Scarred: The Ruthless Rebels MC Series Book 3

by Michele, Ryan

  She moves to get up and reaches for the blanket. “Can I take this?” she asks, all the while I’m breaking inside, shattering every piece of my heart on the tiled floor of my classroom. I’ve had pain in my life, lots of it. This right here, letting this little girl go and possibly never seeing her again, is the worst.

  As a teacher, I should be used to kids coming and going. But this little one wormed her way deep and it kills.

  “Of course.” She slips on her little shoes and stands up. I do as well, dusting off my bum. Wordlessly, Marlayna goes over to her cubby and pulls the papers out. Then goes to her book bag and stuffs everything in it. She puts on her coat and then her book bag, never once asking for any help, even when she struggles and I step forward—she steps back.

  She walks past me. “Bye, Ms. Roe.” Her voice is quiet, but her head is up as she walks over to Mrs. Easton who gives her a big smile. Mrs. Easton leads her out of the room by holding her hand. Once they get to the door, Marlayna turns back once more and those eyes will haunt my dreams.

  I give a small wave and try to smile the best I can. Marlayna turns and walks out the door. I dart from the room, enter the teachers’ lounge bathroom, and lock the door. I sit on the toilet and let my emotions spill over and fall to the floor. Looking at the lock, I cry harder and hope wherever Marlayna ends up, she’ll have a lock on her door.

  Chapter 4

  In a battle of good versus evil, no one really wins!

  “Church,” TT calls, slapping a hand on my shoulder as I sit staring at a box ready for transport.

  Immediately, I stand and follow my brother out to our bikes. Typically, church is scheduled weekly, but when something important happens Thumper will call church unexpectedly like this.

  We file into the room off the back of the clubhouse. Each patched member taking his place, Thumper slams the gavel down.

  “New order of business,” he explains and looks to Lurch.

  “We got a client, boys. A new one,” Lurch begins looking at each of us. “We’re not sure we want to do business with the man.” He sits back in his chair rubbing his beard. “Not sure we want to turn away his money, either. Think we need to scope the area and the individual.”

  Thumper and Lurch look at TT and me. “Blakely, Georgia.”

  My gut churns. The acid inside me burns and bubbles threatening to spill over.

  TT shakes his head.

  “Know it’s a lot to ask, but LaRoche is offering up some serious green backs to become his supplier.”

  “Why the suspicion?” I ask, wondering what intel has already come in to put Thumper and Lurch on edge.

  “Owns a pawn shop. No need for guns that he can’t sell,” Thumper informs the room. “You two spent some time in Blakely. You’ll know the best ways to see what’s going down without actually being seen.”

  I nod, knowing that going back to Georgia is the last thing my brother or I want to do, but it’s also our duty to the club to follow orders.

  “I bought us a window of time. Finish up your shit for this week. Next week you scan the area, the business, and the schedule LaRoche keeps. We’ll reconvene and make a decision after your update.”

  * * *

  “Browns’ died,” TT says, coming up to me in the clubhouse the day after we find out we have to go back to Georgia. Could shit get any deeper? What’s left of the charred mess of my heart shatters and breaks. Not many people gave a damn about me and my brother. Most cast us off as hard to handle delinquents, but not the Browns’. I sure as shit don’t know what they saw in my brother and me, but it was something.

  The way they pushed us to do better than we thought we could in school. Mrs. Brown would sit at the table and help me with my homework, something my real mother never did. Hell, I was lucky to get a meal from my mother.

  Not at the Browns’. Food was on the table for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There was no wondering where my next meal would come from, not with them. Not only that, Mrs. Brown made both my brother and me help her cook. Granted, we both thought she was nuts, but we went along with it. Sometimes we even had fun. Especially the time we had a food fight in her kitchen. Mrs. Brown was the one who started it. It was one of my prized times with the Browns’ because I didn’t have much to smile about, except for Roe.

  “How?” I ask as my emotions threaten to swallow me whole.

  “Car accident. Mr. died on impact, Mrs. held on for a while, but she’s lost, too.” Triple Threat’s face is blank, like it always is. I’m not sure what it would take to get him to feel again. Not that it matters. Hell, nothing matters at this point, except the club.

  “When’s the funeral?”

  His sharp eyes cut to mine. “I’ll find out, but I’m not goin’.”

  “Didn’t expect you to. We’re already goin’ next week. No need for you to go twice.” I know better to ever think he’d go back there. Not because of the Browns’, but it’s too close to our mother. We keep tight tabs on her because knowing where that wicked woman is, is a must. She needs to be put down, but for some reason, we just can’t do it. There’ll come a time, though. That I can guarantee.

  “No sense in you goin’ back for it either. That place is just full of shit.” He sits on the stool up against the bar and takes a pull on his beer. “Nothin’ there.”

