by Emily Minton
Instead of thinking of someone other than themselves, they ignored the fact of their own daughter getting raped when she was only fifteen, in fear that it would taint their image. They went as far as turning their back on their own son when he tried to protect her from her rapist and make the man pay for hurting his sister. After the story got out, they eventually forced her to marry the man, hoping to spin the rape story into a misunderstanding. Even when Brew was put on trial for attempted murder of that same rapist, they didn’t even use their considerable fortune to pay for a lawyer, going so far as to testify against him. Even all these years later and all the scandals thrown their way, they are still trying to portray the image of that perfect family.
His mom is like some kind of caricature of a southern belle matron. When I first laid eyes on her, I was reminded of Miss Ellie from the old TV show Dallas. Her hair is a beautiful silver, styled in a sophisticated bob. She wore a two-piece black suit dress that probably cost more than my car, with a matching black cloche hat resting on her head. She spent the entire funeral sobbing into a lacy handkerchief, reminding everyone how much she loved her husband, but never shed a tear. When it was over, her makeup was still flawless.
His sister, Trina, is a replica of his mother, only a younger version. Her hair is the color of toasted chestnuts. It is styled into a matching bob, only her ends were fringed just a bit. She also wore an expensive suit dress, but hers was a shade of deep gray. She even wore the same cloche hat, only in the same gray as her dress. She also sobbed into her lacy handkerchief, never shedding a tear. Looking at the two women side by side was eerie. It was as if Trina was a walking talking clone of her mother.
Heading toward the bed, I kick off my heels and shrug. “The rest were loons, but your aunt Joyce is really nice.”
Unlike the rest of the family, Joyce seemed almost normal. Rich as Croesus but somewhat normal. Like her sister-in-law, she looked like the perfect Southern lady, expensive clothes and all. Her personality is completely different, though; sweet and funny. She is the only one in the family that ever reaches out to Brew. They do not talk a lot, but she will call from time to time. She even came to Nashville a time or two to see him. Each time, I wanted to go with him, wanted to meet the one person from his past he still cared about, but he refused. He always said that he didn’t want his other family to taint the family he has now.
It’s sad really. She does need him in her life. Joyce is alone in the world. She had twin daughters born around the same time as Brew. When they were only two years old, they died alongside their father, when their home burnt to the ground. She never remarried, never had any more children. According to Brew, she has spent her entire life grieving for her lost family.
“She’s planning on coming to Nashville next month,” Brew states, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt. “She wants to meet the kids.”
“How do you feel about that?” I ask, hoping he will agree.
Our children are always surrounded by family, their biker family, but they have never met any of their biological family. I don’t want them anywhere near my screwed up parents, and my beautiful sister has been gone for years. The only chance the kids have at getting to know their blood family is with Joyce.
“I’ll think about it,” he mumbles, walking over to the mini-fridge and pulling out a cold beer. “Can’t keep putting her off forever.”
Hearing the tension in his voice, I decide to change the subject. “Logan seemed like he’s a good kid.”
Logan is Trina’s youngest son. At only seventeen, he seemed almost normal. Where his older sister and brother were replicas of their parents, Logan reminded me of Brew. Granted, he looked like any other over-indulged brat that grew up with too much money and not enough love, but there was just something different about him. There was a kindness to him that no one else in the family seemed to have. When I looked into his eyes, I could see a bit of wanderlust in him. It was as if he couldn’t wait to throw off his preppy clothes and hit the road.
Brew nods his head in agreement as he jerks off his tie and tosses it in the trash can. “Yeah, he seemed like a good kid. Don’t know where in the hell he gets it from. It sure isn’t from his mom or dad.”
Meeting Trina’s husband gave me chills. He’s older than his wife, older than Brew’s mother even. Even with the extra years, he exuded power and privilege. It was as if he owned the world and the rest of us were just here because he allowed it. Knowing he was the same man that had raped Trina when she was a young girl caused bile to push its way up my throat. Knowing he was also the man that caused Brew to spend years behind bars made me want to wring his throat. In the end, I just did my best to stay the hell away from him.
