. They didn’t even tell me—” The sob tearing its way up my throat cuts off my words and I fall apart around my broken heart.
Right there, in front of God, the social worker, and my grandmother, I fall the hell apart.
I thought life was hard before I left Chicago. Hell, I was afraid of In School Suspension, or worse, of being expelled from school because of Lacy’s freaking cigarettes! I ran away from a perfectly good home, with weird, but perfectly good guardians, with a brand new zebra comforter and new sheets and shams on my very own bed, because of ISS? Let me tell you, the alternative I chose to my life in Chicago when I left school that day and headed to the bus station was a terrible, horrible freaking mistake that I regret, even to this day.
Life in New York’s Juvenile Department of Corrections system was hard, don’t get me wrong, but when the warmth around my heart thaws the ice that’s been encasing it since the third or fourth night I spent on that cold, stiff cot, the pain of all those old scars splitting then finally breaking open is utter and pure agony to the nth degree.
Personally, I think it’s the mixture of accepting your wrongs and being shown your rights that stings the most…but that’s just me. And I’m just Eve—I’m only sixteen.
The rules in any Motorcycle Club, or MC, are virtually the same. And they all stem from two things: Respect and protocol. Now, don’t worry—I won’t bore you with the full MC history lesson, but you will walk away from this with some sort of knowledge about the lifestyle. And for the most part, all your MCs are chock full of those two things. Respect and protocol.
But for the love of God, don’t forget
the fucking respect. Respect is something that’s very hard to earn among these guys I call brothers. Very hard.
And for the Sons of Silencers, it’s even harder.
Now, for the most part, civilians aren’t even aware we have things like protocol and procedure, and I only mention it now so you’ll be one of the few well-informed, as well as prepared for the story ahead. No matter what we look like, and no matter how uncouth we may appear, we’re not all savages. We do have rules, just like every other member of society. The only difference is we obey a set of rules that are of a very different decree. Rules that most of you won’t understand—and hell, that’s because you can’t. And I hope one day you never have to.
I’m just saying when the end-of-the-world shit starts going down, we—me and my brothers—are gonna be some motherfuckers you wish you knew, ‘cause we’re gonna be okay. Understood? Good.
And just in case you don’t—know us, that is—I’d try using some respect when you come running to us for shit like food, water, gas, and shelter. We may look disorganized as fuck, but we are some efficient, organized motherfuckers. And once you’re loved by us, you’re loved by us. Period. At least until you fuck us. Or snitch. We’ll snuff out a snitch quicker than shit.
I’ve been manning the Sons of Silencers directly under Pops now for a little more than two years. And I’ll be honest, it’s been no walk in the park by any means. It’s been hard, because at twenty-four, this shit’s a lot to take in—even for a guy who swiped his Bachelor’s in business on this newest badass invention called online college courses.
Man, I don’t know what your thoughts are about how fast technology is finally actually helping the public now, but it’s making shit a lot easier. Not just for people like us who live the MC lifestyle and have to work and do our job for the club to make money, but it also helps keep our asses out of jail!
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 4
