Chapter 2
Reagan
My mother scrunches her nose at the bloodstain on my bed sheet and then at me. Then she brings out a needle from her pocket. “You see that? I’ll sew you up with it if you ever let someone near you. Do you hear me, you little shit?”
I pee myself a little as she jabs the needle my way. I’m getting myself into more trouble, soiling my pajamas. She’s going to be more furious now that it isn’t only pee staining my clothes. But I can’t help it, just like I couldn’t help having my first period in the middle of my sleep.
“Just what I fucking needed.” She spits in my face. “Another whore in my house, one who can get fucking pregnant.”
My father, the first whore in her house, who cheated on her after she gave birth to me—one of my many faults—is a man, but I, a whore by extension, have ovaries and a uterus.
Another one of my many faults. According to Mrs. Nashville, my biology teacher, once their cycle starts, human females will have a fully functional reproductive system and can get pregnant right after their first period.
“You and your disgusting daddy belong in hell.” She advances, the needle an inch away from my waist. “Maybe I’ll just sew that stinky hole between your legs shut right now and save myself whatever filth you’re bound to bring in.”
I run for the door, but she grabs me from behind. “Where do you think you’re going, you dirty whore?”
She yanks my hair so hard I fall to her feet. I crawl toward the door, but she practically sits on me, her two hundred pounds of drunken malice and vendetta splitting my back. She pulls at my pants until they come off my bottom, the needle poking me in my side, my back and my butt cheeks.
Squirming, biting down on the pain so that I won’t upset her more with the sound of my crying, I beg her to let me go. I’m not a whore, and I have no intention of becoming one. I’m only thirteen and have never had a boyfriend. No boy wants to have anything to do with me anyway.
My words fall on deaf ears. She never listens.
Why do I bother? I should have learned by now that this woman would never have an ounce of motherly love or even simple human mercy for me.
I’m the enemy who lost without ever being given a chance at a fair fight.
A prisoner of a war I’ve never chosen. A captive to be tortured for every breath I take.
When she rips my panties off my butt and flips me over, the needle glints in her hand, stabbing the little space left between it and my vagina. That’s when I dare scream out the terror flooding me.
“Shut up, you whore!” Her backhand smacks me. I taste blood.
“Please, Mom, I’m sorry.” My fingers dig into the waist of my pants in an attempt to pull them up before she pierces me with the needle, but it’s too late.
The pointy edge pinches my flesh. “I’m sorry!
Please, I didn’t do anything. I’ll wash the sheets and my pajamas myself.
I won’t make any more messes. Please don’t hurt me. ”
“Shut the fuck up, you stinky shit.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Did you pee yourself?”
Tears roll down to my temples against my will.
That will earn me another punishment. I’m too scared to care.
My mother is spearing my vulva with a needle, mutilating me forever, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
I could scream again, but no one is coming to help, not even my father downstairs, who’s pretending not to hear me.
I could try to fight back, kick her, slap her, but I’m only a scrawny child against a monster her size.
Her weight crushes me, a confirmation. I can barely breathe. Every plea I make vanishes into the stale air of the room, squashed by her rage. My arms tremble. I feel smaller than ever, a shadow pressed into the floor.
The needle hovers, and I shut my eyes, bracing for pain I can’t stop. My chest tightens, my heart pounding so hard. I want to disappear, to dissolve into the cracks of the floorboards, to escape this body, this house, this world that has betrayed me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper in despair. I don’t know what else to say.
The roar of a motorcycle cuts through the silence outside and booms in the house. My mother freezes, her head snapping toward the window. For a moment, her grip loosens, and her weight lifts a tiny bit off me.
It’s the only chance I’ll ever get. I twist and wriggle free from under her. Pulling my pants up, I scramble toward the door. My legs are weak, but fear propels me forward.
She’s cussing, running after me. I don’t look back. She won’t catch me; I’m smaller and much faster.
I dash out of the front door. Cool air slaps my swelling cheek. My chest heaves, my tears blur the path ahead as I run barefoot into the yard. I don’t know where I’m going. I only know I’m gone—out of the house, away from her, away from the needle.
The sound of the motorcycle thunders in my ears like salvation. The bike is parked at the edge of our driveway, chrome glinting under the faint streetlights, and I see him.
He sits astride it, helmet dangling from one hand, his leather jacket marking him as untouchable. He’s always been a distant figure, the boy who grew up with me but never looked my way, the one who belonged to a world of freedom and power I’d never have.
Shane.
He looks at me, longer than usual, his face tight with something I’ve never seen before, something I don’t understand.
I must look like a mess, but it’s not the first time.
Maybe it’s the blood and torn pajamas that make him pause.
He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s never said more than a few words to me my whole life.
I don’t expect that to change any time now.
Still, I’m grateful to him. He saved me without knowing.
I spin away. I need clean pants and underwear and a pad. My mother hasn’t given me one or sat me down for the talk or helped me with the cramps. She rips my clothes and shoves a needle between my legs.
The gravel bites into my feet. My legs barely obey me, but I run anyway, clutching at my torn clothes, the sting of fresh wounds burning against my skin.
I don’t care. I’m not going back into that house until the witch falls asleep on her bottle.
The school nurse might help with the pads.
I don’t have any money to buy some myself, but that will have to wait for tomorrow.
It’s almost eleven at night. I’ll have to make do with a rag.
I have plenty of those on me. How much does a girl bleed on her first day anyway?
“Hey, Reagan!” Shane shouts after me.
I freeze, breath hitching. Did he say my name? I don’t know if I should answer, if I can. My throat is raw. My body is shaking from the cold, from the weight of what I’ve just escaped, so I continue down the road.