“Maybe Logan is the Brew of this generation,” I say, hoping that I am right. “His brother and sister are just like their parents, but he reminds me of you.”
Turning my back to Brew, he reaches out and unzips my dress. Pulling it free from my body, I sling it toward the suitcase and start pulling bobby pins out of my hair, releasing my updo. I should probably stay dressed until the reading of the will later tonight, but that is not going to happen. We tried today, both dressing appropriately. It didn’t help; his family still treated us like shit. Tonight, they are going to see who we really are. Jeans, leather, tattoos and all.
“Yeah, I see it too. The kid is chomping at the bit to get out of this place,” Brew says, bringing my mind back to the topic. “But if Logan doesn’t get away from all this shit soon, he’ll grow up to be just as bad as they are.”
I nod my head, knowing that he is probably right. As bad as it is to think this way, a part of me is glad that Brew went to prison. Granted, he shouldn’t have been punished for attacking his sister’s rapist, but at least it got him away from his fucked up family. I can’t even imagine who he would be today if he hadn’t been separated from his parents. One thing is for sure, he wouldn’t be the man I love with all my heart.
Shaking off the thoughts, I grab a pair of jeans and a robin’s egg blue Harley tee and then head to the bathroom. When I’m done with my business, I pull my clothes on and walk out to see Brew shoving our things into the suitcase. My eyes follow him for a bit, staring as he keeps tossing stuff into the case.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laying my hand on his shoulder.
“Packing up our shit,” he states, slamming the suitcase shut. “I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
Seeing the look on his face, it hits me what he is doing. Brew is running; he is running away from his family. He isn’t scared of them, but he is scared of the memories they bring to his mind. That shit is not going to happen.
“Oh, hell no. My old man doesn’t run from anything,” I say in a near shout. “You’re not leaving and letting your family think you are scared of them.”
“I’m not running,” he growls, anger filling his voice. “I’m not a fucking coward.”
I draw in a quick breath, realizing how he took my words. My eyes take him in, the harsh lines of his face and his fisted hands. Brew is about ready to lose his shit. As much as he hated his father, the little boy in him is probably grieving the man’s death. That same little boy is hurting that his mother and sister didn’t welcome him with open arms. Now, the man is hurting because he thinks his wife just accused him of being a coward.
Wrapping my arms around him, I do my best to soothe his pride. “You’re brave, Brew, and I want you to show your family just how brave you are. You’re going to do that, by going to the reading of the will and reminding everyone you are a part of the Decker family, whether they like it or not.”
He stays silent for a second before letting out a long breath and gesturing to the trash can. “I’m not wearing that damn tie, not the fucking suit either. If we’re going, I’m wearing my cut and riding my Harley.”
I smile, thinking of the beautiful bright orange Harley sitting in the hotel parking lot. With our luggage, there was no way we could ride the bike on our way down here. In
stead, Brew put it on a trailer and pulled it the whole way. He said that when this shit was over, he would take me for a ride and show me all the places he used to go as a child. We can still do that, but right now that beautiful bike can be used to make a statement to his family. A big fuck you to the uptight assholes that think they are better than my man.
“I think it is time your family met Brew Decker, Sergeant at Arms of the Grim Bastards,” I state with an even bigger smile on my face. “They can also meet the biker bitch you call your old lady.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Brew
Riding down the long driveway to my parents’ home, I have to fight the urge to turn around and head back to the hotel. If it wasn’t for Addy’s arms wrapped around my waist, that is what I would do. I don’t want to be here; just the thought of walking into their house is causing my stomach to roll. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m scared, scared shitless. Just being here, I no longer feel like a man. Instead, I’m right back to the boy that was betrayed by the people that was supposed to love him.
