by Bijou Hunter
Cricket plays with his light brown hair and smiles. “That’s a big kid word. You’re a little kid, so don’t say ‘crap.’”
“Crap.”
“I feel like I’m talking to your sister.”
“Crap,” he says again, and Cricket gives him the look of a woman capable of slaughtering her firstborn. The kid gets wide-eyed and stops saying “crap.” One day, he’ll realize his mother isn’t capable of harming those she loves except with unending, obnoxious babble. Once he does, she’ll need to find a new tactic to control the little French fry.
“So tomorrow night at six?” I ask Cricket who wipes her mouth and then Murphy’s. “I’ll bring the booze.”
“Is your beloved a lush?”
“Probably.”
“Then she’ll fit in,” Hayes mutters. “I don’t know why you’re all drunk all the time.”
“Don’t you, though?” Cricket asks.
Nodding, I choose to pile on Hayes. “I feel like you do know. Why are you saying you don’t?”
“He’s being coy,” Cap adds. “That’s a fucking word, right?”
“Yes, coy is a word,” Mom says, patting Hayes on the back. “Your father is very coy. It’s the first thing I noticed about him.”
Hayes leans over and gives Mom a sloppy, fuck-inspired kiss that makes my siblings and me groan with disgust. Nothing ruins a good time like imagining our parents rutting like animals.
Without a doubt, Tatum and I will one day use inappropriate sexual displays to gross out our children. They’ll hate us for being disgusting—or grody as Tatum likes to say—but they’ll also be happy to know their parents are still in love even after so many years of banging the same drums.
3—TATUM
I’ve always been an indecisive person. As a kid, I rarely wrote a letter to Santa that didn’t leave me in tears. I never knew what to ask for. What if I chose wrong and he punished me by bringing nothing?
My mom understood I couldn’t choose. At fourteen, when I wanted to paint my room and was stuck between colors—for six months—she stepped in and chose for me. At sixteen, when I wanted a new haircut, Mom took me to the salon and told the lady to give me a trim. She knew I’d regret whatever big change I made.
The only decisive move I’ve ever made was to travel to Tennessee to kill Howler. Now I’ve lost my gun and possibly my courage. I’m hungover and stuck in the hot attic of a loud house full of yelling people. My mind is no longer on revenge, instead focused on the too handsome Chipper taking me to meet my half brother tonight.
What can I wear? I look over the clothes I own and find nothing appropriate. Except what does one wear to a dinner with strangers? I only own T-shirts. Is that too casual? Most of my shirts have stains on them too. I worked in daycare since I was a teen, and little kids are messy. I’m messy too. That’s a lot of chaos to keep off my shirts.
Should I buy a new shirt for dinner? There’s a Walmart a few blocks away. I could easily drive over there, find a shirt, and eat a Subway sandwich for lunch. Yes, I’ll pretend I’m a casual person without a care in the world. I just need to look pretty for dinner with my long-lost—never before searched for—half brother and a man so captivating that I can’t stop wishing my breath weren’t awful, and I’d kissed him like crazy this morning.
Of course, I’ll choose to be that kind of girl. After all, I moved to Tennessee and found a room to rent. I’m impulsive and decisive now. It’s a choice I can make. No doubt about it.
Teeth and hair brushed, I add a layer of sunscreen foundation to my face. I don’t look great by any means, but I’m driving to Walmart, not a gala.
Walking downstairs, I pass the homeowner, Paige, and her eldest daughter, Jane, as they scream at each other about school and boys. I don’t understand the main gist of their argument, but I sense Jane is winning because she’s louder and Paige looks ready to give up.
Outside, the neighborhood is quiet with the kids at school and adults at work. I start my Mom’s minivan and set my phone’s map to Walmart.
This outing should be fun. Impulsive people do this kind of thing easily, and I’m impulsive now. I bought a gun, didn’t I? Well, now I’ll buy a shirt.
