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"STAR!"
I put my hand up, not stopping while talking loudly over my shoulder, "It's fine, Zayne, I've got an appointment to get to," before mumbling, "and maybe a dating website to sign up for because I'm done waiting around for someone who doesn't think I'm worth fighting for."
I get to the Jeep Wrangler that my father left for me with Dead Shot when I was only 8 years old. He also taught me to drive before he disappeared. I head towards Rosie's house, where her granddaughter Annalise will teach me how to hopefully cook and take my mind off my heartbreak.
One can only hope.
I get there in under ten minutes, and a beautiful woman who looks around three or maybe four years older than me stands on the porch waiting. Her long blonde hair hangs down her back while her eyes shine with happiness. Rosie mentioned on the phone when I called asking for cooking lessons from her that her granddaughter was homeschooled and doesn't have much of a social life and that this would be right up her street, which sounds really like me, even though I'm more of a painter than a cook.
At least we're the same height, though.
I get out and smile at her, making her smile back before we hug it out. "You must be Star."
I nod. "Yep, and you must be Annalise?"
She smiles wide. "You can call me Annie; come on in."
We walk through her grandmother's flowered wallpaper living area towards the kitchen, and she hands me an apron and says, "OK, what experience do you have in the kitchen?"
I wince, "I managed to set the club kitchen alight, making toast."
Her eyes widen, and I nod before she swallows hard. "OK, so starting at the basics, I got it."
We spend the next three hours going over the basics, and I actually don't suck while she tells me all about Sweet Treats, a bakery she's opening. She mentioned Rosie showing her some of my artwork and asked if she could hang it on her walls, and I must admit, embarrassingly so, I squealed in delight. Annie and I clicked instantly in the time we spent in the kitchen, and I just knew we'd be great friends, which is amazing considering no one ever wants anything to do with me, not even my own mother.
After we set up another appointment, I give Annie a kiss on her cheek before leaving, heading home with a sigh. I wanted to have my own place by now, but unfortunately, when I contacted the lawyer the club has on retainer about my trust, he said I'd already signed documents gaining access that morning on my birthday two weeks ago, and he asked if I was 'ok.' I had to swallow my anger. When I got home, my mother and sister were loading bags into a cab. My sister had smirked, climbing into the back while my mother looked down on me, refusing to look into my caramel eyes that were so much like my father's.
"I've withdrawn the $10,000 my husband left you. I’m taking your sister on holiday; it's the least you could do; seems as though you killed my love."
I just stood there in shock, like seriously, my mother committed fraud and stole from me without a care in the world, and when I went to my room, my draws had been emptied and the envelope of cash I had been saving from the café job I got at sixteen to pay for my clothes because my mother refused to because I had 'killed her husband' was gone. They stole my hard-earned wages and my trust from my father, all while leaving the house in a mess that I had to clean up before they got back and restockedthe fridge per her request in a note. The lawyer had called me back after I hung up on him, rushing home. He asked if I wanted to press charges, but I obviously declined; they're my family, and what would have been the point?
I pull up in front of my mother's home and sigh again before getting out, grabbing the extra paint supplies I'd picked up on the way back so Annie has some new paintings for her walls, and head inside. My mother is sitting on the sofa, drinking a glass of wine, and sneers when she sees my supplies. She hates that I'm in art school and has made it perfectly clear that it's not a job that will continue to pay her bills and put food on her table. My wages from my job either go to her or I’m out on my ass; it's just a good thing she doesn't know how much I earn, including tips.
"Where's your wage?"
She asks me this every time she sees me, and I just shake my head at her: "I don't get paid until the end of the week, you know that." She sneers again, but I ignore her, going to my room, already fed up with being here. I'm tempted to move into my father's room at the clubhouse. No one else can gain access, so they'll never know I'm there unless the prospect at the gate tells Axel, the new Pres who is also Dead Shots' son and someone I see as a brother. I know my mother would still demand my wages, though, because, you know, I killed her husband and all.
I shake my head before going to my door but stop when I hear my sisters moan, "Oh, Flame, yes, yes, right there, fuck your cock is so big."
My whole body vibrates.
Please, no, please don't tell me I kissed him and he decided to go to my sister yet again.
I stand here for another couple of minutes, hoping I'm wrong, when his long groan echoes through the hallway, "Fuck, yesssss," and my tears instantly spill. How much more hurt can someone take?
I go to my room and look around. I have locks on my draws that Emma has bitch slapped me for time and time again. This isn't home anymore; it's tainted because of them and because of him. With that thought in mind, I grab my suitcase from under my bed and the two duffle bags. I don't have much to pack; my sister and mother have slowly been clearing out my belongings and selling them. That's why I've locked away the precious things my father got me, like the fairy musical box, the money my mother doesn't know about, and the necklace that has a sapphire gem on it that my sister had been eyeing for months after Daddy bought it. I grab the locked box from under my bed; new knife marks are on it, and I roll my eyes before putting it in my suitcase. I then pack the rest of my clothes, which aren't much, before grabbing the pictures of my dad and me as well as my paint supplies.
Quietly as I can, I grab the suitcase and two bags and slowly make my way out of my now-old room, ignoring the moans coming from Emma's bathroom and the pain that shoots through me. I make my way down to see my momma passed out and nod my head before going out. I look towards my right and see Zayne's bike; another tear falls, and for once I decide to do something really petty that he kept accusing me of time and time again. I chuck my things in my Jeep before grabbing my keys.
I walk over to his bike and admire the orange flames I did for him before running the key over it several times so it's all scratched up and ruined, not giving a crap about a brother's bike being sacred because, well, guess what? So was my heart, and he tore it out. I walk back to my Jeep and turn onthe hands-free after starting her up. Dead Shot answers after the second ring,
"Sweetheart, is everything okay?"
I clear my throat. "I'm going to stay in Dad's room for a few weeks until I get my own flat. Is that okay?"
He's quiet for a few moments as I drive away from my childhood home before he clears his throat. "Yeah, Starfish, that's fine; I'll let the prospects know to keep it on the down low. Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really, but thanks, Uncle. I'll see you later."