  He’s right. There isn’t anything in Georgia for us but anger, and for me, one regret. Except when I close my eyes tight, I can see Mrs. Brown’s soft smile and Mr. Brown’s kind eyes, and I know I owe them my respects.

  “I’m goin’,” I decree, moving away from him and heading outside, needing to finish packing the guns for a separate order that came in on the fly.

  Truth be told, I just need to get the fuck away, alone. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions. I hate every single one of them. I need some time on the open road alone with my bike and my mind.

  My brother and I didn’t get a great start in life. Shit, the time at the Browns’, I swear to fuck was the only time he and I both could sleep through the night. Now it takes pussy or booze, sometimes both, and even then I can only crash for four or five hours before the acid builds up and I have to get up and puke.

  My mother was told I had severe acid reflux as a child. The doctor said it would scar my vocal chords if she didn’t treat it. The rasp in my voice today is from her neglect. Only, in her mind, it was the evil inside of me bubbling over and spilling out.

  I don’t know how many times she would make me sleep outside so I wouldn’t throw up my vile evil spirits inside her house, releasing them around her precious boy, Waylon.

  Going back to Georgia isn’t my ideal getaway, but I have to be there to lay to rest the first woman who took me into her heart and home without ever once looking at me like I was evil. George and Doris Brown were the first people to take me and Waylon in and not look at us as either one person or the sides of good and evil. They accepted me as Whitton, they gave me freedoms to draw, to run, to ride my bike down the street. And, in the long run, they gave me the only place I’ve ever felt at home. In doing so, I was able to be comfortable and be who I wanted to be.

  Christmas lights twinkle. They sparkle against the night sky over the arch of the house. Waylon and I helped Mr. George all weekend to get the lights hung and the tree up. Doris and Coley, another foster child, got the tree decorated.

  I lay on the front lawn with my hands behind my head as I watch each individual bulb shine. The string only works if each bulb does its job. One fails, they all fail. Sometimes that’s how I feel about Waylon and I. If one of us should falter we take us both down.

  “Whitton,” Ms. Doris calls from the front door, and I raise my hand so she can see I’m in the yard. I start to rise. “Oh, sugar, don’t get up,” she instructs, and I lay back down.

  Within seconds the shadow of her frame comes over me before she stretches out beside me. “Y’all did a great job!”

  “It turned out exceptional,” I say, knowing it was all Mr. George guiding us.

&nb
sp; “Whitton, you see the way the lights get brighter the longer they shine?”

  “I’m okay, Ms. Doris, no need to have some life comparison to the lights.” I try to quiet the woman beside me who is always trying to give us kids these lessons.

  “How many times have Mr. George and I been blessed to have you and Waylon return to us now, Whitton?”

  “Six, Ms. Doris.”

  “How many Christmas’ have we had together?”

  “Five, Ms. Doris.”

  “Five of the best Christmas’ this house has ever seen.” I hear the emotion in her voice. “Mr. George and I, we have this big old house, Whitton, and had a lot of kids come through. You and Waylon are like those lights, the longer we have to see your lights shine, the brighter they get.”

  “Ms. Doris, don’t get all emotional on me. I’m a sixteen-year-old boy, I don’t hug and sh– stuff.” I stop myself from cussing out of respect for the woman beside me.

  She laughs. “Whitton, you will go far.”

  I huff. Waylon will be the one to make it in life. I’m just along for the ride.

  “You know, like the tiny bulbs that hold so much light, you, Whitton, have so much to give the world. You’re honest, hardworking, and talented. Believe and you can shine brighter than every light around you.”

  Ms. Doris didn’t let the past define us. She said we were each a blessing and a part of her life to show her the future is full of possibilities. She never once let us use our pasts or where we came from as an excuse not to do our very best. Time would pass, Waylon and I would get shuffled somewhere else. Only, somehow, we would always end up back with the Browns’. They gave us the only solid home we ever had until we found life with Ruthless Rebels. As my mind goes back, I remember Roelyn, too.

  “Is there anything you don’t do well?” Roelyn asks over my shoulder in art class. We have to draw an abstract piece in charcoal.

  “Roe, I think you may have more black soot on you than the paper.”

  “Possibly,” she laughs, and I swear its heaven to my ears.

  I continue to smudge out the shadows to the piece.

  Roelyn Madeline Duprey always believed in me. There wasn’t a single thing she ever doubted I could do. Including breaking her heart.

  “The power you have in those eyes, Whitton. It’s the kind of power that can break this girl’s heart in one glimpse,” she whispers as her lips brush against mine, and her deep green pupils pierce into mine.

  If only she knew the power she held in her eyes, her hands, her soul, and her heart. Luckily, for me, she didn’t, and I didn’t stick around long enough for her to realize it.