Except what shirt should I buy? Heck, now I’m not even sure that I should buy a shirt. Is wasting my limited resources on clothes the smartest move?
“Excuse me,” I ask a nearby customer. “Which shirt do you like best?”
The middle-aged woman gives me an odd frown before choosing the blue-and-white-striped shirt. I’m ready to buy that one except the woman’s outfit isn’t great. Now I’m not sure she has great taste.
For two hours, I walk around the store, pretending to shop, while occasionally asking people which shirt they prefer. Some pick the blue-and-white-striped shirt; others choose the black-and-white-striped shirt.
I could buy both shirts since they’re only ten dollars. I can afford twenty, can’t I? Or should I get neither?
I sit in a bathroom stall for twenty minutes, crying and looking at photos of my mom on my phone. If she were alive, I could ask her opinion. Left on my own in a world filled with possibilities, I can’t decide between two almost identical shirts. In the end, I choose to buy nothing.
Fortunately, I have an easier time picking a sandwich at Subway. I always get the same thing, so there’s no thinking involved in the ordering process.
Eating my veggie sandwich, I struggle with the overbearing weight of my loneliness. I can’t really blame anyone for my lack of friends and support system. I chose to be homeschooled because I didn’t fit in. I chose to spend my free time with my mom who was more fun than the girls my age. I chose to work at my mom’s daycare rather than find a job outside our home. I chose not to date because I wasn’t interested in any of the men interested in me.
I moved to Tennessee knowing my grandparents are dead, and no one here cares any more about me than they did in Florida. I’m alone because of my choices, so self-pity feels wrong, but I can’t shake my sorrow and loneliness.
Taking half my sandwich back to the house, I find Paige now arguing with her mother, Vickie, over who will clean up the overgrown rosebushes. They take no notice of me, and I walk quickly past without saying a word.
I’m invisible to the world.
Well, no, that’s not true. Gloriously handsome Chipper noticed me. He stopped me from killing Howler and going out in a blaze of glory no one would appreciate. Then he took me—a puking, crying stranger—to his fancy home where I’d be safe. Now he wants to introduce me to my half brother.
For whatever reason—assuming he’s only kidding about our future as married with children—Chipper cares if I live or die. His interest in my well-being is the only thing I can hold onto as despair tempts me throughout the afternoon.
CHIPPER
Bonn Fletcher works out of a storefront in the rougher town of Common Bend which sits next to the vastly better White Horse. This town falls under Hayes’s territory, but he never had much interest in the goings-on. That’s why he hired Bonn a dozen years ago to keep track of the drugs, whores, and thugs.
As the cousin of the Rutgers twins, he maintains a solid relationship with the Serrated Brotherhood MC, and I normally don’t need to get involved with the ground-level issues. This likely explains why Bonn looks so surprised when I enter his office.
“You didn’t call ahead,” the dark-haired former stripper says while leaning against a front desk where his middle-aged receptionist eats a Cup-a-Soup.
“You should pay her more.” I gesture to her lunch, but Bonn doesn’t get it. He grew up poor and probably views a Cup-a-Soup as a normal meal.
“What did you need?”
“I remember you having a private office. Did you get rid of that?”
Rolling his dark eyes, Bonn gestures for me to follow him. We walk to a tidy, back office where he shuts the door and sits behind his organized desk.
“This is just a side note to my main purpose here, but your cousin, Camden, tried to sweet talk me into go
ing over your head to get the supply his club needs to feed their junkies’ needs. I told him to suck a big one and call you.”
“That sneaky bastard.”
“Now why exactly do we have to do what the Reapers want? They’re from Kentucky, and that’s not even a real state.”
“They joined the union before Tennessee.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Check it online, but I know I’m right.”
“Feels like one of those flat earth things that people swear by but aren’t true.”
“Do you want me to look it up for you, champ?” Bonn asks, hitting me the same scowl as when I was dating Chevelle.
“No, Pops, I’m good. Hey, why are we kowtowing to the will of Kentucky fucks?”
