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“I don’t think they’re going to show their faces anywhere near you, the club, or Shawn,” Gnaw says with a laugh. “Where to now?”
“My own mom and stepdad. I don’t know where they are exactly, but I’m assuming they haven’t left their own shithole.”
“Pineville, Texas. Home of the shitholes,” Piston says, reversing the truck.
“That’s about the long and short of it,” I mutter as I shift my attention toward the passenger window of the truck.
Piston drives straight toward my parents’ place. It’s been about two decades since I’ve been in their home, but I’m good and fired the fuck up. They owe the club some money, and they owe me a hell of a lot more than that, although I know I’ll probably never get either from them. I just want them to sweat, and I’m going to try to get my club their dues.
SHAWN
I’m not his mother.
I’m not his mother.
I’m not his mother.
I repeat those words over and over to myself as I clean his room… like his damn mother. I’m not sure how long it takes me, but when I’m finished, I’ve broken a sweat and have stripped the bed down to the mattress, mattress pad and all.
I’m actually surprised that he even had a mattress pad. I’ve got the sheets in my arms, ready for the washing machine… if I knew where the washing machine was located. If I had a car, I would probably forgo the whole washing process of these sheets and just go buy a whole new set. Or maybe leave altogether.
I open the bedroom door, the sheets piled in my arms. Looking around, from left to right, for anyone loitering in the hallway who could help me. But I’m alone. I can hear the low thrum of the rock music playing in the bar, and there are voices there, but I don’t want to walk out there with dirty sheets in my hands.
“You lost, hon?” a syrupy-sweet voice with a twang calls out from my left.
Smiling, I shift my attention to her, but that smile dies almost instantly at the sight of her. She’s practically naked, wearing what I would maybe call a bikini top, but possibly one that is made for a toddler because the little triangles only cover her areolas… barely.
Her bottoms are slightly larger. They’re a pair of denim shorts that are cut almost like panties. I’ve never seen shorts cut quite that way before, and I have to wonder if she did them herself or bought them that way. And where the hell does someone buy something like that?
On her feet are five-inch heels. I’ve never seen anything like her in all my life. Her blonde hair is teased to the heavens, and her makeup is so heavy that I wonder if she actually washes it off at night or if she just applies more and it’s in layers.
“I’m looking for a washing machine,” I murmur.
She smiles, her teeth bright white, almost florescent, shimmering in the light. I can’t help but just stare at her after I’ve announced my need for the washing machine. She tilts her head to the side, then purses her bright-red lips together.
“Come on this way. We have a storage room with two washers and two dryers. It also has TP, paper towels, cleaning supplies, stuff like that. I’m taking it you’re new here, so you’re on cleaning duties until you’ve been vetted and stuff,” she says, her eyes shifting up and down my entire body. She shrugs a shoulder, then turns her back to me and begins to walk down the hallway.
I follow behind her, unsure of everything she’s just rambled. I don’t understand why I would be vetted for anything and why she’s saying I’m new here and have cleaning duties. Then I wonder if she’s one of the guys’ girlfriends and maybe this is some kind of test that they put us all through? Leaving us their nasty bedrooms to make somewhat livable.
But when she steps to the side and I take in her clothes again, I think that maybe she isn’t a girlfriend. Maybe she’s someone else, and that causes my heart to race. I’m not sure how I know, but I know that she is not a girlfriend. She’s more than that. She’s different.
I slip past her and into the room. She follows me, moving around the space as she points out where everything is. Then, I shove the mattress protector in the washing machine and add soap. She watches me, clearing her throat.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you are not a clubwhore,” she murmurs.
Closing the lid slowly, I start the machine. As if I’m wading through molasses. As if everything is happening in slow motion. I turn around to face her. She has her brow arched, her arms crossed over her chest, and a smile painted on her red lips.
“My name’s Poison.”
Well. I don’t like anything about that. Not a single fucking part of it.
“No,” I whisper. “I am not… that.”
I can’t even say the word. Words are nothing but words until you give them value, but at the same time, I’m used to my mother saying nasty things to me, so I don’t even like to think them, let alone say them like that.
“Clubwhore,” she says as she pushes off the wall. “You’re not. I see that now. But just be aware that we’re here and you’re going to have to get used to us.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to get used to?” I ask on a whisper.
