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Sure, I felt stupid sitting on the ground with their two little boys, watching cartoons and wearing oversized sweats. But I didn’t dare leave. Even if Brody hurt me later, I figured the good stuff was worth the abuse.
The next day, his friends returned—several big, tattooed men and a bitchy woman. I soon learned Brody and his crew were criminals.
As they talked in the small, attached garage, I stood outside and watched. Betty came over to check on me.
“We’re going to build a place where people like us can be safe and comfortable,” she explained as she handed me a bag of chips like she had for her boys. “They’ve been saving up to buy land. In a few years, we’ll have a safe home. I hope you’ll join us.”
“Why the fuck would you want that?” I grumbled, thinking she was buttering me up for some evil shit about to happen.
Betty carefully rested her hand on my shoulder. That’s when I realized she did fear me despite how warm she behaved.
Her hand on my shoulder felt real nice. I saw how she touched her boys. It made me wonder why my mom hated me so much. I used to figure all abused people were mean. Except Betty got beat on, yet she was tender with everyone.
That was the day I came to understand how people weren’t cursed to be their parents.Being a violent monster was a choice.
“The lives we were born into aren’t our fault,” Betty explained when I remained wary. “Everyone should get a second chance. What will you do with yours?”
I hadn’t really understood what she meant. I figured she viewed me as a charity case. I got that pity shit from CPS in the beginning. Therapists would claim I had the choice to be healthy. There was a foster mom who called me “baby” like I was a sweet thing she was going to love. But none of those people really cared. I assumed the same about Brody and Betty, but I was wrong.
By the time the Born Villains Motorcycle Club was founded, I was a regular fixture at the Marsden home. Still in my teens, I rode my own motorcycle alongside Brody. Those tattooed men and the one bitch—a good-looking blonde named Ominous who popped my cherry when I was old enough to know what was what—were my friends. After a lifetime alone, I’d found my people.
The club bought land and began building the Sanctuary. Brody took the road name Papa Bear. Betty became Betty Boop, leading the wives to create a warm, safe place for their families. Their children would never know the pain and rejection we did growing up.
Those next years were a blur. Walls were built around our safe space. We fought against any threat. Plenty of blood was spilt, but we always came out on top.
Over time, I grew into a huge guy. Women wanted me. Men feared me. Life was no longer a burden.
But I shouldn’t have let my guard down.
A decade passed, and our club’s numbers grew. One day, my sister appeared at our front gate, sporting a broken jaw and dead eyes. Others like her started showing up, needing sanctuary.
Eventually, Papa Bear’s foster brother—a tough, Indigenous American bastard named Graeme Hubbard—became Metamora’s sheriff. His other foster brother—a book smart Latino named Sal Perez—returned to town to open a clinic. Risa and Betty Boop opened up a local women’s shelter called Bettina’s House.
At the Sanctuary, we built a one-story house we called the “Stockade” for castoffs needing more protection. The club bought properties around town, claiming Metamora and expanding our territory.
Eventually, though, egos crashed into each other. Our VP, Kraken—a mean fucker with a twin brother, two old ladies, and five sons with potential to be our future president—lashed out at Papa Bear and left the club, taking a decent number of members with him. His twin brother—our Secretary Flagg—did not follow him.
None of that fazed me, though. My loyalty was to Papa Bear and Betty Boop. They were the only people I really loved. Even my sister and I mostly just grunted at each other when we crossed paths at the Sanctuary.
Then, my boy was born. Lando was from a hookup with a dumb bitch completely unsuited for motherhood. I begged the dimpled dummy with her big hair and little brain not to have the baby. No kid deserved such shitty people as parents. Ciara refused to listen. She was fucked in the head, thinking being a mommy would be fun and give her the love her idiot parents never did.
Lando didn’t survive two years with her as his mom. She’d taken him to her parents’ house to show off how well she was doing. Ciara’s family threw a party, where they got wasted and didn’t pay attention to my boy. He drowned in a kiddie pool, mere feet from where Ciara and her parents were hanging out. They didn’t even notice he was dead until another kid complained how he wouldn’t play with her.
Weeks later, Ciara’s parents were dead from a house fire. Though I had no trouble ending them, I couldn’t stomach doing the same to the stupid bitch who gave Lando his dimpled cheeks.Life on the Sanctuary had made me soft.
When I learned my boy was dead, I cried for the first time since I was a kid. Lando was a funny, slobbery creature who really liked me. I hadn’t done much with him when he was a baby. Once he started walking, his mom would dump him at my place. He had my dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. When I looked at him, I’d see myself as a tiny boy. I couldn’t believe I’d ever been so innocent.
Lando and I got along fine when he stayed over. He liked my grilled cheese sandwiches, and I didn’t mind his dumb kid shows.
I’m often haunted by how my boy begged to stay with me rather than visit his grandparents’ house. The little guy cried when I said he had to go. I promised he’d be okay, and we’d play when he came back.
I let Lando down. I hadn’t wanted to be a dad, so I half-assed raising the kid. A little part of me had kept my distance out of fear I’d snap and turn violent like my parents.
But I could have tried to be like Papa Bear. He wouldn’t have let a moron like Ciara take their kid to visit the same neglectful dickheads she fled from years ago. Lando would still be alive if he had a dad like Papa Bear rather than me.
Though I don’t suffer many regrets, I nurse plenty over Lando. He was my chance to be a good man. I’d gotten too accustomed to only caring about myself. I never followed in Papa Bear and Betty Boop’s footsteps by using my good fortune to fuel an urge to protect others.
If I met them younger, maybe I would have grown into a half-decent man. But by the time Papa Bear entered my life, I was too much of an asshole to change.
