“Thank you for your concern. That’ll be thirteen seventy-five, please.”
Mrs. Shellsmith shakes her head and digs into her oversized purse, that could probably carry a small child, pulling out some bills. She hands them to me and I turn my attention to the register.
“You’re her daughter. It’s a real shame she’s like she is. You need to help her.”
My blood begins to boil red hot. She has no idea what I go through with my mother on a daily basis. She has no idea the heartache I feel when she can’t even come to the table and have a meal with me. She has no idea the number of times I’ve begged her to get out of bed to make a doctor’s appointment that we ended up missing. She has no idea the tears that have been shed because I feel like I can’t seem to get it right with her. Mrs. Shellsmith has no fucking idea.
The register drawer slams shut from my force and my professional mask slips a bit. From the look on the woman’s face, she sees the change.
I hold out the coins and tentatively she puts her hand out for them.
“Do not come in here and tell me what I need to do. You keep your nose out of my personal business. It’s a shame that everyone in this town thinks they know what my life is and what I have or have not done for my mother,” I clip harshly, unable to contain my fury. Ever since my mother spiraled down, I’ve been shamed. Shamed for not doing more for my mother. Shamed for not putting her in a hospital. Shamed for not forcing her to get on with life. They don’t know, no one can force someone to do something when they are so low they can’t pick themselves up again. Screw them. They don’t know the way it wages a war inside me with my own emotions. They don’t know the helplessness that comes in watching someone you love disappear and you silently beg for even a sliver of who they once were to return.
She takes her change, giving me a disgusted look, calling her children and surprisingly leaves without a word. Bitch.
I clean up what her children decided to destroy and go back to flipping through a new magazine. Ever since the card readers were put in at the pumps, barely anyone comes into the actual store any more. That’s good and bad, as in no one to talk to and boring.
The rumble of motorcycles in the distance catches my attention and I turn to the window hoping like hell that I’m wrong. Hoping that my gut, which knots and twists, is a fat out liar. The noise grows closer until single headlights shine directly at me, then turn into the station. All together in one perfect uniform as if it’s breathing to them.
My eyes dart to every one of the Harley’s and my breath leaves me when I see the Ruthless Rebels MC. Shamus, Lurch, Clover, Oscar, Grinder and DJ, as he now goes by, Dixon James Cartwright the fucking dickhead. I can’t stop watching him though, as he parks his bike and gets out to pump gas into his tank. Luckily, he slides his card in the reader and I let out a little sigh of relief.
He’s not coming in here. Thank God.
The guys around him do the same and they’re off. I shake off the unnerving feel that always comes with seeing DJ. Why can’t he just disappear? Hell, why can’t I just disappear.
Chapter 2
Bikes, Booze, Bitches, in that order!
Before we pull away from the gas station, I take a glance to the employee parking. The rusted sedan gives me all the answers I need. Shit, she’s still living in fucking hell. There was a time I had hope. This small piece of me believed things would change for her, for me, for us, and yet they haven’t.
Every time we stop here for gas, I tell myself not to look. Yet, every single time I can’t resist.
I shake myself. Not my problem. Been there, done that. When I tried to talk to her and explain the situation, she didn’t want to hear one goddamned word I had to say. Kenderly Marie Hanson, dynamite in disguise. Pissed, there’s no stopping her. She can’t see reason, can’t hear it, and won’t stop to even give someone a breath. She’s all soft on the outside. Beautiful. And fire burning on the inside, waiting to explode.
Times change. People grow or they should.
For her, time has stood still. Part of me wants to rush inside and ask her if hiding from life is getting any better? Is joining her mother in hell any better than trying to get out of this godforsaken town? I told her to get out. I told her to hit the open road and don’t look back. When she didn’t want to give me a second chance, I said fine. But, Kenderly, go experience life. When we were younger we had this life planned out. When I pulled the plug it all crashed down, she needed to start over, away from here, away from it all. She wouldn’t leave. Nope, she stayed. She boxed herself up and made her role as care taker define her. Everybody knows it. The town talks, ‘it’s a cryin’ shame that Kenderly and her mother.’ If people only knew they need not pity the woman but reach out and help her. I tried and every time I got told to fuck off.
