Chapter 2 Isla
ISLA
“It’s finally mine,” I say to myself as I run from the vet’s office, where I work as a receptionist, to my car with a grin so huge that the guy parked next to me is looking at me weird.
Optimistically, I just put on a thin leather jacket when I got dressed this morning to go to work, and the weather has cooled drastically since then. But none of that stops me from dancing in the parking lot after getting a call from the executor with the good news.
Seventeen weeks ago, my nanna died. The only one I had. The only relative I loved, because the rest of my family set a low bar on what it means to be human.
Sixteen weeks ago, I found out that Nanna not only took the time to write a will, but she left pretty much everything she owned to me. And while her house is old and needs repairs I can’t afford, it’s mine.
At least, it was.
Until Uncle Kevin contested the decision. In the weeks since, I’ve learned terms I didn’t know existed. Formal testacy petition. County probate court.
I remember crying when the executor told me that I could move in if I wanted, but it wouldn’t mean the title was mine yet.
And that we had to wait until the contested issue was resolved.
And that the ongoing costs for the property were mine, until a judge or someone told me the property was or wasn’t mine.
I debated moving in, just to make a point.
I spent a lot of my childhood living in the house with Nanna, and even as an adult spent plenty of time there.
But I’ve never had my own home. It was tough enough to know I was so close to owning one—the risk of moving, falling in love with it, making it mine, and then being told to leave was more than I could handle.
We’ve gone through weeks of preliminary discovery. Getting Nanna’s medical records, witness statements from the handful of people who saw her with any regularity.
And today, there were more new words like filing a stipulation to withdraw.
I’m under no illusion that my uncle has done this because he believes I’m in the right. In fact, he was clear to the executor that it’s purely financial. Lawyers cost money my uncle doesn’t have. Thankfully, the club’s old lawyer helped me for free as a favor for babysitting his grandkids so often.
It takes three attempts to get my car to start, but even that can’t put a damper on how excited I feel as I drive toward Nanna’s house. Jacking the radio, I shimmy along to George Michael singing about Faith.
Seems appropriate, seeing as this is the fresh start I’ve dreamt of.
I look up at the sky. “Thank you.”
Not sure who I’m thanking, but I’m also not sure I believe I deserve this and need to cover my bases.
I haven’t been a good person. Some things I’m learning to accept.
I slept with a clubhouse full of men. Often.
Sometimes several on the same night. Sometimes more than one at a time.
Some of the sex I enjoyed, but I made a lot of dangerous choices that weren’t in my physical or emotional best interests.
I participated in kinks I didn’t want to, because I didn’t want a biker to turn me down as a prospective old lady if I wasn’t into them.
The fact some of it was non-consensual is wholly on me.
Because they asked, and out of fear of being rejected, I said yes.
Not that I would ever admit that to them.
I projected the need I felt for one goddamn stable thing in my life onto a clubhouse of men. What I was looking for was someone to choose me and protect me. But when they showed interest elsewhere, I did some mean shit to the people they actually loved.
And now, in the quiet of night, some of those moments replay as the trauma they actually were instead of the moments I romanticized them to be. Moving forward, I need to reconcile those two things. The ugly things I did, and the trauma I realize I’m dealing with.
Which is why Nanna’s house is such a godsend.
A hail Mary pass.
There are exactly two houses on this dead-end rural road. Across the street, I see the For Sale sign that was there a week ago has come down and there appears to be a light switched on upstairs.
Damn it. I was hoping to have the area to myself, just for a little while. I just pray whoever it is is a good person.
I pull my car onto Nanna’s driveway which leads down the side of the house.
“Your driveway now,” I say.
The single-story house definitely isn’t much, but it has a roof and two bedrooms, both of which smell of the cheap perfume Nanna swore by.
While the fixtures and fittings are old and dated, they’ll all work until I can find something better.
I’ll keep the ugly pink carpet in the living room until I can afford the wooden flooring I want.
And I’ll keep that bucket in the kitchen that catches the ceiling drips until I can get the roof patched up.
Because this house will be the fixing of me.
I’ve been doing a lot of reading about stored-up trauma.
How I should do all these weird hip movements and mantras and journalling to release them.
But standing here on ground I now own, that no one can take away from me, eases something in me.
The first chakra that everything else stems from is all about having your basic needs covered.
Food, a roof over your head, safety. But none of the work I’ve been doing has healed me like this moment.
I have a job that will pay enough to cover my bills and fix this a little.
After four weeks of sleeping on Karlie’s couch after my landlord kicked me out because he wanted to move his sister in, having this home is a blessing.
And the keys in my hand fit locks that will keep me safe.
I’m just about to take the steps up to the porch when a truck fishtails onto the road up to the two properties, but before the thought even registers that the truck belongs to my uncle, a shot fires into the air.
The truck screeches to a halt at the top of the driveway. Even if I could get back into my car and drive off, I don’t want to abandon my new home. So, I dive down by the side of the house and peer around the wall with one eye to avoid being a target.
“Figured it was time I did what I should have done when all this bullshit started,” Uncle Kevin says, although I wonder why I’m still thinking of him as my uncle. He’s wearing a navy-blue baseball cap on greasy dark hair. “Gimme the keys and get the fuck off this land.”
