Chapter 5
Reagan
I’m tucked into the corner of the parking lot, knees pulled to my chest, making myself as small as possible. The cement wall presses against my spine, cold and harsh, but at least it’s solid. Real. Something I can lean against when everything else feels like it’s crumbling.
My journal rests against my thighs, and I’m scribbling nonsense, anything to keep my mind from wandering back to that night. To the needle. To my mother’s face twisted with hate.
Don’t cry. If you don’t think about it, you won’t cry. Don’t cry.
I focus on the words spilling across the page instead. They don’t mean much. They’re just fragments of thoughts, half-formed sentences about nothing and everything. But writing helps. It always has.
The parking lot is emptying out now that school’s over. Groups of students laugh and shove each other toward their cars. A couple makes out against a pickup truck. Everyone has somewhere to go, someone to be with.
Everyone except me.
I miss the feeling of Shane’s jacket—his cut, I remember—around me. It’s funny how something as simple as a leather jacket can become the only thing keeping you safe, keeping you alive.
It’s been three days since I saw him that night. The ladies at the clubhouse were nice to me. They helped me clean up and gave me new clothes. They gave me something for the cramps and taught me everything I needed to know about periods. And…some more.
Learning about the reproductive system in class is something. Listening to those ladies talk about how sex works is… Heat flushes my cheeks. My whole body tingles with embarrassment.
Shane stopped them before they got to the really grown-up stuff.
I don’t know if I should thank him or be mad at him.
I mean, kids use the internet to know about sex, but I don’t have a computer.
I only use the school’s, and it blocks most of those websites.
Those women were probably the only chance to get any knowledge in that department.
Who am I kidding? I can never be mad at him.
Shane even asked the owner of the club—what did he call him again?
Yes, Prez something—to give me one of their cuts, one with no colors.
I don’t understand what the deal is with the colors.
They’re all black anyway. But Prez guy said no.
Apparently, women aren’t allowed to wear cuts unless they’re “property of” cuts, and it’s not appropriate for me to wear one of those.
I had to give Shane his cut back. I was scared if I took it off, I’d be vulnerable and exposed again, but somehow, when I returned home the day after, my mother didn’t say a word to me or lay a hand on me, as if I was still wearing Shane’s magical cloak of protection.
“Oh my God, is that her?” a girl whispers. “What’s her name again? Regina…”
I glance up to find Brittany Johanson looking at me from a distance, her pink lip gloss catching the afternoon sun. Two of her friends hover behind her like vultures.
“Reagan. Her name is Reagan.”
Brittany smiles as she comes my way with her friends. I hug my knees tighter and keep my head down. If I don’t look at them, maybe they won’t look at me. They won’t see the bruises. They won’t cause any more.
She stands over me. “Hey, Reagan.”
My stomach drops. I don’t say anything. I’ve learned not to.
Brittany drops into a crouch, her skirt riding up her thighs. She’s two grades ahead of me and so pretty it hurts to look at her. Perfect blonde hair, perfect teeth, perfect boobs, perfect everything. “What are you reading?”
She’s never said a word to me my whole life, not in my face. Behind it, yes, with the giggles and the sneers. Why the sudden interest in my hobbies? I close my journal slowly. “Just...writing.”
“That’s so cool. I could never keep a journal.” She tilts her head, her smile too bright, too fake. “So, um, I heard something super interesting.”
Here it comes.
“Someone said the Shane Fletcher was back in the neighborhood.” Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “They saw you with him the other night, riding his cool bike.”
Of course word got around. I just nod.
“So, like…” Brittany leans in closer, her perfume making my eyes water. “Is he, like, as dangerous as everyone says? I heard he got into a fight at The Pit and broke some guy’s jaw.”
I shrug and reopen my journal. Maybe if I pretend to write, she’ll go away.
She doesn’t.
“That is so cool.” Madison, one of her friends, inches closer, and suddenly all three of them are surrounding me like I’m an exotic animal at the zoo.
“Does he have a girlfriend?" Brittany asks, and there it is. The real reason they’re talking to me.
“I don’t know.” I don’t know anything about Shane’s life in the MC. Whom he hits or dates. I don’t want to know.
“C’mon, you must know something.” She leans in even closer. “Like, does he talk about girls? Is he seeing anyone?”
