Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
Mongrel
I turn the envelope that Rio gave me weeks ago in my hands once again.
I still haven’t opened it because I want nothing to do with my past. With the exception of tracking down Jonah and the girls, the only one who has any meaning to me is my Uncle Leroy.
I’d love to be able to tell him that I continued with my running, earning a small scholarship to the community college.
That, along with the fact that the state paid for my education since I was in foster care, means that I’ve got a four-year degree in accounting.
It’s not the most glamorous thing out there, but I’ve always been good with numbers, and now, I’ll be the club’s treasurer so Nerd can take the IT role that Pokey’s death opened.
Apparently, not that I was in the know at the time, Nerd had been steadily taking on more and more of the IT functions while also handling the finances for the businesses the club runs.
I know I told Rio I was pretty sure what it was about, but in reality, I don’t have a clue.
When I turned eighteen, I received a letter from my grandma’s attorney advising of a small inheritance she had left me, plus my portion of what was left from my parents’ life insurance will be disbursed once I hit twenty-five next year.
What Grandma left me bought me my bike and my truck, before I put what was left into a money market account.
Having money in the bank settles something deep inside of me.
I suspect it’s because some of the foster homes I was placed in struggled, even with the checks they got from the state.
Food was often scarce, and I often found myself eating less so that the younger kids could get their fill.
Much like I would’ve done for my own siblings.
Even though food has been plentiful for a long time now, ever since I walked through the gates of the Triple R and began working the ranch, those memories are seared into my brain.
So, I save the bulk of what I make these days, only purchasing what’s absolutely necessary.
For me, it’s not about building wealth like some financial gurus say, it’s about making sure I’ll never go hungry again.
“Just go ahead and open it, you chickenshit,” I tell myself. “What if it’s got something to do with Uncle Leroy, Jonah, or even the girls?”
It’s that reminder that I’ve still got family out there that I need to find that has me slitting the envelope open and pulling out the heavy, cream-colored page.
Rolling my eyes, I quickly scan the letter, then read through it again.
By the third read-through, I’m pacing my room as anger simmers below the surface.
Looking at it again, I read it out loud, wondering if it’ll still sound as ridiculous as it did before. As if I’d ever help that man. Not fucking happening; he threw us away and broke my grandma’s heart while doing it.
Mr. Shepherd,
We are sending this letter to advise you that your grandfather, Germaine Shepherd, will turn sixty-five in six months. In accordance with the company’s policy, the oldest son is to take possession of the company business as its CEO and owner.
Because your father is dead, it passes down to you as his oldest son. Please contact our office at your earliest opportunity, as paperwork needs to be signed and filed accordingly.
Best regards,
Dewey Hartman, Esquire
A small chuckle bursts free when I recall the old joke about a law firm called Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe, wondering how much shit this attorney received growing up, especially once he hit law school.
Deciding I need some input from someone who’s not so close to the situation, I head downstairs in search of one of my brothers that might have a bit more life experience under his belt than I do.
Even though I know I’m going to refuse them.
Even though I know if I had nothing to my name, I’d never do something to benefit him, or any of the family who felt like he did.
Unfortunately, after his declaration all those years ago, I realized that with the exception of Grandma, Uncle Leroy, and some extremely old great-aunts who I’m sure have passed since then, everyone else pretty much felt the same way.
They all just ‘made nice’ with my dad’s choices because otherwise, they wouldn’t benefit from their jobs at our family-owned business.
Hell, I get monthly dividends now that I’m old enough, and I know that me not accepting my role will hurt all of them .
I know, even though I haven’t seen him in years, that Uncle Leroy won’t care.
He didn’t work for the family; he made his own path in life because that man made it clear that he didn’t think much of Uncle Leroy’s choices as far as who he was attracted to and disowned him.
Grandma never did; she said she didn’t care because her God taught her that love was love was love.
Personally, I don’t care either. It may not be my personal choice, but what someone else does in their bedroom isn’t my business.
It doesn’t negate their character, and Uncle Leroy is one of the best men I’ve ever known.
Next to my club brothers, of course. And the ranch hands, who taught me more than they realized when I first showed up that long-ago day.
They must have seen something in me, something that needed to be soothed and settled, because before I knew it, I was taking care of the horses.
Mucking out the stalls, then putting down fresh straw, making sure they had sufficient feed and water, then taking them out into the paddock and exercising them.
It probably wouldn’t have been glamorous to a lot of older teens, but to a kid who went through six foster homes in the five years I was in foster care?
It was absolute bliss. I was fed well, they didn’t care that I was finishing up my degree, having already obtained my associates, and then one day, Rio approached me about becoming a prospect for the Kings of Anarchy.
I’ve never told him this, but him giving me the prospect name of Mongrel suited me thanks to the slurs I was called while growing up.
It’s also another reason why I wouldn’t let them give me another road name.
As a kid, it angered and hurt me, like it was intended to do.
As an adult, I’ve come to realize how brave my parents were to fly in the face of convention.
I know they weren’t the only interracial couple out there, but the heritage that my grandfather eschewed for me, being mixed, is now a badge of honor for me.
Because that means my mom and my dad defied the odds that were against them.
I wonder, sometimes, if my dad was aware of how his own father felt, then decide it doesn’t matter.
