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“I have to get free,” I told Anouk one night.
In the dark bedroom we shared, she glanced at the doorway and shook her head. Despite her own desire to escape, she mostly wanted me to obey.
Our parents had been on the warpath since Mother had a run-in with a homestead woman named Poppy Mercer. Halfway through her rant about the big-mouthed blonde, she seemed to remember when I got caught listening to Guns N’ Roses in a music store.
Enraged over a long-ago sin, my mother insisted I receive the belt. To shut her up, my father obliged. He never minded upsetting his kids if it meant pleasing his broodmare.
With my butt on fire, I climbed out the window and disappeared into the woods.
In my head, I listened to the songs I remembered. Mostly, I recalled the homesteaders’ dirty ones.
However, my favorite song was one I heard when our church organized a car wash. I’d been in a full skirt and long sleeves under the hot sun. Miserable, I struggled to find anything good in the world. Then, the owner of the car I was washing turned on a song to piss off us religious folk. Before he left, I very casually asked him what it was called.
“Cherry Bomb,” he said, nodding at my curiosity.
My father noticed us talking and moved me away from the car. Yet, I never forgot the song. Occasionally, I was able to swipe my father’s phone when he passed out in front of the TV. Anouk and I would sit in the garage corner and listen to the song on repeat.
“That’s going to be me one day,” I always whispered to her. “Tough and wild. Nothing holding me back. I refuse to be under the Trinity Church’s boot forever.”
Anouk nodded as if she believed me, but her eyes revealed the truth. I was never going anywhere or accomplishing anything different than our mother or grandmother before us.
Life proved Anouk’s silent point when I met my future husband. Jarin Johnson was a tall, rotund man with too much facial hair and too little head hair. He shook my hand, leaving behind goo from his sweaty palm.
“He’s a doctor,” Father explained. “He lives in Basin Rock. He will marry you on Sunday.”
I wanted to rebel!Where’s my sinful nature to save me?
Under no circumstances would Jarin Johnson be my ideal man. However, even if he were better, by then, I’d already met the man of my dreams.
In the woods, on the night when my butt burned from the belt, I stumbled upon an inked god.
His name was Ike Mooney. He was not only one of those homestead people but also a member of the Rawkfist Motorcycle Club.
Tall and muscular, he appeared from the woods. I was terrified at first. In my head, I talk a good game about being a wild child with a wet-ass pussy waiting to be pounded. But the moment I saw such an imposing figure in the woods, I instantly ducked into the shadows and hid.
Yet, when Ike looked up, allowing the moonlight to reveal his handsome face, the air rushed from my lungs.I’d been spellbound.If the devil was real and capable of seducing even the most frigid woman, he’d look like Ike Mooney.
Unable to stop myself, I approached him. His thick brown hair felt soft under my fingertips. As I savored the sharp stubble across his strong jaw, my body came alive. He was a muscled, inked piece of art. His rough voice sounded like magic when he laughed. His blue eyes were jewels, shining when he smiled.
Oh, and his heart was big and kind! Ike talked with me for hours. He even played “Cherry Bomb” on his phone. I danced to the song in the moonlight and imagined I would ride away on the back of the muscled angel’s motorcycle. Freedom and passion were the best kinds of sins.
“You’re mine,” Ike Mooney promised that night.
I hated leaving his side. He was everything. I should have remained with him. But I was afraid of getting caught missing and having my punishment directed at Anouk.
Ike and I promised to meet in two nights.
But he never showed.
Of course, he didn’t.
Months passed while I waited for him to return to me.
But of course, he hadn’t.
Sinful men had no use for wannabe wild girls like me.
Yet, I still hoped.
