Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Why not, though? Isn’t a MC kind of just the same thing as a gang?
“In a way, yeah. I think the MC just has more of a family vibe to it. Something we were all kind of looking for,” I admitted.
“I know a thing or two about family dysfunction,” she agreed. “My mom’s a fucking psycho.”
“And your dad?” I asked.
“Oh, big finance bro. Lots of fancy lawyers who somehow got him out of paying child support or having to see me growing up,” she said, but somehow without a trace of bitterness.
“You’re not pissed about that?” I asked.
“Oh, dude, I don’t waste time on getting angry. I just go ahead and get even. When I was sixteen, I wanted a car. I’d been busting my ass working to save for one. But my aforementioned psycho mom found and drained my account just shy of when I’d have what I needed,” she told me.
“What’d she use it for?” I asked, thinking maybe it was to pay bills. That didn’t make it right, but it was at least a halfway decent reason.
“Oh, to fund a girls trip to the Caribbean. Which she left me home for, mind you,” she said. “Which worked out in my favor, because there was no one to get suspicious when I spent a full week stalking my father.”
“Stalking him for what?”
“To catch him cheating on wife number two,” she said. “He had a cheating clause in his prenup. Which was really fucking stupid for someone who cheated on wife number one with wife number two. But it worked in my favor. A couple of photographs and a threat to tell the wife’s lawyer landed me a much nicer car than the one I wanted.”
“You blackmailed your own father?” I asked, feeling my lips curve up. “That’s pretty fucking epic.”
“I know, right?” she agreed, shooting me a smirk over her shoulder.
“What kind of car did you take him for?”
“A black Corvette convertible. Fifty-something grand seemed to cover a few years of those missing child support payments,” she said. “God, I loved that car. Not because of the car per se. I don’t give a shit about cars. But because of how I got it. That was a rush.”
“I’m assuming it didn’t work out with wife number two?” he asked.
“No. I mean, that was probably because I made an anonymous phone call a few weeks later, telling her where to catch him cheating for herself. I got my car, she got her money, and my old man got to move onto wife number three. Worked out for all of us.”
I could see her doing all of that, too. Even at sixteen, I imagined she was a little badass. Probably a little more mad at the world than she was now, because weren’t we all back then? But just as sure of herself and daring.
“Ever talk to your dad again?” I asked.
“Not in any sort of meaningful way. I wasn’t looking for a connection. I don’t see any reason to beg to be in someone’s life if they clearly don’t want you there.”
“I get that,” I agreed.
“So, what was your family life like?”
“Had a dad who drank too much. And when he did, he got angry. Usually at me. Had a hateful mom with a cigarette constantly dangling from her lips. Would constantly tell me how I’d ruined her life. And because of that, she riled up my old man’s temper when he got home from work, then directed him at me.”
“That sucks,” Rynn said, shaking her head a little.
“Yeah. It was pretty common in my group of friends. So we all hung together to avoid going home to our fucked up families.”
“So the MC is like your found family.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I agreed. “Don’t think any of us knew what we were missing until we found it.”
It was nice, though. Having people around for holidays or special events. When I was down with a gunshot wound, there was always someone there to help me move around, to change my dressings, to bring me food and drinks, so I didn’t have to move more than was necessary.
Sure, there were occasional moments of tradition in my upbringing. Once in a while, my old man brought home a tree for Christmas. Then he and my mom would get into screaming matches over the lights and ornaments.
When I’d broken my leg doing an—admittedly reckless—stunt on my skateboard, my mom had come to the hospital. But she’d lectured me the whole way home about being an idiot, and making her leave work to deal with me. They never took me to follow-up appointments. And my old man cut off my cast with a saw he’d borrowed from work.
It was probably why that leg ached when the weather was wet.
“Do you still see your family?” she asked. “If they’re alive, that is,” she added.