Regardless of his feelings, at the end of the day, the five of us were still little kids and while I know as an adult that unfortunately, racism is alive and well around the world, I choose the company I keep.
Still, me being mixed means I’m lonely. I don’t want to be a woman’s ‘token’ walk on the wild side, nor do I want to make a hasty decision that I’ll end up regretting down the line, like my grandma did.
She’s going to have to be someone special and thanks to the women who are ol’ ladies, as well as the wives of the ranch hands, I’ve had some excellent examples of what to look for in a prospective ol’ lady of my own.
She’s gotta be kind, treat others the way she wants to be treated, and love kids. Everything else will be dressing; how she looks, how she dresses, what she drives. At the end of the day, I want to see the evidence of a good person with a heart for others.
“Try this one,” Gretchen encourages, holding up a cake pop.
While I was hunting for one of my brothers, I was waylaid by Doc’s ol’ lady and I now find myself in the kitchen.
Since I know what my decision will ultimately be, and I previously expressed it to Rio, I focus on the here and now.
I can always see if Abyss or BamBam are available later. Hell, I may even run it by Doc too.
“What is it?” I ask, taking the stick in hand as I look it over.
She giggles while looking at Constance and Maria, who’ve become unofficially part of Gretchen’s team. “Hummingbird cake pops,” she says.
I take a bite and a low moan escapes as the flavors vie for priority. “Tastes like cream cheese frosting,” I say, taking another bite. “And are those chopped pecans?”
“Yep,” Gretchen replies, grinning at me. “I know I’ll need to make sure to put nuts on the label and probably pack them separately in case someone has a nut allergy, but I think they’re really good.”
“They are,” I admit, finishing off the treat. “And honestly, since they’re so rich, this is the perfect size as far as I’m concerned. How did you get the dip to taste like cream cheese?”
“I found a site where I can buy flavored additives. It’s still vanilla almond bark, but because of the colors in the cake, I thought marbling them would be a good idea.”
“Well, I think they’ll be a hit,” I tell her.
“That’s what I was wanting to hear,” she teases. “Now, we’re taking you tomorrow for surgery, so don’t forget, nothing to eat or drink after midnight.”
“Not even coffee?” I question. “Gretchen, that sucks.”
“Them’s the rules, Mongrel, and they’re there to protect the patient. If you aspirate because you’ve got something in your stomach while under anesthesia, it could cause some serious issues.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Just be prepared because I’m kind of grouchy without my morning hit of caffeine.”
“Well, so is Doc and in solidarity with you, he’s not going to drink any either,” she says.
“Does he know this?” Constance asks, grinning.
“Um, not yet, I’m going to let him know later,” Gretchen confesses, giggling.
“Mmhm, you’re gonna get him all loved up then hit him when he’s relaxed,” Maria surmises, laughing.
“And with that, I’m outta here,” I decree.
One last ride. At least for now. As I aimlessly head into town, I mentally go through all the things I have in preparation for the next few days.
Am I looking forward to this? Not really, but the pain is a constant these days, as if my body knows what’s getting ready to happen.
I forget about the letter from the attorney’s office, deciding to ask Rio if I can talk to the club attorney to see how best to proceed.
I don’t care that selling the family-owned business will put any of those people out of work.
Nor do I particularly give a shit that the money from the sale of the business will add to my coffers.
Stopping in town, I decide to eat my last meal at the diner. If I remember correctly, tonight is meatloaf, one of my favorites. The food here is almost as good as what Constance and Maria prepare; I just need to be by myself for a bit.
Walking in, I see a man with a little boy around six or seven and grin, seeing him with a smaller version of the Stetson that’s next to the man’s plate.
Since most of us started out working the ranch, we’ve all got our ‘cowboy gear’, but nowadays, most of us have steel and chrome horses instead of the real thing.
Still, I enjoy riding from time to time on one of the many that the ranch keeps around.
And when I’m available and Issy wants to take Stargazer through her paces, I’ll ride Starlight.
Gotta say, those barrel racers are fucking crazy, that’s for damn sure.
The waitress hollers out, “Sit where you want, Mongrel,” as I walk through and I find myself at a two-seater near the man and little boy.
“Why’s his name Mongrel, Daddy?” the little boy asks.
I feel the man glance over before he says, “He’s in a motorcycle club, Liam, so that’s probably his road name.”
“A motorcycle club is around here?” Liam questions, moving his head back and forth as though he’s trying to see my bike.
“Yeah, son. The Kings of Anarchy make their home here. They’ve got a ranch, and have rodeos twice a year, I believe,” the dad patiently answers.
“I wanna learn how to ride a bull,” Liam decrees.
“How about we wait until you’re taller than four feet?” his dad replies. “Now, do you want dessert tonight, or should we just make sundaes at home?”
“With whipped cream?” Liam asks. “And sprinkles?”
The man chuckles as he pulls out his wallet and tosses down enough money for the bill and a sizable tip. “Yes, and yes, but we need to stop and pick it up because I think somebody used what was left the last time we made them.”
“Daddy, it’s because they’re so good!” Liam exclaims.
Their voices fade as they leave, and I’m left grinning and shaking my head as the waitress comes over to take my food and drink order.
Time to focus on eating and hydrating before the midnight hour hits, I guess.