Jacob, my cousin, climbs out of the truck on the other side, also holding some kind of shotgun. He’s taller than his father but looks gaunt. “It’s not fair all this went to you,” he says.
My mouth is dry, my pulse thumping in my temple. I’ve been around the kind of men who brandish weapons easily, but they’ve never been pointed straight in my direction. I pray my car gives me a little cover.
“You’ll get no peace as long as you stay here,” Kevin says. “I’m gonna make sure of it.”
This time, he shoots at the back of the car, hitting my rear light. Beneath the bone shaking fear is the reality it’s going to cost money to get my car repaired.
“What the hell are you doing?” It’s a third man, the voice sounding familiar, but hard to immediately place.
“Stay out of this, you—”
“It’s family business,” Kevin says, cutting off his son.
“Holy fuck. It’s Isla.”
At the mention of my name, I drop my hands from over my ears and peer up the driveway along the side of the car.
Like knights in shining armor, or bikers in leather cuts, stand Jackal and Shade, the two enforcers of the Iron Outlaws. Their weapons are drawn, their stances the same. Jackal is looking at me, but Shade’s eyes are focused on my relations.
In denim, heavy boots, and their cuts, they look intimidating.
Kevin and Jacob have no chance against them, but from the look on my uncle’s face, he hasn’t realized that yet.
After the work I’ve been doing on myself, the cuts are somewhat triggering. The smell of leather. The memory of how it feels against my face and the things I’ve done with men who wear it. I swallow deeply because there is no way I’m going to throw up.
I curl myself into the smallest ball I can to stop the shaking rattle I feel in my bones.
“This property isn’t yours, Isla. And you fucking know it,” Kevin yells.
“Left or right?” I hear Jackal say.
“You take the right,” Shade replies. “Looks scrawnier.”
Jackal chuckles. “Saving me from punches. How honorable.”
I hear their footsteps shift, but no sooner than they do, I hear the truck doors slam and the roar of the engine as they race down the road.
Breathing is difficult. The world seems so dark, I’m worried I’m about to pass out.
Can I be so unlucky that I reach this point in my journey, only to find I’m now living across from two of the bikers whose memory I’m trying to erase?
“What was that about, Isla?” Jackal says. He crouches next to me and places his hand on my back. The flinch is involuntary as I shrug him off. He immediately removes it and steps back an inch.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Forcing myself up, I use the wall to steady myself. My knees shake so badly they can barely hold my weight, which is never a good sign, but I just need to get inside.
Shade huffs as he comes into view. “Fine, my ass. You look like you got picked up and shook. If someone’s going to be coming around here firing shots, would be better to know what we’re dealing with.”
I look down the road to where I can no longer see the taillights.
“That was my uncle.” There is a tremor to my words, and I take another deep breath.
“My nanna…she…erm…she died, and she left me this house in her will because I was the one who looked after her and shopped for her and took her to her doctor’s appointments.
My uncle challenged the will but ended it because his lawyers got pricey.
He somehow still thinks this place should be his. ”
Jackal looks at Nanna’s house. “We should get you some security, then. You won’t have met Wren, Catfish’s person, but they could hook this place up.”
I shake my head and back toward the house.
I don’t know why I feel so scared right now.
Jackal has never been anything other than good to me.
And there have been a few too many nights when I’ve stumbled out of a biker’s room in various states of distress and Shade has been the one to hand me a coffee and make sure I’m alright. But I admit, I’m rattled.
“We’ll wait with you while you call the cops. We can be your witnesses,” Jackal says.
I step farther away. “No cops. I think he was just trying to make a point or scare me. Seriously, I’m fine.” I don’t believe a word I’m saying. There is no way my uncle is going to give up. “I had no idea we’d be neighbors.”
All three of us glance over to the house across the street. The one with the front door wide open.
Shade reaches for a cigarette and his lighter. “Got the keys before we went down to Arizona last week.”
I force myself to focus on his words and not let my brain spiral out to the club. No biker ever forced me to do anything. I offered. Even when it wasn’t in my best interest. None of them noticed when my desperation and consent blurred. They are not bad men, just…callous.
So, I say what I need to. “Well, I can stay out of your way, if you can stay out of mine.”
Shade’s brow furrows. “What do you mean by that?”
I shrug and try to remind myself that speaking about what happened while I was a club girl is part of my owning the journey I’m on. “The club. Who I was and what I did there.”
Jackal shakes his head. “We all know what the life is and what the expectations are.”
“I guess…I’m trying to leave all of it behind and forgive myself for it.” I don’t know what makes me admit it.
“Isla,” Shade says, his voice filled with concern.
The tenderness makes tears spring, and I’m so confused about this swirl of feelings, I don’t know which way is up. I try to hold myself together for just a few more minutes, so I don’t ruin things.
“I’m fine. It’s fine. I just…I kept that part of my life away from this place.
I got a job, I’m earning money. I stopped looking so hard for a man to take care of me and decided to take care of myself.
” I stub the toe of my boot into the ground.
“But maybe it’s best if we…you know…just stay civil and kinda ignore one another. ”
Confusion is etched on Shade’s brow. “Isla, we don’t need to be strangers. If your uncle comes back again, come get us, we’ll—”
“Honestly. There’s no need. I’ll see you guys around.”
And with that, I run up the steps to Nanna’s house, let myself in, and bolt the lock behind me.