After all we live next door to Ruby, who is from Mexico. There is no way he is really Boomer’s brother, but they call each other that. No one questions it, so obviously it’s real. Why did River think a name defines a family?
“Never mind,” I stutter, feeling bad for upsetting my mom.
Boomer moves from the kitchen to where we are on the couch. “You asked a question, you deserve an answer,” he states while keeping his eyes on my mother. “I just think we need to word it in a way you can understand, Colt.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
As the words escape my lips, for some reason a thought hits me … for the longest time Dad was Boomer to me, not Dad. When did it shift? I don’t remember, but I’m only ten. I drop my head in my hands as I painfully try to focus and remember.
Dad.
Why does that title make my stomach tighten? I blink and a picture flashes in my mind of my mom and another man.
Who is he? Why does he feel important? I struggle to hold onto the memory. I was afraid of the man.
“I always said if you boys were old enough to ask a question, no matter the answer I would give you the truth. So here it is Colt. Boomer is not your biological dad. That’s why your last name is different.”
I shrug my shoulders, not really comprehending what she’s telling me. “Biology doesn’t matter. Boomer is my dad.”
I look to the man, and he softens his features. Through his full beard, I can see his lips move in a smile.
“You’re my son, Colton Williams, and so is Wesson. There is nothing I won’t ever give either of you.”
I smile proudly and tell them both a simple solution to the River Jones’ of the world. “Good, I want your last name, so we can be a real family. The kind of family no one can ever question again.”
True to his word, Boomer gave me and my brother his last name. At every turn Boomer has been the man to look up to. He has showed us unconditional love and an acceptance I can say very few people find in life. He is more than our father figure, he’s more than a dad. He’s our biggest advocate. He’s out biggest fans, supporters, cheerleader, and encouraging. Boomer is compassion, understanding, firmness, kindness, and real love from a man to his sons. He made us a family no one dares to question. There is no man mightier or stronger than Boomer Vaughn.
If it wasn’t for the unwavering support of Boomer, I don’t know that my brother would be here today. There was a time where I just knew I would be getting a Red Cross message from home that Wesson was gone. After what he’s endured if Boomer hadn’t been there day in and out through the ugliest parts and darkest days, I have no doubt my brother wouldn’t still be breathing to this day.
I also have no doubt that Wesson wouldn’t have a positive outlook in life. No, if my brother managed to live and Boomer hadn’t been here to help him navigate the new normal after the accident, Wesson wouldn’t be living, he would be existing.
And just getting by in life is no way to be.
Boomer gives us that reminder all the time.
Blowing out a breath into the cool mountain air, I look over to the Harley. My Road King is a gloss black machine that has given me pride and freedom in life. The Renegade sidecar attachment reminds me how much life continues to torment my family.
I have ridden a motorcycle since Boomer bought Wesson and I a little dirt bike as kids. Since the day I understood what a motorcycle club was I knew it was a matter of time before I paid my dues prospecting for the Hellions.
Just like my dad.
Boomer led me to finish my time in service first. After all when you’re active duty the known affiliation of what the government views as a gang is not acceptable behavior. Since I wanted to be in the Army, I chose my career first knowing the Hellions would be here when I completed my contract. Rather than prospecting right out of high school and waiting to turn twenty-one to patch, I left and did four years for Uncle Sam. Now, I’m home and I won’t be leaving again.
Prospecting this past year and a half has been hard. At twenty-five, my mind is more focused and determined than when I was eighteen. My patience for bullshit isn’t what it used to be either. Then again, Wesson and Ilike so many times in lifehave taken this ride together.
I wouldn’t have it any other way; we are stronger for it. Which is why today when I patch to the Hellions MC as a full brother, so does my biological brother Wesson, even if it means he rides the Tail of the Dragon in a sidecar with me. Life without legs is a daily struggle.
But Wesson Williams faces it with dignity, honor, and a fierceness I’m not sure I’m man enough to have.