“We made an agreement with the Reapers, and they don’t like the Brotherhood.”
“They’re not enemies, though. Why not help out a fellow dirty biker?”
“While they might not be enemies, they’re not friends either, and Johansson has no interest in giving the Brotherhood a single fucking thing.”
Snapping my fingers, I point at Bonn. “You know what we ought to do? I say we get one of Johansson’s daughters to marry one of Camden’s sons. They can bring their dirty biker crews together in sickness and in health.”
“Play matchmaker if you want, but I don’t give a shit about Camden’s needs. He runs his territory, and I run mine. Now, what else did you need?”
“Well, last night, after Camden stabbed you in the back, I met the woman I plan to marry. She’s one of Howler’s bastards, and I’d like to bring her to your house.”
“Marry?”
“Yes. Not immediately, of course,” I say, wiping lint from my jeans. “Once we fall in love, we’re getting married. Until then, I need to prevent Tatum from killing Howler.”
“Why don’t you kill him for her?” Bonn asks, leaning back and doing his tough-guy stare.
“I don’t sense she’d appreciate the effort. After all, she isn’t in love with me yet.”
“Is it possible she’ll never love you?”
Thinking of Tatum’s freckled nose, I only smile. “I’ve known her less than twenty-four hours, so let’s not call off the wedding yet.”
“Does Howler know about Tatum?”
“No. Back in the day, he threatened to kill her mom if she didn’t have an abortion.”
“Sounds like him.”
“So Tatum’s mom moved to Florida and raised her alone. Now her mom’s dead, she has no other family, and she wants revenge. My goal is to keep her distracted until she comes to terms with her grief. There’s no reason for her to die killing a man with one foot already in the grave.”
“Last time I saw him, he did look like shit.”
“So I plan to bring Tatum to your house tonight to meet you and Ruby. I think it’ll do her good to meet another bastard and see how well you did for yourself.”
“This is a real thing, right? You’re not fucking with me because Chevelle is coming home for Christmas.”
Sighing, I can’t live down my former fixation with Chevelle. I wasn’t even obsessed. Did I stalk her? No. As fixations go, mine remained very tame.
“Look, pal, your daughter is something special, but she’s also fucking married and has a kid. That ship sailed a long damn time ago, but thanks for making this conversation fucking awkward.”
“My assumption is based on how you ignore me except when Chevelle is involved.”
“Well, I accept your apology, so let’s return to the issue of Tatum and dinner tonight.”
“I’d have to call Ruby before I agree to anything.”
“Then call her. I’ll wait.”
Bonn doesn’t reach for the phone. “How old is Tatum?”
“I don’t know. While I did consider swiping her driver’s license to get her stats, I felt that might be intrusive. My guess is twenty.”
“Young enough to be Howler’s granddaughter.”
“Or your daughter,” I point out, considering Chevelle is in her mid-20s.
“Uh-huh.”
“Age catches up with us all, Bonn. Now, why don’t you ring up the missus and see if she’s cool with preventing a grief-stricken young woman from going on a suicide mission,” I say and then add, “I can pick up dinner if she doesn’t want to cook.”
“You’re not leaving until I call, are you?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not busy, so take your time.”
Bonn rolls his eyes again, treating me like the obnoxious kid he tolerated years ago rather than the obnoxious man who now pulls his strings. Of course, he relents under my charm and calls Ruby who, of course, is happy to meet another stray Howler jizz creation. I stand while Bonn’s still on the phone, having gotten my answer and now in a hurry to return home to change for dinner. I also need to figure out what to pick up for dinner since Bonn reassures Ruby she doesn’t need to cook.
As usual, my plans come together effortlessly.
4—TATUM
Chipper’s Range Rover acts as the sun after a storm. I can’t get downstairs fast enough once I see it turn the corner. Jane, Paige, and Vickie sit in the living room with their army of Chihuahuas plus a cat that spends hours every night scratching at my door since I moved in. They watch TV—even the furballs stare at the flashing screen—and ignore my escape from the house.