Coming around the last curve of the drive, my parents’ house comes into view and my heart starts to pound. I haven’t been here in so long, I almost forgot what it looked like. It’s not really a house, it’s more of a mini-mansion. It is so fucking fancy, it even has its own name, Annaglade. It was built nearly a hundred years ago before the Civil War. At the time, the whole place was a working cotton plantation. After the war, the owners sold the place to my ancestors. Since then, the house has been upgraded but it still looks almost identical as it did back then.
Seeing what my family has, what they are worth, causes my stomach to rumble with aggravation. If the club had even a quarter of the money my family has tucked away, we could live like kings for the rest of our lives. Not to mention, Boz and Trix would never have to worry about hospital bills again. It’s not fucking fair, no matter how I look at it.
“Holy shit!” Addy shouts the second I cut off the bike. “This is where you grew up? I knew you said it was nice, but this is freaking amazing.”
Looking at it, without letting my memories get in the way and without the worries of the club, I can see the beauty. It’s huge, three stories, all painted bright white. It has a huge front porch and full balconies on both the second and third floors. There are eighteen windows in the front, with the same on the back, and seven sets of French doors.
“If we have time, I’ll show you around,” I say, knowing that is what she wants but hoping like hell that we can be in and out of here in just a few minutes.
“How in the world were you raised in a place like this and not turn out to be a self-righteous prick?” she asks, climbing off the bike.
Sliding off the bike, I look up to the house and answer. “I’m guessing getting kicked to the curb by my parents had something to do with that.”
My old lady leans into me, wrapping an arm around my back. “Thank fuck for that. I wouldn’t want to be married to a rich prick.”
I look down at the amazing woman that owns me and thank God that my parents threw me away. If they hadn’t, I would have never met her, never shared three beautiful children with her. Hell, I wouldn’t even be wearing a Grim Bastards cut right now. Instead, I would have grown up to be just as fucking loathsome as the two people that spawned me.
“I’d say we’re both lucky.” Tossing my arm over her shoulders, I pull her in even closer and place a kiss on the top of her head.
The contact isn’t enough for my woman; no, she wants more, and she is willing to do whatever necessary to get it. She goes to her tiptoes and pulls my head down, forcing my lips to hers. She doesn’t give me a little peck, hell no. My old lady goes for it, sliding her tongue between my lips. I give back in kind, getting a taste of her. A growl works up my throat as I deepen the kiss. She tastes sweet and rich, a taste that reminds me of the beautiful life we share. Before I realize what I am doing, my hand has snaked between us to cup her breast. As soon as she feels the contact, she steps back.
Her face is flushed as she says, “We have company.”
I jerk my head around, planning to tell the intruder to go the fuck away. When my eyes land on my nephew, Logan, I decide against it. This kid, well, there is just something about him. From the minute I laid eyes on him, I knew he was a lot like me. I could see it in him, the want for something more than the life his parents have planned for him.
“Sorry, Uncle Isaac,” he says, his eyes glued to my Harley. “I just wanted to look at your motorcycle. There isn’t any around here that looks this cool.”
“You’re damn near a man now, you should call him Brew,” Addy says, stepping forward, grabbing his hand. “And I’m Addy.”
“Hello, Addy,” he mumbles, shaking her hand but looking at me. “Why do they call you Brew?”
When I was still a prospect, Smoke and I decided to try our hand at brewing our own beer. I have no fucking clue why we thought it would be a good idea, but at the time it sounded like fun. We did it, brewing the nastiest beer anyone has even tasted. Being the smart ass punk I was, I wouldn’t admit how bad it was and attempted to drink myself into a stupor. Instead, I ended up at the hospital getting my stomach pumped and being called Brew for the rest of my life.
“It’s just a name my brothers came up with,” I say with a shrug, knowing his mom would throw a fucking fit if I told him the truth.
“Brothers,” he says, looking confused. “You don’t have any brothers.”