Just like everything else in life, we do this together too.
I would give anything to give my brother his legs back. If you ask him, though, he’ll remind you legs don’t make the man. He’s rock solid in being who he is and that is a man far from lacking anything.
The sun is up, and I’m sure Wesson is awake, so I go back inside our room at the small motel. His wheelchair sits by the bed with him sitting up in it. The accident took his legs, but not his spirit.
There isn’t a moment that goes by where I’m not thankful he survivd. As soon as my government contract finished, I came home not wanting to be far from him anymore. At twenty-five almost twenty-six, I’m a year older than Wesson, but no one ever remembers it since we do everything together, including when we graduated high school. Since part of our early childhood we were hiding from our biological father, Wesson and I started kindergarten together. Teachers assumed we were twins until they took the time to see our birthdays. After we finished school and crossed the stage we had the same plan. He served in the Army, as well.
Until his accident.
That changed everything. Our paths weren’t in line after it happened. He came home after a medical discharge, while I finished out my term. With the challenges he faced, being away from home didn’t feel right so I didn’t re-enlist. Instead, I came home and went to work at the Hellions-owned garage with Boomer.
Only when Wesson decided to prospect did I join him. My brother’s keeperI was not. My brother’s advocate, always.
He did his time earning his rockers as I did mine. I even will go so far as to say he earned this more than I did. Today, like every other patched brother in the club, we ride the Dragon. And we do it together.
Getting ready, Wesson and I are both quiet. That’s the thing about having a brother who is also your best friend. Not everything has to be spoken. Once I brush my teeth and clean up, I know it’s time to give Wesson some privacy. With a nod, I leave the room. Going to my bike, I give him space while making sure everything is ready for the ride. It’s not long before he makes his way out of the room in his chair.
Pushing himself to the bike, he looks up at me and gives me a nod. Thankfully, I can read Wesson easily so he doesn’t have to actually ask much of me. I turn my back. As a man, I imagine he would like a little privacy as he transitions from his chair to the sidecar.
Everywhere we go since the accident, everyone watches him. It pisses me off. He’s not a side show at a carnival. He’s still a human. He’s not an alien. There is no need to gawk and draw more attention to his differences. Wesson, being the man he is, ignores it all. For me, it eats at me that my baby brother struggles like this every day.
I hear the soft grunt he gives when putting his chair brake on and pulling himself into the sidecar. Only when he honks the horn Boomer outfitted the sidecar with do I turn around to look at him.
The smile on his face is blinding in its purity. A smile we rarely get to see, but when we do, it’s powerful.
Wesson is my hero.
To overcome everything he has and still press on, there is no man stronger than the one in front of me.
“Let’s ride, brother,” he says, and I roll my shoulders back ready to do this with him.
In moments, the Hellions Motorcycle Club lines up, and I take my place with the prospects in the back. The Tail of the Dragon is not a ride for amateurs. It’s not a ride t
o take lightly. Eleven miles and over three hundred curves are ahead of us.
That’s life, though, a ride full of curves.
Before I can commit everything to memory, the time for Wesson and I arrives. The leather cuts are held up by Boomer in front of us.
The words sear to my very soul as Boomer speaks, “You are now more than my son, Colt.” He looks to my brother and nods, “Wesson, there isn’t a man standing here today stronger than you, my other son.” His eyes glass over with unshed tears as the man who is stronger than any superhero ever written fights to keep his emotions contained. Boomer takes a deep breath as Tripp, Tank, and even Shooter move to stand beside him.
“More than my sons,” Boomer begins, in unison, the men, the primary officers of the Hellions Motorcycle Club say the words I have waited to hear.
“You are now my brother.”
1
Diem
Life lessons with Diem: Whatever you do on New Year’s Day will predict what you will do the rest of this brand-new year!
“The best way to get over a breakup is to get lost in the lips of a new guy,” Emmalee states applying more mascara.
