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My entire relationship with my father is a series of rebellions and punishments in a never-ending loop.
If I were smart, I would drop this, let it go, and follow his orders.
I can’t bring myself to do that.
So instead, I open my texts, and before I can think better of it, I send a message to Bacchus—to Leon.
RebellionArt770: My father is having a Mardi Gras party at his clubhouse. Would you like to join us?
Leon reads the message almost immediately and responds within seconds.
Bacchus0320: Sounds like fun. I’d love to.
Rebellion770: Technically, it’s a masquerade party. But I can make you a Mardi Gras mask if you’d like.
Bacchus0320: A RebellionArt original? I’m honored.
His response sends a warm glow through me. I’ve never had anyone other than a few teachers treat my work as if they were precious somehow. I’m smiling as I send the details about the party to him.
On my way back to the shop to see how far Mech has gotten with my car, I stop in the clubhouse bathroom.
My cheek is already starting to show a little discoloration. It’s definitely going to be a bruise, but far from the worst I’ve ever had. I’ll cover it up with makeup. And if it’s not gone by the night of the party, I’ll make sure the mask I make conceals it.
Somehow, I don’t think Leon would understand why I have a bruise.
And just in case, I will come up with a plausible story.
Just like I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.
SEVEN
Dion
In the past few days, I’ve gotten a good bit of work done. Not only have I moved some of my clothing to my new apartment, but I’ve completed a couple days worth of work for Doug. I figured I’d pick up some work whenever I got to Atlanta because it would help me with my cover as a young man who’s just moved here. Not only is it helping me with my cover, but it’s nice working for Doug.
He’s a pretty chill older guy, and as long as you do the work right and get it done, he doesn’t really care about the techniques you use to do it. I have been putting a couple of the older guys to shame at the shop because I’m finishing jobs two to three times faster than they are. We get paid hourly for labor, and I know they want to make money for themselves and for the shop, but there’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. Overcharging the clients isn’t exactly the best thing to do if you ask me. It’s Doug’s shop, though, so, at the end of the day, he’s the boss.
I just finished work for the day, so I grab my blue shop towel and wipe down my station. Even though I’m used to having grease and oil all over my clothes, I don’t like it all over my workspace. Every day I always clean up my area and any tools that might’ve gotten something on them.
Back in the day, when my father was teaching me how to work on vehicles, he instilled the fact I should keep my work area clean, and I have ever since. I guess you never forget some things, and you can never grow out of them.
Once I’m finished cleaning up my workstation, I say my goodbyes to the other men in the shop and exit the building. I walk around the corner and walk up the stairwell to my apartment. Fishing the keys out of my pocket, I unlock the door and walk inside. I kick my boots off by the front door and walk straight into the master bedroom, heading for the bathroom.
Once I’m at the sink, I put a couple pumps of a grime and grit-removing soap called Fast Orange. It has pumice inside, which helps removes any chemicals or substances that are stained on your skin. I have another ‘normal’ soap on the other side of the sink, but after work, I have to use the pumice soap. If I don’t, my hands still stay stained, and I’ll end up getting grease or oil marks on whatever I touch.
I scrub my hands over and over again, then use my elbow to turn on the hot water. I dip my hands under the water briefly and scrub everything more. I don’t want there to be one spec of anything on my hands because tonight I have my second date with Lacey, who loves to be called Rebellion. In fact, she prefers it. I thought she was messing with me at first, and while she hasn’t told me why she doesn’t like to be called Lacey, I’m sure, at some point, she’s going to end up telling me the story.
She invited me over to a Mardi Gras party at her father’s clubhouse, which is exactly the sort of opportunity I’ve been hoping for. Tonight is only the first of many steps I’ll need to make my club proud. I’ve been thinking about it, and if this is going to be a fully packed clubhouse party, Control might have business associates there. I know my father has invited people he’s wanted to impress to parties we’ve thrown in the past. I don’t really understand the thought behind doing it, but that’s why I’m not the Prez. It’s not my job to worry about any of that shit.
I strip out of my dirty clothes and toss them in the hamper located next to my shower. The bathroom might as well be my favorite room in this apartment. There’s more exposed brick along the far wall, and the shower is made up of large slate tiles with a rainfall shower head. I’m used to vinyl and cheap shit, but this place was done up really nicely. You can tell Doug and his son put a lot of thought into this apartment. This place gives me some really good ideas for what I’m going to want to do when we finish building at the property the club owns.
Dad recently told us he’s going to be building an apartment complex of sorts, specifically because our members are eventually going to shack up with someone, and there’s a possibility of more growth with kids. He doesn’t want people moving to different areas or being away from the clubhouse, and in events where we have major conflicts going on, I know we’re going to like the fact everyone is close by.
I get in the shower and try to be quick because I have to meet Rebellion at the coffee shop where we had our first date. I agreed to meet her there so she could ride with me over to the party. When I moved out here for this undercover operation, I didn’t just bring my bike. I brought my brand-new GMC Denali. I don’t want Rebellion to see any sort of ties between me and a biker club, so I’m not going to be riding my bike everywhere. Whenever she sees my bike, I’ll tell her I ride on occasion. It’ll be a complete and utter lie. Riding is my therapy. It’s my me time where I find peace in the wind hitting my face.
Once I’m finished in the shower, I dry off and head into my closet. I grab a black pair of jeans and a plain fitted black t-shirt. I don’t really know what the fuck I’m supposed to be wearing, so I’m going to go with black. The party’s at a biker club, so I doubt it’s formal in any way.
Once I get dressed, I head over to the entrance of my apartment and slide on some black sneakers. I don’t want to look like a biker at all, so I’m aiming to look like a well-dressed mechanic. I even throw a silver chain around my neck. It’ll show a little bit through my collar, but not too much. After I give myself a once over in the mirror, I grab the keys to my Denali and my apartment keys, then head out the door.