Hurrying into the increasingly chilly evening, I walk straight to Chipper’s car without thinking to put on any false airs. I’m not fooling him anyway. Not after last night.
Just as I remember, Chipper looks amazing. When he steps out of his SUV, I realize he’s changed his clothes from this morning. Now wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and black pants, he feels like an unrealistic dream. I’m nowhere near as perfect in my gray knit sweater and blue jeans. I wonder if I should have gotten the new shirt like I planned. Then again, I still can’t figure out which one was better.
“You look happy to see me,” he says, sounding not even a little surprised.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“If I were you, I’d be fucking ecstatic, but I don’t know if you’re as in touch with your good luck as I would be in your situation.”
“What?”
“Never mind. You look gorgeous, by the way. Sober and awake is a very fucking hot look on you.”
“Thank you. I went shopping,” I blurt out.
“I know,” he says, opening the passenger door for me. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“No,” I mutter and climb into the SUV. Frowning, I realize what he’s implying. “Wait, did you follow me?”
Chipper blocks the doorway and smiles. “Of course not, Tatum. I have people for that.”
“Did you have me followed because you don’t trust me or because you’re protecting me?”
“Both.”
“Why wouldn’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know you, and I couldn’t have you running off to challenge Howler again.”
“You took my gun,” I whisper.
“What if you possessed an entire arsenal in your suitcase?”
Rolling my eyes, I sense Chipper’s messing with me. He shuts the door and walks around the front to the driver’s side. Joining me in the SUV, he chuckles.
“What?” I ask when he only laughs.
“You were at Walmart for three hours and bought nothing.”
“I’m indecisive.”
“I’m not. I see what I want and bam!” he says, slapping his hands together and startling me. “I take it.”
“What if the thing you want belongs to someone else?”
“I steal it.”
“What if the thing doesn’t want you to take it?”
“I beat it over the head with an old lady’s purse until it submits.”
Fighting a smile, I ask, “Why an old lady’s purse?”
“They’re heavy. I got bitch-slapped by a geriatric skank years ago, and I still have nightmares.”
Grinning, I ad
just in the leather seat to get a better look at Chipper. “I feel like you’re lying.”
“You feel that, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t lie. When someone is wealthy, they can tell the truth at all times, and no one will punish them.”
“That also sounds like a lie.”
“It probably is. I can’t keep track of what I’m saying most days,” he says, pulling away from the curb.
I don’t know what to say, but I’m certain I don’t want to talk about me. “What’s it like being a twin?”
“It’s great. I recommend it to everyone.”
“Do people treat you differently?”
“A little, but non-identical twins don’t have it as difficult as those freaky same-y ones do.”
“So you weren’t dressed alike?”
Chipper gives me a grin. “Mom color coordinated us for special occasions when we were younger. Oh, and Cricket went through a period where she dressed as a boy, so people thought we were brothers. That didn’t last long, though.”
“Do you look much alike?”
“My phone is in the cup holder. Check the photos to see Cricket and the mini-twins.”
“She has twins too?” I ask, never really clear on when and how twins run in a family.
“Boy and girl twins too. Apparently, she craps out more than one egg like our mother. We call them the mini-twins. Cricket and I are the OG twins.”
Taking his phone, I search the photos and immediately find dozens of a small boy and girl. Plus, a beautiful brunette woman with rich brown eyes is in many of the pictures.
“Is this Cricket?” I ask when he stops at a light.
“Yep,” he says, leaning over to swipe the photos until he finds one of Cricket, her kids, and a sexy, tattooed man. “That’s her husband, Poet,” he says and swipes the screen before saying, “This is my younger brother, Cap.”
The light changes and Chipper leans back into his seat. “There should be plenty of pictures of my mom and dad too.”
I swipe a few photos and then stop on a picture of his mother. Her dark eyes and blonde hair match Chipper’s. I smile at how much he looks like his mom.