I laugh focusing on my reflection in the mirror while I put on my makeup. “First things first, trashy lashes. The best way to get over a breakup is to cloud my vision with the best mascara a girl can get at the drug store!”
We both laugh and say in unison, “The thicker the lashes, the closer to God!”
I can’t explain it but since we were around twelve or thirteen and started wearing makeup, we both have been obsessed with mascara. We may not do full makeup every day but neither of us leave home without at least one coat of the lash booster.
Emmalee Van Etten has been my closest friend since Kindergarten when I tripped on my shoelaces and she stopped running to help me. She also spent the next week at recess teaching me with all the patience a five-year-old can musterhow to tie my own shoes.
The brown-haired beauty is my sidekick in life. Her face is perfectly symmetric with nothing overstated. She has eyebrows that I swear should be in magazines. Emmalee knows how to do her makeup flawlessly. More importantly, like me, she is a self-proclaimed mascara whore.
Look, if a girl’s lashes don’t stand out, then what is the point in doing makeup in the first place? The world today is not our grandmother’s painted face.
We are getting ready to go out tonight. Living in a small town, we don’t have much in our city so tonight, like most weekends, we are headed to the beach.
Charlotte has a bigger nightlife scene, but my dad doesn’t like for me to be that far from home. Hell, he won’t even okay a trip to Raleigh for the weekend. Jacksonville is twenty minutes with traffic, so Emmalee and I frequent the clubs and bars there to keep my dad off my ass. Only there isn’t much to them. While I wouldn’t call them dives, they certainly aren’t fancy by any means. Usually, they’re filled with young Marines from the nearby base, which is always fun for flirting. Tonight is New Year’s Eve, so we are going to Booty’s on the beach. It’s the last night to go there until tourist season begins again in May. They close January second of every year until Memorial Day weekend.
Sure, I’m twenty-two-years-old and could tell my dad he can’t control me, but why? I follow his rules and live a damn good life. In fact, I’m what most people would consider spoiled.
It’s a double-edged sword because I do live a life of privilege but I’m not a bitch. I think people assume I am but really I will give the shirt off my back to someone in need. In fact, my dad doesn’t let me go to big cities unsupervised anymore. My mom and I took a trip to Washington DC when I was in high school. I ended up giving away over a thousand dollars because every homeless person I stumbled across I handed money to. My mom being the woman she is didn’t try to stop me, she smiled and kept giving me more money as I would empty my wallet. When my dad found out he was not impressed with our generosity. It wasn’t that he isn’t giving, he said we could have been hurt so to him my mother was irresponsible to allow me to openly distribute cash like an ATM machine.
I live this fabulous, carefree lifestyle that I wanted to share, what can I say?
Our house is five bedrooms, six bathrooms, and over four thousand square feet, right on the ocean in Emerald Isle. I drive a BMW and don’t have a job. My dad literally pays for everything from my college classes to the makeup I’m wasting tonight. Is it ridiculous?
Probably, but this is how I live.
My life is the kind of thing people beg for, pray for. I don’t take it for granted in the least bit.
Emmalee, like me, lives a life of privilege and appreciates it.
Tonight, like most nights we’re going out in new outfits that we ordered online. It’s a holiday, of course we want new things. She’s wearing an one-shouldered, all-black jumpsuit with flared legs. It hugs her curves and then the flare to her pants give her a taller appearance. Leopard-print pumps complete her look. While I’m in a little black dress, allowing my teal pumps to be the pop of color that drives all the eyes to my long, tone, tan legs.
Emmalee has her hair down and straightened, adding in a few hot pink extensions. My long black hair is naturally curly and even a little coarse in texture, so I have opted for a tight bun accented with a peacock feather to bring out more of the teal.
After one last coat of mascara we are off to Booty’s.
Inside the club, it’s dark like usual. The DJ plays a song with a heavy bass, and I automatically begin to move my body in rhythm to the music as we head straight for the bar. Before we can even raise a hand, the bartender moves over.
