I don’t want to waste any more of my days separated from them. Defying my father’s rules and ignoring their warning is worth whatever ramifications that may occur. So long as we are together, our lives can crumble, and I would still be more than satisfied. I don’t need the world; I just need them by my side.
With each day we stay in this town, and they continue to dawn the smooth, cold leather with their decorated patchwork, it only stifles our ability to live how we want: free. Just the three of us creating a life of our own without the confines of the Reaper code.
Much like the Grim Reaper, the Reaper oath acts as a leech: unrelenting in its cravings for the blood of all who cross its formidable path. Safety, much like freedom, is a mirage once the infamous, black-cloaked patch dons your leather vest or, in my case, when the emblem of doom is branded into your DNA. It doesn’t matter how the club finds you because once it does, the only way out is in a hearse. That is, if you are so lucky as to have a body to be buried after they are done with you.
Paxton and Cillian didn’t have many options when life threw them out on the street. So, the Reapers did what they do best: snatch the souls of those who are broken, keeping them forever indebted to their organization. And since my mother decided to screw their leader, I have the distinct privilege of being an endless ploy in my father’s schemes.
Even though I feel hatred toward my mother for abandoning Zeke and me when I was only a baby, part of me wishes she had taken me with her. Whatever sad life she lives with her junkie boyfriend has to be better than the depravity I have had to endure existing as Donato Grimmrose’s only daughter.
It wouldn’t be so bad if my father valued me as he does my brother. At least for Zeke’s sake, his role in our father’s life and the organization is deemed “vital” because he has a dick. Such bullshit, as if owning one means you are automatically capable of what it takes to be a leader.
Being a strong, capable leader doesn’t come from what is between your legs, it stems from the fire that burns within your spirit. I have felt that fire lingering within me for as long as I can remember. My father has not only ignored it but tried to suffocate it so all that remains are compliant ashes.
If it were up to Zeke, he would rather be the one forced to go to college and be married off to a stranger in exchange for the club solidifying a merger with another MC while he sits idle.
Unlike me, the one who craves the adrenaline rush that comes with having a gun holstered to my side while riding with my father and his band of heathens. But that will never be a reality. My father has made sure of that by promising me to Roberto Dreadmore, son of Hector Dreadmore, leader of the Salem Riders MC. My father has wanted to set up a merger with their MC for as long as I can remember, and it’s only because of my existence and their archaic traditions that the pending expansion is even on the table.
Excluding me from becoming a member of the Reapers isn’t out of love or concern for my well-being. There isn’t an ounce of compassion that flows through my father’s hardened heart. He has made that clear from an early age by dismissing me every chance he got. My father only sees his children for what they can do to benefit him. In Zeke’s case, it’s being his second-hand, and for me, it’s being the hand he can offer in exchange for gaining what he cares about most: power.
Or, at least, the illusion of having power, because belittling and manipulating others in order to sit on a self-ordained throne symbolizes a fragile reign at best.
My father should know by now that I may have inherited my mother’s looks—or so I have been told, as I never had the opportunity to know her—but I have his strong will, and that is a lethal combination. One he will come to terms within just a few weeks’ time. Except, when he does, I won’t be here to deal with his pitiful wrath. I— No, we will be long gone.
As I approach the small parking lot, I feel a bead of sweat drip down my forehead from the humidity that hangs heavy around me.
I glance down at the vibrant yet delicate Penstemon flowers that grace each side of my Doc Martens. Rich shades of amethyst and magenta swirl together against subtle pale green stems, each hand-painted with exquisite detail.
Usually, I wouldn’t wear boots on a warm day like today, but I couldn’t miss an opportunity to wear these literal pieces of art the guys gifted me. The vivid memory of the day they gave them to me is what I have held on to these past few months. These boots symbolize my last moment of normalcy before I was sacrificed like roadkill to famished vultures. It’s an exaggeration, sure, but it’s the only way I can put into words what being forced apart has felt like.
Plus, I figured once they see how sexy these custom Docs look styled against my exposed muraled legs, their disappointment in my defiance would soften. I chuckle to myself, clinking the keys together in my hand. That’s doubtful, but worth a shot, nonetheless. If nothing else, I will be able to get a kick out of seeing their jaws tense when I push their buttons and test the limits.
Now standing in front of my all-black Harley, I wipe away the sweat forming on my forehead. Before sliding my helmet on, I adjust the ends of my two French braids, bringing my long, jet-black hair forward and over my collarbone.
Settling into the cushioned seat, still warm from the sun beating down on it all day, I glide the kickstand back. My skin sticks to the leather as I rev the engine, reveling in the way it purrs back at me. Twisting the throttle once more, I hit the gas, causing a roar to bounce off the brick buildings that surround the small parking lot.
I turn onto the main road, cruising at a steady speed, until I see signs for the interstate. Keeping my hand on the accelerator, I gradually increase speed to merge onto the highway.
The anticipation I have felt all day waiting until I can head to their show has created a fierce need inside me. I feel as though I am operating on pure adrenaline. The more I think about seeing them, the more I thrust my hand on the throttle, making me feel like I’m being lifted off the pavement, floating.
I revel in the way the wind whips against my body with each sway the bike makes as I weave through traffic. The combination of speed and the vibration of the engine radiating on the seat sends a familiar warmth to my center.
Leaning forward, I roll my hands on the handlebars as I continue riding down the highway. Each time I pick up speed, zooming past the cars that crowd the roadway, the mental image of their large, ink-covered hands tightly clasped around my airway causes flutters to form in my stomach. Visions of them exuding control over me—starving me of the oxygen that feels so pointless to consume if they aren’t in my life—increase the arousal starting to form between my legs.
Finally, I approach the exit. Reducing my speed, I turn down the winding ramp. With a rolling stop, I scan the exit. Next to the interstate sign is a wooden stake secured at an angle in the ground. Attached to it is a weathered piece of scrap wood with red-painted letters that read “Chamber’s Door Carnival This Way,” with an arrow pointed to the right, directing me to veer off the main road to a dense area of weeping willow trees lining an unpaved pathway.
Rocks spew upward as I ride down the darkened path, the expansive trees creating a blanket above me and blocking out the already dwindling sun. Debris kicks up the farther I head down the bumpy trail, creating a cloud of dust that makes visibility increasingly difficult when mixed with the dark tint of my helmet’s visor.
Suffering through these unideal riding conditions for a few moments more, relief washes over me as the striped tents come into closer view, along with the booming music from deep inside the carnival. Keeping my focus on the tents ahead, I continue down the gravel path until I spot a parking area.
Music blares from beyond the makeshift entrance. Cliché circus-style instrumentals hit my eardrums first before the muffled beat of guitars and drums being played in the distance begin to compete with my attention.
My excitement heightens at knowing that, in a few minutes, I will finally be able to see and experience them in their element. Together, playing music, and away from Reaper territory.
Once parked, I quicken my pace, heading to the main entrance. To blend in, I begin to match my stride with the mass of people that filter in around me near the ticket booth.
Thankfully, there are more carnival goers than employees, so no one notices me slip on by without purchasing a ticket. It’s not that I don’t have the money, but the line is long, and I don’t want to waste any time and risk missing them play on stage.
Keeping stride with the crowd around me, I make my way to the arched tunnel a few feet ahead of the concert tent.