“Wait!” he yells again.
The motorcycle gives another roar before it cuts me off. Then Shane swings off it. His boots crunch against the dirt as he steps closer. He’s taller than I remember, broader, the kind of boy who doesn’t care about anything, a king of a world without consequence.
“Hey,” he says, softer this time, crouching to meet my eyes. “Talk to me. What’d she do this time?”
The words lodge in my chest. I want to tell him.
I want to pour it all out. The shame, the fear, the years of silence choke me.
Not that it will make any difference if I speak.
I’ve spoken, screamed, so many times before, and nothing ever changed.
All I can do is shake my head, clutching my torn pajamas tighter, as if they could shield me.
Why is he asking? Why now? It’s not like he’s ever cared what happens to me.
He doesn’t press. He just looks at me, really looks at me, like I’m not invisible anymore. Can he see me now?
His gaze drops to my chest, then lower and then back up. A flash of heat runs up my face. I’m not wearing a bra—I don’t own one because my mother never took me bra shopping—and my nipples must be pebbling under my shirt in this cold. Quickly, I fold an arm over my breasts.
“How old ya now, kiddo?” he asks.
Oh my God. I didn’t cover myself fast enough. He’s noticed my developing body, hasn’t he? The last time he saw me, I was as flat as Mr. Shaw’s nose, our gym teacher. Shane must have noticed.
He smiles. “You ain’t no little girl anymore, that’s for sure.”
Has he figured out the bloodstains too? My cheeks burn.
“Hey, I know I should remember on my own, but it’s just been a while. For real, how old are ya?”
“Thirteen…a-and a half,” I whisper. “Y-you?”
“You really don’t know?”
I do. He’s four years and twenty-seven days older than me.
“Seventeen…and a half.” With a chuckle, he takes off his jacket and covers me with it.
The fabric settles on my shoulders, heavy but warm, smelling of leather, grease, musk and Shane. For a second, I don’t know what to do or feel. No one has ever covered me, protected me, not even with something as simple as a jacket in the cold.
I pull it tighter around me, as if I need proof it’s there, proof that I’m not a little shit, a mistake or a whore. I’m just a girl, a human who needed saving, and someone, finally, thinks she deserves to be saved.
In a heartbeat, my body stops shaking. An unfamiliar calm creeps in, like the jacket itself is a shield between me and the world that does nothing but break me.
For the first time since I can remember, I feel…safe.
My throat tightens from the ache of gratitude I don’t know how to express. “Thank you.” A different kind of tear spills down my face now—softer, cleansing.
“Don’t cry. I hate to see ya cry.”
I wipe my face fast. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Jesus. Ain’t what I meant.” He touches my chin to make me look at him, and my heart pounds louder than the bike. “I don’t wanna see you sad anymore, Reagan.”
A sweet quiver travels through me. His eyes are so blue, the same shade as mine but somehow way prettier. Maybe because I’m blonde and he has dark hair. The contrast works in his favor. His smile is so charming, so magical, it makes me want to smile despite everything.
“Hey, know what it means when a biker makes ya wear his cut?”
“Cut?”
He fixes his jacket to cover more of me, and I realize this isn’t just a leather jacket. There’s a vest on top of it. “This is a cut. Haven’t seen the back?”
I shake my head.
“I made it in the MC, silly. Prez even said I’d earn my colors when I’m eighteen.”
I don’t know what any of that means, but he seems happy.
About eighteen months ago, I heard Shane moved out to join the notorious motorcycle club that runs Florida and pretty much owns Jacksonville.
I didn’t understand much about it then or now, but it looks like he got what he wanted. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah. Things gonna change around here very soon, Reagan, I promise.”
Not for me. Never for me. “So what does it mean, the cut you put on me?”
“It means…” He laughs. “Means I’m breaking a batshit ton of rules.”
I shrug it off. “Take it back then. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Nah.” He folds it back around me. “No one should see ya like this. Gotta protect ya now. Don’t want some fucked-up eyes to see what a beautiful woman you’re becoming.”
Protect me? Beautiful woman? Me? “What?”
He snorts. “C’mon, let’s get ya some clean clothes and shoes.” His eyes drop to my chest again, and he bites his lip. “And a bra.”
My skin tingles with embarrassment. I’m not going bra shopping with Shane Fletcher. “I’ll t-take care of it. There are no s-stores open now anyway.”
“But the clubhouse is open all night. The who— The ladies there will fix you up.” He gestures at the bike with his head. “Hop on.”
I stand still, swallowing.
“What’s wrong?”
“I-I can’t ride your bike.”
“Why not? I’m no stranger, dummy. Ain’t gonna kidnap ya and shit.”
I’ll stain it with my period and soiled pants, and then he’ll be mad at me, too. “You just got home. Your family is waiting for you. They’ll be happy to see you. You should go to them and say hi.”
“It can wait. Besides, this ain’t my home anymore. The MC is. They’re my family now.”
It’s not like he needed a new one. His parents loved him. Treated him well. They made it no secret that he was their favorite. They were heartbroken when he left.
“C’mon. Get on the bike, baby girl.”
“I… My pajama pants are…dirty.”
He lets out one of his carefree laughs. “You’re such a good girl. Don’t ya worry, baby. I ain’t scared of a little blood. I’ll clean it all up later.” He gets out a spare helmet and places it on my head. “You’re gonna ride behind me, wearing my cut, and I’ll take good care of you, alright?”
I nod sheepishly, my heart squealing. I lift my leg, careful my pants don’t fall off, and straddle the bike. Is this really happening? Shane Fletcher is going to take care of me?
“Good girl. Let that hag, fuck, let the whole town see who ya belong to now.”