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Control has been trying to get in good with them for years and trying to expand our territory into Alabama. Whatever he’s got going now, he seems to be managing to do both of those things all at the same time. He won’t do anything that gives him even the tiniest air of weakness in front of the people he’s bringing in.
I’m sure I’ll have to pay for it later, atone for my act of rebellion with pain. Just like I always have.
But I can’t bring myself to care. Control wants to change who I am, erase my identity, and make me just a subsegment of him.
I won’t have it.
And my new mural on the inside wall of the clubhouse says as much.
All the Burning Heretics who are here right now believe I am decorating the main meeting hall for our big Mardi Gras party.
It’s an annual tradition—Control was born in New Orleans and likes to keep some traditions alive.
In the mural, I’ve used the traditional Mardi Gras colors—yellow, purple, and green—and the top half is an ornate Mardi Gras mask decorated with jewels and peacock feathers.
But underneath the mask is a self-portrait.
It’s me, holding the mask up to my eyes with one hand, staring out over the meeting hall with one side of my mouth quirked up in an impish grin, smiling like I own the place.
I can’t count the number of times Control has threatened to slap that exact smile off my face, promising to show me who’s boss. He hates that expression on my face, and I know it.
I’m sure he’ll try to make me sorry for it later, but right now, this is my payback for him destroying my artwork.
I step back and gaze up at the image. Ribbons float off the mask on an invisible breeze, trailing across the walls, intermixed with more peacock feathers.
And on the other side of the room, I’ve painted another figure.
I intended for it to be a generic male in a complementary mask.
Somehow, though, it ended up being a blond man about my age.
Most of his face is covered by a mask similar to the one I painted for myself—his eyes show through, a sultry look in them, and there’s a softness around his mouth. The whole thing reminds me a little bit of Leon—at least what I’ve seen of him in the few days we’ve been talking.
It’s ridiculous for me to be so focused on him already. After all, we’ve met only once.
I knew I wanted someone completely different from Control. I assumed that meant finding a man who worked in corporate America, someone who had been to college and lived in a different world from the one I inhabited.
That’s not Leon—not entirely, anyway.
He’s a mechanic, not a corporate type. But at least he didn’t grow up in the world of the motorcycle club, where honor and loyalty are everything, and no one seems to care about actual people.
We’ve been texting every day since our first date. We haven’t been able to find a time to go out again—and it’s probably the best since the last thing I want to do is get too involved with someone before I know where my life is going.
But I can’t quit thinking about him.
I begin layering the paint, letting the process of creation take over. My mind drifts as the images on the walls become brighter, more realistic, almost like photos.
It’s almost five hours later when I finally finish, the time having passed without me even noticing it.
I blink, realizing that the artwork is done.
I step back into the center of the room and turn in a slow circle, checking the lines and colors to make sure it’s truly what I want.
“Beautiful,” Flirt says from the doorway.
I nod slowly. “Thanks. I’m pretty happy with it.”
Really, that’s an understatement.