The words in my journal blur together. Of course that’s why she’s suddenly being nice to me. Because she thinks I can tell her something useful about Shane. I’m not a person. I’m just a bridge to someone who matters.
“I don’t know,” I repeat, quieter this time.
Brittany’s smile falters. “Well, if you talk to him, can you tell him Brittany Johanson said hi? He’ll remember me.”
I doubt that, but I nod anyway. “Sure.”
She straightens up, smoothing her skirt. “Thanks, Reagan. You’re, like, really sweet.”
Sweet? Is that code for I’m just easy to use?
They walk away, giggling and whispering, like it’s always been, and I’m alone again, like I always am. I sink deeper into the corner and try to focus on my journal, but the words won’t come anymore. My eyes burn. I train myself not to cry. I can use the exercise.
The roar of a motorcycle cuts through the chatter of the parking lot. My head snaps up. I know that sound. I’ll always know that rev.
Shane.
He pulls into the lot on his bike like a king, the engine rumbling. Heads turn. Brittany and her friends freeze mid-step. Girls flip their hair, plaster on their brightest smiles and stick out their boobs. But Shane doesn’t look at any of them.
“Reagan!” he calls out, pulling off his helmet. “C’mere!”
The entire parking lot goes silent. My face burns as I scramble to my feet, clutching my journal to my chest. Everyone is staring. I can feel their eyes on me, confused, curious, maybe a little jealous.
I hurry over to him, keeping my head down. “Hi.”
“Hey, kiddo.” He grins, and it’s so easy, so warm, like we do this every day. “You ready to go?”
“Go where?”
“Home. I’m givin’ you a ride.”
I blink at him. “You...you came all the way here just to give me a ride home?”
“Yeah. Gotta make sure you’re safe, baby girl.”
I glance around, hyper-aware of all the eyes still on us. “Thanks. But it’s out of your way. You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs, swinging his leg off the bike. “Why not? I’m your big brother, ain’t I? Gotta make sure you get home safe.”
Big brother. Right. That’s what this is. All I’ll ever be to him. A little sister he protects because no one else will. A little kid he feels sorry for. “Thank you. For the other night, I mean. And for this.”
He ruffles my hair. I try not to think about how much I like it. Another motorcycle roars into the lot, and a guy around Shane’s age pulls up beside us. Mason Bloom. Sandy blond hair, a cocky grin, and a cut just like Shane’s.
He joined Shane’s MC last year, but unlike Shane, he didn’t drop out of school. He still goes here.
“Yo, Shane!” Mason hops off his bike and claps Shane on the shoulder. “The fuck you doin’ here, man?”
Shane laughs. “You dumbass. What’re you still doin’ at school?”
Mason shrugs. “I prob’ly should split like you.
Ain’t exactly killin’ it in math class. But Ma wants me to finish, so…
” He grins. “Not that it ain’t coming with perks.
” He winks at Brittany and her little gang, and they practically swoon.
“The babes here are different from the clubwhores, ya know? They got that innocent thing goin’ on. ”
“Yo.” Shane smacks him upside the head. “Watch your mouth in fronta Reagan.”
Mason’s eyes flick to me, and he has the decency to look sheepish. “Shit, my bad. Sorry, Reagan.”
It’s funny Shane only scolds his friend when he’s cussing about girls and not for all the other swear words they both have been blurting nonstop.
I nod, clutching my journal tighter. It doesn’t bother me, though.
I’m used to hearing bad words. My mother calls me worse things than they call their clubwhores.
Mason looks back at Shane. “So what, you here to try the school babes, too? Can’t say I blame ya.”
“Nah.” Shane jerks his thumb at me. “I’m here to take Reagan home.”
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Reagan? Why? I can take her. We live down the street from each other. You can stay, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I want to disappear into the pavement.
Shane’s expression shifts. No more laughs and dirty jokes. “Nah, I got it."
“C’mon, man, I’m headin’ home anyway to check on Ma. She ain’t feeling good and—"
“I said I got it.” Shane’s voice takes a harsh turn.
Mason holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Damn.” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it.
Shane doesn’t respond. He just hands me a helmet and nods toward the bike. “Let’s go, Reagan.”