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Clearview is a shelter, a safe place for people who have been the victim of abuse. I started volunteering when I was in high school. I’d sit with some of the kids, watching movies or reading, and help around the shelter with any cleaning or shopping that needed to be done. After graduation, I went to college, eventually earning a degree in counseling. It is hard, sometimes sad, but helping someone is extremely rewarding.
“No. I’m off today. Just heading to see dad before I leave. Mama is baking pies for this Friday’s picnic, and I told her I’d help.”
“Yum.” She licks her red-covered lips in appreciation. “Is she making her apple pies?”
“Of course,” I say with a laugh.
She chuckles and gives me a quick hug, her rose perfume familiar and comforting. “You tell your mama I’ll be by tomorrow to help out.”
“I will.” I turn to continue toward my dad’s office. “See you later, Aunt Bev.”
The noise from the bar in the motorcycle club my father runs, Dead Man’s Curse, slowly fades as I walk down the hallway. This is an old building, built sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. The first bar in this sleepy town. Wood walls. Stiff, dark green carpet. Dim lighting. One of these days, I’ll convince my dad to let me remodel the place.
Just the thought makes me chuckle. It’s an old argument, one in which he’s always victorious. But I am persistent.
Finding his door closed, I knock gently. I hear his anger, deep and gravely, coming from inside the room, his Southern accent growing thicker with each word. I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, but it sounds like someone is reneging on a deal.
Never one to get involved with club business, I turn, deciding I’ll just give him a call later, when the door opens.
My dad’s an imposing man. He isn’t overly tall, but he makes up for it in confidence and strength. His biceps bulge as he grips the phone, his other hand clenching and relaxing. His brown eyes are almost black in his anger, only lightening slightly when he sees me.
“I told you I won’t pay a cent more then what we’ve already agreed on,” he snarls, waving me toward one of the chairs by his desk. “Absolutely not. If you can’t stick with the original terms, I’ll just find someone else… What did I just say?! I’m not going to fucking repeat myself. We either still have a deal and my guys will head out to meet yours in a few hours or we don’t. The choice is yours.”
I sit back in the chair, watching him pace around the room like a caged animal. Whoever is on the other end of the phone isn’t saying anything to calm the situation. In fact, it looks like he’s deliberately provoking it. My father’s breathing quickens, face getting redder by the second.
When there’s a quick knock on the door, we both turn to see, my older brother, Brian, known as Mustang in the club, walking in with a frown.
While I take after our mama, with my long, brown hair and willowy figure, my brother definitely looks like our dad. Average height, muscular, self-assured.
My brother eyes Dad for a moment before closing the door and leaning against it.Fat Mike? he mouths. Dad nods.
This Fat Mike…what a name…sounds like someone they’ve had trouble with. At least that’s the impression I get from the look of disgust on their faces.
I should get going, I mouth and stand.
Dad holds up a finger. “Fine,” he growls into the phone. “We’ll meet today, then talk about thesechangesyou want to make.”
Dad hangs up, aggressively slamming down the receiver. “Bastard.”
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he walks over and pulls me into a hug. “What are you doing, sweetie?”
“Just heading home to help Mama with her baking,” I respond, returning the tight embrace. “I wanted to let you know I was leaving.”
Squeezing my arms one last time, Dad places a kiss on my forehead before stepping away. “Drive safe. I shouldn’t be too long before I head home myself. Tell your mama I’m putting in a request for one of those pies to be just mine.”
Laughing, I give my brother a quick hug just as he seconds the request. “You both know Mama always sets two pies aside just for you.”
“Yeah? Then why do I only ever get a slice or two?” my dad asks, shooting a glare at my brother.
Hearing him splutter something about not knowing what he’s talking about, I laugh and step out of the office. As I close the door, I hear my brother’s voice.
“Fat Mike trying to fuck with our deal?”
“We’ve never had a problem dealing with the Wicked Rogues, but maybe it’s time to cut ties. I don’t usually put a lot of stock in rumors, but the shit I hear coming out of that club lately… It’s not good.”
“I’ve heard the same.”
I worry my bottom lip. I know I shouldn’t be listening, but I can’t help it.