“What’s gonna be your poison tonight?” she asks wearing a pair of booty shorts and a black vest that I hope she taped to her boobs or they might fall out.
I’ve had peek-a-boo mishaps myself, and as a card-carrying member of the women empowering sisterhood, I hope she doesn’t have an accident. Then again, I admire her grind and hustle, so maybe it will help with tips!
Emmalee orders a dirty martini while I opt for a Cosmo. We get our drinks and down them as we take in the vibe of the place. It’s busy and I’m grateful because the energy is exciting. Everyone seems to be in a mood to mingle and celebrate.
The pool tables to the left are all packed. The dance floor to the right is full of people moving, and even a few of them wearing those glow bracelets and necklaces making it stand out with the purple lights that line the walls illuminating the space but not in a bright way.
The atmosphere is a mix of hip-hop meets rave with a side of redneck, if that can be a real combination. Everywhere you turn is some sort of New Year decoration and hats, glasses, and bead necklaces are laying around if anyone wants to wear them.
Three drinks in Emmalee and I are loosen up and beginning to sway in the bar stools we’re occupying. By my fifth Cosmo, I’m feeling quite the buzz and ready to shake my hips. The song changes, and it’s one of my jams.
Downing the rest of my drink, I toss my hands in the air and sway as Emmalee and I make our way to the dance area. Popping my hips, twisting, and moving, we dance together. My ass against her crotch, then we shift. Emmalee and I both get lost in movement and the sounds as everyone around us dances too. The bartender being the smart woman she is, kept our drinks coming even while we were shaking it on the dance floor.
A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. There is a man in a wheelchair dancing, and I find myself mesmerized. He has long hair that’s down around his face in waves, but it’s the way he’s moving his hands and body that enthralls me. I can almost forget he’s in a chair.
Emmalee catches my gaze and follows. Being the wild one she is, she takes me by the hand, and we head over to the man. He’s wearing shorts that cover the ends of his thighs where his legs stop. He has on a black t-shirt that is tight to his skin, showing his clearly toned body beneath the leather vest he has on. With every move of his arms, the vest shifts and more of the definition in his torso can be recognized, even under the darkness o
f the club. Both of his arms are covered in full sleeve tattoos, but I can’t take in the details.
When he lifts his head, his crystal blue eyes lock to Emmalee’s. She moves to him extending her hands. The two dance together, and I fall in rhythm with the music. We’re in the corner, and it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist.
A body moves close to me, and I look to see a man with the same features as the one in the chair, but his hair is short and spiked on top is dancing with me now. Our eyes meet, and I get stuck in a trance. So much so, I forget to take in the details of the jeans he’s wearing or the design to the charcoal gray t-shirt that clings to his body under the leather vest he is also wearing.
With my eyes on his, I dance, teasing and tempting him.
He’s hot as hell.
Turning, I let my ass bump into his jeans. Taking the hint, his hands come to my hips, pulling me against him. Confidence radiates off him as he begins to control the way we move together. One song moves into the next with Emmalee sometimes on the man in the wheelchair’s lap and other times dancing around him, all while my partner roams my body with his hands, lighting a fire deep inside me.
With the alcohol flowing through my body, the seductive song playing, the atmosphere, and the hot as hell man touching me I am getting more turned on with each passing second.
The atmosphere takes over my senses as the songs move into more and more seductive beats. Our bodies press together, and the vibration of the bass reverberates through me. With the stranger up against my back, I let all inhibitions go. The music and the feel of this strong man against me have my nipples painfully hard rubbing against the thin fabric of my dress. His hands roam as we continue to dance, and every single inch of my body tingles. Sliding my dress up and over the hills of my ass, I feel the warm air hit my backside as he tugs at the sides of my thong, only igniting the inferno inside of me further. With his guidance, I grind against the erection in his jeans, knowing the denim material is pinkening my flesh.
Bold from It: Hellions Motorcycle Club (Hellions Ride On Book 5) Page 2
