Jackson
The ride back to the clubhouse was quiet.
I even turned off my music so I can hear myself think.
Riding my bike would’ve cleared my mind better, but I’m glad I had the foresight to take my truck to this meeting instead.
I had no idea that I would have to bring home so much shit.
If I had my bike, I would have had to call a prospect to pick everything up, and that would have gotten back to my dad.
We don’t see eye to eye on the best day, but I knew if he found out I was doing anything that had to do with my birth mom, he would blow the fuck up and either order me not to go, or worse, tag along. I was not down for that bullshit.
He needs to retire soon. His mood’s been all over the place in the last few years, and it’s not a good look for the VP.
He’s been the same distant, cold asshole my entire life, raising me more as a “Brother” for the MC than a son.
But in the last few years, he has started trying to get to know me, and he walks around like he’s got feelings.
It’s weird as fuck. The same bastard that acted like I was a guest in his house that wouldn’t fuckin’ leave is trying to start conversations with me about random shit.
Red, the current President of the MC, and the closest thing I have had to an actual father figure, says that he’s pretty much having a mid-life crisis.
He’s been looking back at his life since he’s planning to retire soon, and is trying to fix what he broke.
In my opinion, we are way past that point.
He can ride off to retire in Florida with the other old timers that only ride back here once a year in summer, to relive the “old days.” He can take the Step-cunt and the Bitch from Hell, otherwise known as Maggie, my half-sister, with him.
A few miles away from the clubhouse, I can’t stop replaying the entire meeting in my head.
I wasn’t even going to go. A week ago, I got an email and letter from a law office saying there were papers my mother left for me.
I never wanted to hear from that bitch again after she left me with my dad and the Step-cunt—or Andrea, as others know her.
I tried to ignore it at first—pushed down my feelings, put up a wall, and kept to myself.
But deep down, it hurt. I cried for weeks after that.
My dad didn’t care enough to notice; he just left me with my mother’s replacement and went back to “club business” since he was just voted into the VP position.
Not even two days in, and that bitch decided she was my mom and I should start treating her like it, even if she was a stranger. She had my half-sister six months after she married my dad. As I got older and figured out that timeline, I went back to calling her by her first name.
She acted like I was a monster for messing up her “perfect family” at first, but now the only communication I have with her is a look of disgust whenever I see her patrolling the clubhouse to stalk my father.
My father never got into the middle of it, because he’d have to care about someone other than himself to take a side.
That chick from earlier—who apparently isn’t a lawyer—was a dick.
I mean, she has no idea about my history with my mother, and yet, she’s going to judge how I react to the news that she’s dead?
I thought I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure it out in the short interaction that we had.
She was tiny, and had a mane of curly, dirty blonde hair, like mine if I’d ever let it grow out.
She had it down, and I know how much of a pain in the ass it is to manage.
According to the Brothers, curls made you look young and like a douche, so I kept my hair short to keep them at bay.
Just like my dad used to. But with the midlife crisis he has going on, he’s started growing it out.
She had light blue eyes that looked awkwardly big for her small face. One singular, semi-forceful gust of wind could take her out. You’d think she would be intimidated by a guy my size walking up to her with my cut on, but she seemed like she was sizing me up to fight.
I should have known that she wasn’t a lawyer, though. She looked too uncomfortable in her clothes and kept fidgeting with them. There’s also the fact that she looked to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties, but that could just be because of her elfish features and height.
What shocked me about this entire thing was when she mentioned the trust my mother had for me.
I hadn’t opened the envelope yet; I wanted to be in my own space before I started digging up the past. My father never really spoke about my mother, and the Step-cunt only said that she was trash that my father tried to save, but he wanted “something better.” I knew that story was bullshit, because if she was supposed to be the “something better,” I knew it was a lie.
One time I asked Red about her, figuring that he was Dad’s best friend and would have known her.
All he told me was it was my dad’s story to tell, and that in that situation, the club came before her.
I stopped asking after that, because my dad and Step-cunt started getting pissed off that I wanted to know about a mom that left me.
I just assumed my mother was a junkie or a club girl that got knocked up and left.
No one ever corrected my guess, so I just went with that story.
Now after the meeting, I realize that I could be way off base if she was able to leave me a trust. All I knew about trusts were that they were for fucking rich kids and snobs. I need to go through everything, and maybe I can finally get some answers.
The clubhouse gate slowly comes into view.
I wait for the prospect on guard duty to open it, and start my drive down the long road leading to the clubhouse.
The club has about a hundred acres that were originally bought forty years ago, back when land in Texas was cheap.
It was just wooded land back then, and they built a secluded clubhouse surrounded by trees.
We even had a swamp that we had to use regularly for disposal—I guess the gators that came free with the property were a selling point for the founders.
The clubhouse was in the middle of the property and had a paved road leading to it.
It used to be gravel, but that started to wear on a bike’s paint job if you took it faster than a crawl.
I pull the truck up to the clubhouse and take in the empty parking lot. It looks like everyone pretty much cleared out from the party last night. We had a Brother who went Nomad for a decade decide to finally settle down here, so we had to have a “welcome to the chapter” party.
Really, we took any excuse to make anything into a party.
The ‘Ol Ladies of the club loved to try and compete to see who could throw the best one.
It was like a passive-aggressive catfight all night, the ‘Ol Ladies against each other, trying to assert dominance.
They all knew why the club girls were here, and I guess they figured that if their man was going to fuck around on them, they might as well try to boss the girls around.
Thank God I don’t have to deal with that bullshit.
I always just laugh at my stepmother and half-sister when they parade around, trying to be in charge, when even the club girls ignore them.
They think that just because my dad is the VP, they’re top of the totem pole, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Andrea walks around barking orders and waiting for the other women to fall in line.
Too bad for her, she never learned that if you demand respect without earning it, you’ll never get it.
Everyone took her as a joke, and now she and my half-sister consistently compete in a competition that doesn’t exist. Everyone ignores them and considers them the club chihuahuas: loud, annoying, and can’t back up their bark.
Dad just pretends to care and gives them money for shit that they don’t need so they will go away.
My dad didn’t get his title the usual way.
For our club, titles are handed down from father to son.
Our current President is the grandson of our original President who started this charter back in the ‘60’s.
His son, “Flame,” my best friend, is set to be next in line.
The VP before my dad didn’t have any sons to hand it down to, and died when I was little.
He only had a daughter, and unfortunately, that daughter became my Step-cunt.
It took the Brothers a long time to accept my dad as VP because they felt that he didn’t earn it, and he only got his club patch a few years before. He doubled down to prove his worth by throwing himself into the club, and that meant ditching me with the Step-cunt.
In the front of the giant barn-like structure, we have a full-sized bar with tables, chairs, and pretty much an entire living room set up. There’s a few guest rooms at the back, and some rooms for patched members to live in if they want to.
Some of the older members with families decided to build homes on the property. It’s been looking more like a commune every year, but we have the protection and security with the fence that runs all around the property.