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"What?" Quinn looks offended. "I wasn't about to let food go to waste."
Emerson blinks. "It had hair and stale cereal stuck to it."
Quinn just grins and shrugs his shoulders while his daughter giggles. Emerson shakes her head and looks at me. "I married that."
I burst out laughing. "That you did."
"What's everyone laughing about?" Alba walks into the kitchen with her daughter on her hip. Behind her is Gabriel and his mini-me, little Gabe.
"What stupid shit has Quinn done now?" Gabriel slaps Quinn on the back.
"Hey, why do you assume I've done something stupid?" Quinn grumbles. Gabriel gives Quinn a blank look, making everyone laugh harder.
"You know what. I'm not feelin' the love, so I'm just going to take my cinnamon roll—" he reaches past Lisa and snatches a roll from the tray "—and go see what Prez is up to." Quinn makes his dramatic exit, and Gabriel follows behind, shaking his head.
"Is there anything you need help with?" Alba asks.
I shake my head. "I think we have it covered." I smile and turn toward Lydia. "But I could use some help whisking these eggs."
"Me! Me! Me! I can help." Lydia cheers. "I'm a good whisker. I help Mommy all the time."
"Perfect. You can help me then." I pull a stool toward the counter and grab one of Lisa's aprons from the refrigerator hook. "Let's wear this, so we don't mess up your pretty dress." Lydia steps up on the stool, and I help her with the apron. "How are you at cracking eggs?" I ask.
She claps her hands. "I'm good at that part, and Daddy says I hardly get any shells in the bowl."
"Well, Miss Lydia, let's get to crackin' and whiskin' then. I'd hate for your daddy to go hungry."
Lydia scrunches her nose, giving me a serious look. "But Daddy is always hungry."
Later that morning, as I sit at the table, I realize I live for these moments with the people I consider my family. No matter the ups and downs the club goes through or the challenges we face, this makes life worth living.
At eighteen, I started dating this guy who was twenty-one. We had run in the same circle since we were kids, and our parents had been friends for as long as I could remember. I wasn't crazy about Devan, but I tolerated him. He came along during my rebellious stage. I started rebelling not long after my seventeenth birthday. By the time I turned eighteen, I’d been picked up three times by the police for public intoxication and arrested once during a raid at a house party. My father, of course, got me out of trouble each time. His people were always good at sweeping things under the rug, because God forbid the public got wind of my indiscretions. It wasn't even about me; it was about my parents’ reputations. And not once did my mom and dad stop to ask themselves or me why I was acting out.
I just wanted to be seen. I wanted them to care. But pretty soon, I stopped caring. That's where Devan came in. He had no problem providing alcohol when I wanted it, and he knew guys who could hook us up when we were looking to get high. For two years, I spiraled. All I cared about was partying and being with friends. My parents stayed on my ass and demanded I do something with the education I’d worked so hard for; to make something of myself. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I didn't want their life; I wanted my own.
The event that would forever alter my path in life came the summer after I turned twenty.
One day, Devan decides we’ll go to Vegas. I get a bad feeling in my gut when he suggests it, because Devan has recently developed a gambling problem. It's how he makes money to score drugs. They aren’t small sums of money, either.
Recently, Devan got into serious trouble with a loan shark when he couldn't pay back the twenty thousand dollars he’d lost playing cards. His parents bailed him out, making him promise no more gambling. That lasted about a week.
Now, despite my bad feelings, I go with him. On day two of the drive from Georgia to Vegas, we stop at some hole-in-the-wall biker bar in New Mexico. I know Devan and I don’t belong as soon as we enter the bar. I beg him to leave, and he promises we will after one drink. For Devan, one drink turns into five. I start panicking when he weasels into a card game some bikers are having at the back of the bar. Two hours later, Devan has lost all his cash, as well as my watch, necklace, and the diamond earrings I got from my grandmother before she passed away. And instead of cutting his losses, Devan continues playing, even though he has nothing left to give. When it’s all said and done, Devan has lost the last game and owes a biker named Rip two thousand dollars neither of us has.
"Come on, man, I don't have the two grand, but I'm good for it." Devan gurgles “please” as Rip presses his forearm harder against his throat.
"Please let him go!" I struggle against the hold Rip's biker friend has on me. "He'll pay you the money. He just needs a little time."
"Shut up, bitch," Rip sneers. Then he turns back to Devan. "Saw you drive up in a fancy-ass car."
I watch as Devan's eyes go big. He loves that car, and the brand-new black BMW is just as pretentious as him. "Not the car, man. Anything but my car."
A sinister grin spreads across Rip's face as though those were the words he wanted to hear. He removes his arm from Devan's throat and says, "Either I take the car, or I take the girl."
Suddenly there is a ringing in my ears, and I break out in a cold sweat. "Wh—what?" I look at Devan. "Give him the keys, Devan." Except Devan isn't looking at me. He's looking at the man like he's actually contemplating the deal. "Devan, give him the keys." I kick and struggle when I don't see Devan coming to my defense. "Seriously, Devan! Give him the keys." Finally, Devan looks at me. He seems almost apologetic…almost.
"I'm sorry." He turns back to the big biker. "You can have her."
"Devan!" I cry after him while trying to fight off the hold on me. "Devan, don't leave me here! Come back!"
