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But she did.
And holy shit was I in trouble.
Still the Gremlin did not cry. Instead, she beat me with her crutches when my mom made me give her flowers and apologize.
It didn’t matter what I said or did, tears never spilled out. Only pushing me harder to get them to.
One day I’d make it happen, and it would be the best freaking feeling in the world.
Until then…
I’d keep trying.
4
JACKSON
Then: Eight years old
Out of nowhere, the car stopped and it took me a second to realize where we were.
“Jackson,” Dad said, turning around with a stern look on his face, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Enough.”
We were on our way to the End of the Road clubhouse for the Jameson’s weekly barbeque.
The MC hosted the family event every Sunday, rain or shine. Where the parents would bs about how great their kids were, and the kids would see how much trouble they could get in without getting caught.
I usually loved Sundays, being around a bunch of bikers who treated me like I was one of them. It was always the highlight of my week, except for football.
I’d been playing football ever since I could remember. Everyone always said I had one hell of an arm, so they made an exception to let me play for our city league. I was the youngest player at eight, but I was still the most valuable player.
Quarterback.
The best part of being MVP were the cheerleaders. They didn’t know I wasn’t twelve yet, and I didn’t tell them otherwise. Just one of the perks of being a football star meant I was popular in all the nearby school districts. Everyone knew who I was…
And I meant everyone.
Football was life in our small beach town and scouts were already looking at me for college and I was only in the second grade.
I was kind of a big deal around these parts.
Neither the bikers nor the coaches gave a shit if I cussed, talked about all the girls that liked me, or even when I needed to fix my junk in public.
Sometimes it was all three at once, and no one said a word about it.
It was guy stuff.
At the clubhouse, we’d have so much fun blowing shit up, shooting rifles, looking for trouble in the woods. Which dumbass, annoying, loud-mouth Harley Jameson always thought she could be part of.
“Why are we at the Gremlin’s house instead of the clubhouse?”
“Jagger, can you ride with Harley’s parents? Luke’s waiting for you,” Mom said to him while she turned and looked at me. “Harley’s mother and I thought it would be a good idea if we made the two of you spend some quality time together.”
Before I could say something about the stupidest idea ever, Jagger opened the door and got out.
“Traitor!” I shouted as he shut the door behind him.
Jagger and Harley’s younger brother Luke were complete opposites. Luke was the firstborn son of a biker Prez, and Jagger was the son of a surgeon, but it never stopped them from being friends.