Addy grabs my hand as she explains, “His friends.”
He nods before looking back to my Harley. He is staring at the bike in a way that lets me know his biggest dream is having one of his own. His eyes come to me for just a second, as if to ask permission. When I nod, he walks closer and gently lays a hand on the seat.
“Aunt Joyce told me you had a Harley,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “I was hoping you would bring it.”
Looking at him, I know he is nearly eighteen but he looks closer to Cam’s age of fifteen, maybe even a year or two younger. That probably comes from being the spoiled child of rich socialites. I remember being a teenager, I wanted nothing more than a bike of my own. Of course, I didn’t want a Harley. My heart was set on a dirt bike. A few of my friends had one, and they would go out to the old strip pit and ride for hours. I wanted to do the same thing, but then all the shit happened with Trina. Not that my parents would’ve ever considered it anyway.
“I’m going to get one as soon as I turn eighteen, silver with flames on the tank,” he states, reminding me of myself.
“That’ll look cool,” I reply, a smile playing on my lips. “My son’s bike is silver with a red skull tank.”
He jerks his eyes to me and asks, “You have a son? I thought Grandmother said you only had two little girls.”
Anger hits me like a freight train, realizing my mother is purposely forgetting about Cam. She has been doing that ever since we got here. He wasn’t even included in the fucking obituary. When I asked her about it, she said it didn’t seem right to add my nephew. It didn’t seem to matter to her that he is my son, both in my heart and legally. After Cam’s mom, Addy’s sister, died, we adopted him. He was our first child, and he will always hold a special place in my heart. I love my girls, would give them the world if I could, and I love Cam the same way.
“We do have two daughters, but we also have a son a little younger than you,” Addy says, squeezing my hand. “I bet you and Cam would be great friends.”
Reaching his hand out and running his fingers along the shiny gas tank, he smiles and says, “Maybe you can bring him the next time you come to visit.”
Before I can tell him that we won’t be coming back, my sister comes rushing out of the house, screaming at her son. “Logan Matthew, get away from that thing right now!”
She races toward him, jerking him away from the bike as if he is going to catch a disease or something just by touching it. He stumbles, nearly falling on his ass, but catches himself before he goes down. He lo
oks to me, a blush covering his face, then straightens up and jerks his eyes to my sister.
“I wasn’t hurting anything,” he states, obviously angry with the intrusion. “Uncle Brew said it was okay if I looked at it.”
“His name is Isaac,” she says in a voice filled with disdain. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t speak to him.”
She looks to me, a sneer on her face. She doesn’t say anything, but just takes in my weathered jeans, leather cut, and the tattoos covering my arms. When she finally looks at Addy, her sneer grows into something grotesque. When she sees the tight Harley tee covering my woman and the high heeled black boots on her feet, Trina’s nose scrunches up in a way that makes her look like a bulldog. Guess the uptight bitch doesn’t care for the way we look.
“I’m glad Dad is gone,” she says snottily. “He couldn’t handle the shame of having his friends see the two of you.”
With that, she grabs Logan’s arm again and marches him back into the house. I keep my eyes trained on them until the door shuts, feeling my stomach roll with revulsion. Seeing Trina, the little girl that I used to laugh and play with, acting just like our mother is killing me.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” Addy says, pulling me toward the house.
“Oh, yeah. This is going to be a fucking ball,” I say with a grunt and head to the one place I said I would never go again.
CHAPTER SIX
Addy
I curl my fingers in, fisting my hands in an attempt to keep myself from slapping my motherin-law. Ever since we walked in the house, she has been doing her best to ignore Brew. When one of her cronies mentions him, she dabs her eyes with that loathsome lace handkerchief and says something about how she will never understand where her husband and she went wrong with him. It is taking every ounce of willpower I have not to tell her that the only thing she ever did right was have Brew. From there, her life has been an endless stream of fuckups.