In the end, nothing will change. I learned a long fucking time ago, you either get outta Granville or you stay and pick your side.
Fall in line or be the outcast.
I’m the latter, a rebel and not just because I wear the patch. No, I refuse to fit in to some mold this town has made for me. My mother, the trailer park queen, the town whore, never broke the shadows of her past in this town.
Me?
I’m the daily reminder of the sixteen-year-old girl who gave it up to some truck driver passing through. A result of one night in the cab of a Peterbuilt, she got a life sentence with me and always complains that my asshole father got to keep his freedom without a single tie down. Everyone expected me to grow up and hit the open road in a truck like it’s in my DNA.
Shows what the fuck these morons know. I don’t give a shit who my father is, was, or cares to be. I’m Dixon James Cartwright, a brother in the Ruthless Rebels motorcycle club. All the family I’ve never had, I made my own when I earned my cut and my rockers.
The more distance I put between myself and the gas station, the more I can get away from the one thing I once thought I could hold onto; yet, in the end, it slipped away.
I toss a hand in the air when Lurch pulls off to make his way home. We all rode out behind him to top off our tanks and make sure he got to his driveway. The man may be almost sixty but he’s still got the alcohol tolerance of a twenty-one-year-old frat boy. Doesn’t mean we don’t look out for him.
Lurch, the man who has been more of a parent to me than anyone is a man with a short trimmed beard, brown eyes, and tattoos covering his whole chest all the way up his neck. Each and every fucking one of them have a story behind them. He taught me how to be a man, how to own my mistakes, and how to survive in this life. I don’t care how many times we have to ride out to watch his ass, I’ll always do it for him and his ol’ lady.
Lurch is our VP falling in line behind Thumper, our club Prez. Thumper is the same age as Lurch and the two started the club together back before I was even born. The two men and their women have given me more acceptance than my own mother ever even thought about. Neither has been afraid to put me in my place when I’ve stepped out of line, while my mother never gave a shit as long as I didn’t bother her.
Pulling up to the clubhouse, I’m more amped up than I was before we left. A good party always gets me going, and seeing Kenie only has me on edge. I need to either fuck someone or blow something the fuck up. The music is still blaring, the lights still shining, and the tricks that aren’t currently fucking or sucking a brother are out front practically humping the fucking poles that hold up our awning. Shamus pulls out his phone and immediately starts videoing the one bitch as she wildly goes at it against the structure.
“Put that shit up,” I bark to him.
“Nah man. Hell, I still got that video of you. Want me to pull it up there, DJ?” He jokes with me and I glare to him, but smile to myself.
“Yeah, Shamus, let’s watch our DJ and his first karaoke night.” Clover shoulder bumps me.
“Fuck you!” I give back as the girl sticks her ass out to twerk while her tits press into the wood of the six by six post. Shamus loves to video dumb shit.
The night Shamus and I both patched to the Rebels, they threw a party for us. A party where I got so shitfaced, and puked on my own fucking boots. It’s also the night we got our road names. At some point in my drunken escapades, I took over the music blaring. Instead of some classic rock, I had quite a musical variation playing before I jumped up on the makeshift stage, I drunkenly created, to karaoke to the whole fucking club. Everyone got a laugh and I got my name: DJ, as in disk jockey, not Dixon James.
Shamus, well, he got his that night too. When he shamelessly fucked a club trick in the middle of the clubhouse only to prematurely shoot his load because the alcohol had clearly taken over.
Not our most proud of moments, but hey, shit happens and we roll with it.
“Maybe we can get Peaches here to make a new video with you. Maybe this time you won’t be the boy who can’t handle pussy,” I tease back.
Smacking the ass of the red head grinding the pole, she squeals and looks at me with her eyes so bloodshot she’s beyond a normal high, she’s blitzed out of her fucking mind.
“Peaches, you wanna get off, you gotta climb to the top to find the tip and slide that shit all the way in,” I make fun of her only to watch her eyes look up the pole like she somehow could find the top and make that shit fit.
