CHAPTER23
During lunch, I go to the library. There’s no way in hell that I’m going to face Brett and Corey, not after the shit Brett pulled with my test.
Quickly, I log onto a computer. It’s time I learn who exactly Brett Russo is. There has to be a reason why no one is willing to stand up to him.
Immediately, there pops up a news article about a Dylan Russo. Maybe he’s Brett’s father. Let’s see… Dylan was involved in some kind of motorcycle brawl, and the article is going on about a motorcycle gang. Dylan’s a part of it.
Savage Reapers.
Brett’s father is in a motorcycle club.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Because my father is in a motorcycle club.
Actually, that’s not even the half of it. Brandon Slade is the head of a motorcycle club. Thunder Crows. Yes, despite being a drunk, my father is the head of a huge motorcycle club. He also owns a bar. Probably gets free drinks, which only makes his alcoholism worse. Then again, I wonder if the stress of being a motorcycle club president is one of the reasons for all of the drinking.
Ironic, isn’t it, that my mom didn’t want me to have a motorcycle considering my father is the head of a club, right? I could’ve gone straight to my father and asked him for a bike, but I always valued my mom, and I never wanted to do anything she disapproved of. That’s why I went to her first about the bike. I never did go to my father about it, and of course he didn’t teach me how to ride it. He didn’t have time for any of that.
My father lives like we're one of the rich and famous, what with the mansion and the maids and all of that. I don't know if owning a bar will grant that much money. Where else do his greenbacks come from? I'm not sure, and I'm not entirely sure that I want to know.
I’ll never forget the day I learned about my father and his work.
“Father, will you come to school with me tomorrow morning?” I ask. I’m eight.
“I can’t tomorrow.”
“Not even for an hour?” I beg.
“What’s so important?” he grumbles.
“It’s Career Day. Parents are supposed to come in and talk about their jobs.”
My father leans back in his chair. We're sitting at the breakfast table. I'm already dressed for school in a skirt and a nice blouse. My father likes it better when I wear dresses, so maybe I should've worn a dress today. I didn't think about that until now.
“I don’t think your teacher wants me to talk about my job.” He bursts out laughing.
“Why not?” I demand. “You work so hard. You work too much in fact.”
“I own a bar.”
“A bar?”
“Yes, where adults—”
“I know what a bar is, Father. I’m eight. I’m not an idiot.”
He laughs some more. “I’m not just a bar owner either.”
“What else do you do?”
“What do I ride sometimes?”
“Your motorcycle.”
“Yes. Sometimes, a group of bikers will band together and form a…”
“A club?” I ask. Katie and I had just formed a club last week.