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PROLOGUE
Rebellion
“Art school! Are you insane?”
My father, head of the Burning Heretics motorcycle club in Atlanta, crosses his arms over his burly chest and glares at me from across the desk in his small, cinderblock-walled office.
I stand my ground, even though my heart races. “Yes. Art school. There are plenty of things I can do with an art degree these days.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “Nothing useful. What are you gonna do? Custom bike paint jobs? Pinstriping? Airbrushing?”
I clench my teeth. There’s a reason my father’s club name is Control. He’s president of the club, and he treats everyone in his life as if he owns them—so it’s not just me, but sometimes I think it’sespeciallyme. I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath to maintain my calm.
I’ve spent the last six weeks gathering information about the Atlanta School of Art. Not just what it takes to get in and how much it costs but what I can do with the degree once I have it.
I don’t want to spend my life tagging buildings for the club—though, as far as I can tell, that’s the most useful thing Control can think of for me to do for the Burning Heretics.
And I know that’s the next question—how will getting an art degree help Control keep his grip on the club? Because that’s what everything comes down to for Control. How can it help him?
It doesn’t help him. It might as well not exist.
That tendency to think of everything in terms of the club makes him an effective leader—but a shitty father, as far as I’m concerned.
I shove down my instant response, which is to fling myself around and leave the room, then go do my own thing.
For as long as I can remember, from the time I was just a child running around the clubhouse, I have always been determined to do what I want to do.
My father has been equally determined to make sure I did what I was told.
To say we have a contentious relationship is putting it mildly.
And yet, if I’m going to follow my dream—go to art school, maybe even end up working for one of the big animation studios in Atlanta—I’m going to need his help.
So, instead of following my instincts and slamming out of the room, I pull my portfolio out of the case I carry it in.
Sitting on top of the artwork is my plan of action. I’ve made it as professional and important looking as I possibly can because I want him to know I’ve considered all the possible ramifications of attending art school.
“I’ve worked out a budget for the next four years,” I tell him. “It covers everything—tuition, supplies, housing.”
His eyes narrow, and he holds out one hand. “Let me see it.”
I take his willingness to even look at it as a good sign. I mean, I’m sure he’ll find something wrong with it—I didn’t inherit his head for numbers, but I’ve gone over it again and again, trying to think of everything Control might object to.
As I pass it to him, my hand is shaking, and my acceptance letter slips out of the stack of papers I’m holding and flutters to the ground.
I make a frantic grab for it, but I’m too late.
Control catches sight of it and, setting the carefully constructed budget to one side, he swoops down and grabs the acceptance letter.
Fuck. I hadn’t planned for him to see that until after he acknowledged all the thought and care I’ve put into making my exit plan from the Burning Heretics. My heart stutters in my chest, and my breath catches in my throat. I stand absolutely paralyzed, frozen to the floor.
He stands perfectly still as he reads the acceptance letter. As if everything is happening in slow motion, Control’s face turns a dark shade of purple, and a vein starts pulsing in his temple.
Part of me knows that other parents—the kinds you might see on television or read about in books—would be thrilled to learn that I’ve been accepted into one of the most prestigious art schools in the Southeast and that I’ve gotten a scholarship that covers most of my tuition, even.
But not Control. He’s had my life planned out for me since I was born.
I’m supposed to marry his chosen successor, be the new generation leader’s ol’ lady, and pop out a couple of kids to form the next generation after that.