Fuck this bitch is too hopeful about fucking a pole. Shamus, who was behind me, walks up shoulder knocking me out of the way and practically swallows the bitches face.
“Guess she found her pole, now we can only hope that you can keep it up for more than two minutes,” I laugh as Shamus flips me the middle finger and I walk inside the building.
The clubhouse is dimly lit, giving it an old bar feel with walls covered in pictures, posters and one wall with written words. Those words have been there since the beginning, some etched in pen and others in marker. They are the thoughts and feelings of each club member and our families. That wall will never be painted over and the divot in the wall where Oscar punched at one time, will never be fixed. It gives it character.
Tables are scattered throughout with mismatched chairs and several people in them. I nod to those I see and continue straight to the bar.
Clover meets me first, handing me a half finished bottle of Jack Daniels. “DJ, brother, Cutie Pie is looking for ya.” I take a long pull of the alcohol letting the burn go all the way down my throat and settle into my gut. Bitch is always looking for me. I guess I found my hole to stick my pole for the night.
Shaking my head and wiping my mouth, I let the alcohol warm me from the inside out as I adjust my hardening cock and find my way through the crowd.
I’ll finish this bottle, finish getting off with Cutie Pie, at least twice, and then maybe I’ll sleep until someone needs something tomorrow.
Morning comes, or should I say midday, when I finally wake up. My mouth is dry like I swallowed a cotton swab. I’m hot, too hot. I push Cutie Pie and her friend off me and climb out of the bed. The sheets are a tangled mess on the floor at the foot of my bed along with all our clothes. Damn, we must’ve had a good time. Too bad the pounding in my head won’t clear enough for me to remember much of it right now.
Stretching, I stalk to my dresser to pull out some jeans and a black t-shirt for under my cut. My head continues to pound as I get into the bathroom making me wish I had remembered to bring another bottle of booze back to my room last night. The best cure for a hangover is a double shot of something stronger than you drank the night before. I take a leak before grabbing a toothbrush to get the stale taste out of my mouth. I’m in the shower washing up when Cutie Pie decides she’s awake and ready for another round.
I don’t remember how her friend came along but obviously by the look in this woman’s eyes they both had a damn good time.
“Don’t waste time,” I say as she climbs in the small space in front of me. My dick comes to life with the naked chick in front of me. Her pert tits and curvy body are certainly nothing for me to complain about. I stroke my cock, “Floss your teeth with my pubs, get your mouth to work,” I point to the ground for her to drop to her knees. She leans in to kiss me to which I pull back, allowing the water to cover my face. “Mouth, cock, now.”
“You suck,” she tries to be playful.
“Sure do, I suck titties. You suck my cock and swallow, I’ll show you what I can do with my mouth. Think of it like a game.”
She drops to her knees in front of me. Wrapping her hand around my thick length, she can’t touch her thumb to her fingertips. Before she covers me with her mouth, she looks up to me. “You ever think about more than gettin’ off, DJ?”
Rearing back, my cock is sensitive as I pull out of her grip and press my back to the wall of the shower.
“Get out!” I growl out at her.
“DJ,” her voice is whiny. “It’s okay. I’ll suck you off. Just forget it.”
“Forget it. Nah, you need to forget you ever thought you had more with a Rebel than fucking and sucking. Now, get the fuck out!”
She doesn’t argue, but I see her eyes glass over in unshed tears as she exits the shower. I listen as she makes her retreat and wakes her friend on her way out.
Good, they both need to be gone before I finish. There ain’t one damn thing I want less than an ol’ lady to tie me down. Pussy is pussy and I don’t need the kind of pussy that becomes permanent.
* * *
Oscar and I get to work boxing up the shipment we have going out. We spent yesterday disassembling the AK’s to get them ready to be boxed. Shit’s illegal as fuck. The government wants to tighten gun regulations. I say, fine by me. The more the politicians try to ‘govern’, the more people are willing to pay to have what they want. I’ve never cared to toe the line, walk the line, or keep my ass on the right side of the line. Laws? What are those? The Ruthless Rebels have their own laws and their own code We do what’s best for our club, no questions asked.
