3. Mila
3
MILA
I thought Chicago was overwhelming, but New Orleans was a different breed.
It was crowded and rambunctious and loud.
I could see why Mom would choose this place.
It was also hot as fucking hell. Which was appropriate, considering my mom was the fucking devil. Who, upon seeing me on her doorstep, slammed the fucking door on my face and told me to leave.
It still stung to remember the look on her face when she saw me after ten long fucking years.
I had been fooling myself into believing the woman cared about me. At least, enough that she had kept contact with me on and off over the years.
It wasn’t until my third night here that she finally called me back, and only to meet for coffee. She wanted to tell me she was fucking leaving New Orleans with her new boyfriend on the back of his bike.
It sort of felt like she was trying to run away from me.
It was almost funny.
She left Dad because she claimed she couldn’t handle the club life anymore.
Yet she continued to find men exactly like him to date.
It seemed it wasn’t club life that she couldn’t handle, but fucking motherhood.
And I supposed Dad was just tired of her sleeping around and making him look bad in front of his men. The last straw was when she took the president of the Washington Chapter to their bed. It was something Dad couldn’t fight because while he might have risen to power through violence, the Washington chapter had been growing in numbers. Going to war over a whore —Dad’s words—wasn’t worth it.
We all knew the truth, though.
He was scared.
I should be grateful that at least he’d had the good sense not to bring war to our doorstep. But honestly, I was just fucking resentful that the women who chose to be in this life had the option to leave while I was stuck there, guarded like a prisoner.
My hand touched the doorknob of the motel room I was currently staying in. What the fuck was I supposed to do now?
It wasn’t all that fancy, but it was in a well-lit and relatively safe area. It was better than the clubhouse and far better than my mom’s temporary place, which was a small studio apartment with Rider, her boyfriend.
Rider was a nomad. He drifted between chapters here in the South.
They planned to ride out to the Steel Rebels headquarters in Texas.
So, she was still fully entrenched in club life.
I shook my head in disgust.
I could give two shits about being abandoned—or, at least, that was what I told myself.
I tried to work up the energy to go inside the room instead of loitering outside my door.
It probably wasn’t safe, but the thought of returning to an empty room was almost too much to bear.
Tears of frustration stung my eyes, and I quickly wiped them away.
I took a deep breath.
I could do this.
I didn’t know what had happened at the clubhouse after I left, but I refused to put any more thought into the Heartless Saints MC.
God, I was so sick of club life.
I walked into the room, plopped down on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling as the sun was starting to set. There was still enough light outside to make out the small room in all its entirety.
If what I thought happened at the clubhouse actually happened, then I no longer had to worry about my dad or Sebastian.
Or the MC.
I could start anew.
A small tinge of excitement strummed along my skin.
I had dreamed about running away—and succeeding—so many times, and now it was happening.
This could be my new life.
A quiet, simple life.
I should be mourning the death of my dad. I should.
I wasn’t.
Briefly, I wondered how badly life at the MC must have affected me to turn me into this callous person. I was sure my younger self wouldn’t have recognized me.
Hell, I would mourn the loss of my innocence before I ever mourned for the likes of Daniel Hayes.
The money I’d stolen from the club should be enough to get me by while I looked for a job.
Fifty grand in total.
Despite Dad’s net worth ranging somewhere in the eight figures, I had never held so much money in my life.
Money had been just another way for him to control me.
I wasn’t even allowed to get a job.
Dad said it was because he didn’t want any kid of his to work a demeaning job.
He meant blue-collar jobs. Jobs that would require me to be on my feet all day or work with my hands—the only jobs I was qualified for. I only had a high school diploma.
Not many places would hire people with only a high school diploma and zero job experience.
Add that to Dad’s reputation in Chicago?—
Yeah, I would have been lucky to find something.
Besides, I didn’t think there was anything demeaning about working. It really wasn’t even about the work.
It was just another thing for him to dangle in front of me.
I could do this.