It fits me. It fits the life I’ve always wanted to lead. We have a code, a guideline, but it’s not the kind of thing anyone off the streets would understand. I like it. I like knowing I got brother’s at my back. I like knowing I’m working with and standing behind the same kind of men as me. Ride for the cause, die for the cause, but damn sure never lose sight of the cause. Protect what’s ours, provide for our club, our families, and our community. Don’t take what we don’t earn and don’t get pushed over by any outsiders. It’s simple; stand for the Rebels, by the Rebels, and ride with the Rebels, thick and thin, good and bad. If it ain’t about the Rebels, for the Rebels, or ordered by a Rebel then it ain’t our business so we keep our noses out of it.
Granville, Alabama, is our town. We’re not about to fall in line or lose our control to anyone. Send in the Army, send in the Marines; shit, half our club has served their time and found home with the Rebels, we won’t back down no matter who comes across our lines.
“Talk to your Momma, DJ?” Oscar asks as we take a smoke break. Oscar is a big motherfucker with long hair, a long ass beard, and a tattoo of a green monster thing chilling in a garbage can that he calls ‘The Grouch’. I think I saw it on a kids show once when I was in school. He’s only thirty-four but with the overgrowth of facial hair, he looks to be in his forties, possibly fifties. He doesn’t care to shave, he showers, but still doesn’t come off in any way clean. No, he looks like an asshole, talks like an asshole, and it’s because he is the master of being an asshole.
I don’t look the man in the eye. Instead, I take another drag off my menthol and let the burn hit me in my lungs deep. Scratching my beard, I ignore the man … or I try to.
“Brother, asked you a question.”
“No, fuck no.” I still don’t look at him. “You one of those misery loves company fuckers? You’ve got a better chance of talkin’ to my momma before me.”
He doesn’t miss a beat with his reply. “Small town chatter. Rumor has it, she’s gone and got herself evicted.”
Tossing my cigarette to the ground unfinished, I stomp the cherry with my b
oot to put out the flame. “Not my problem.”
“She starts looking for you, it gonna be a problem for the club?”
I shove him in the shoulder. “Oscar, I patched to this club at twenty-fuckin’- one years old. I prospected for two goddamn years before I got my bottom rocker. I’ve been a Rebel, fully patched eight years; that’s ten years I’ve given to the Rebels.”
“Not doubting your time in or your place, DJ,” he tries to smooth things over. “Just wonderin’ if she’s gonna become a problem for the club since she’s got no where to go and trouble always seems to find her.”
“In ten fuckin’ years, in ten long damn years, has she been a problem yet?”
“Point made,” he raises his hands in surrender.
He starts to walk away. “Oscar,” I call out for him to turn around and face me. “My mom, she’s off limits. Don’t ever bring her up again.”
“Noted.”
He starts to turn around again and I shake my head speaking. “No, it’s not noted. I know fuckin’ better. When you have your manperiod for the month you wanna fuck with me, you’re gonna bring my mother up and open your mouth again. Let me make this clear. Oscar, I don’t care if she wants to join you living in a dumpster of misery, my cunt mother is off – limits to everyone. I don’t wanna hear about her, you feel me?”
“Yeah, I got you, brother. Just thought with the way Granville is, you’d want a heads up she’s couch hopping. We both know that won’t last but so long.” He’s on point. Too on point.
“Heads up given, now shut the fuck up and move the fuck on.”
“You’re an asshole, DJ,” he laughs.
“Born one, die one, so I might as well live my life as one.”
Chapter 3
What the eyes have seen can’t be unseen!
Like every other night, the shift drags on. New night, same tasks. I’m glad Stacy didn’t work day shift today. Nichole had it and she’s lazy as hell. This meant nothing was done so I had plenty to stock, machines to clean, and more to do. It gave me less time to think about why my Aunt Ruth looks even more tired and my mom hasn’t gotten up for breakfast for the last four days. I don’t know if I can handle her getting much worse. Yesterday, I had to have Aunt Ruth stay two hours later to help me, physically, put my mother in the shower.
Shamed (A Ruthless Rebels MC Novella Book One) Page 2