  One thing I learned from Waylon is the pain of losing it all to a woman. The difference between Roe and Waylon’s woman was mine had a heart; his, well, it’s yet to be determined if she had a soul.

  Chapter 5

  Chalk up another bad day in the books!

  I step out to the warm Georgia spring time air. It’s early morning so the sun is just starting to come up. I need to get to work because I’m only doing a half day so I can attend the Browns’ services, and I need to make sure all my plans are in order for the afternoon.

  The emotions are so hard. It’s been a few days since the accident, days since I looked in a precious little girl’s eyes and fought not to scoop her up and run away with her.

  My mom passed away a little over a year ago, my dad left before I could even make a memory with him. I long to have a family. Things before my mom’s passing were rocky, to say the least. I’ve never had the comforts and securities of someone who would really stay. My mom had to work all the time to take care of us. She had boyfriends, all of which came and went. Some, well I can’t even let my mind go back to some of them. Those times alone still make the fear rise. Locks, they are the best invention ever. My mom didn’t know and then she did. She took my back, she did what a good mother should, that’s what matters. My hope is Marlayna gets her locks.

  I knew better than to believe in people. Mom did too. The one time I let myself believe someone was with me for the long run, he left and never even glanced back.

  Maybe one day.

  I make it to my car not really paying attention. Starting the engine, I notice a light on the dashboard I haven’t seen before. Knowing I have so much to do, I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway. I don’t make it far before my steering wheel is shaking and the roaring noise I’ve heard down my road most certainly is coming from my little Toyota Celica.

  Tears already threaten to fall because the Browns’ were good people and the community will miss them. Getting out to see I have a flat tire, the tears I’ve been trying to hold in finally spill over.

  “Okay, Roe,” I tell myself, blowing out a shaky breath. I pop the trunk and pull out the spare tire and tools necessary, clearing my tears.

  Once again, I’m fighting back memories. Everything always leads back to him. I hate it. Too much of my past entwines with Whitton, and I feel like I may suffocate under the weight of what could have been.

  “Come on, Roe! You can’t risk getting stranded after work one night,” Whitton explains as we sit in my driveway with my car on a jack.

  I recently got my license. I’ve been working summers and now after school at the local burger joint. Sometimes I don’t get off work until after ten, and Whitton says I need to be able to take care of myself just in case. Last week, he taught me about checking the oil, the radiator fluid, antifreeze, and general maintenance problems I may encounter. This week, it’s all about changing a tire.

  It’s miserable.

  The lugnuts are on too tight, and I swear I’m going to pull a muscle trying to get them off. Then the tire itself weighs a whole lot more than that little donut I have to put on to replace it. I want to smack myself for buying this car because the chrome rims looked shiny.

  They shine alright, and weigh a ton.

  Hubcaps are way better, now I know.

  Shaking my head, I push away the memory and get to work changing my tire. Whitton rode out of here years ago, he didn’t look back. I need not keep looking to the past even in my memories. I just wish he didn’t haunt everything.

  When I chose my clothes today, it was to pay respect to the Browns’. Now, I’m grateful I chose black for the mere fact I probably have dirt or something on my skirt. Being a preschool teacher, I never wear skirts. The little children are too fast going from one thing to another, and getting up and down off the floor could cause more than one mishap.

  I look down to my knees where I bent on the ground. Lucky me, there’s a runner in my pantyhose, good thing I shaved. I’ll remove them when I get to work.

  Pulling into the school, an unsettling feeling hits me like a punch to the gut. This day is already bad, how much worse can it get?

  That same question lingers in my head as I look around my classroom at the nineteen very energetic kids. Now, my class is usually hyped up, but it’s as if their parents fed them sugar for breakfast with a side of soda. What’s worse, I don’t have the pick-me-up I normally have.

  It didn’t help that Ms. Marie came in this morning and said there is still no word on little Marlayna. I just hope she’s in a place where she feels safe.

  Poor Miss Jennifer is feeling the pinch, and I feel bad. Unfortunately, I’m not sure a mask could change my mood about today. It’s like everything has rolled up in one big ball so tight, I’m going to unravel. No matter how much I try to keep it together, even my students can see it.

  Johnny comes over to me and puts his hand on my knee. “Don’t be sad, Ms. Roe. It’s okay.” A smile comes to my face. A child’s resilience is something I admire greatly.

  “I’ll be just fine, buddy. Thanks.”

  I’m able to get through the motions of the morning before taking the afternoon off, and by the time I get to the church, I’m no better. Exiting the car, I see many faces that I know and nod, giving small smiles. Growing up here means knowing a lot of people. Being a teacher in the com
munity means knowing practically everyone.

  My smiles aren’t as broad and greetings are more demure. Mr. and Mrs. Brown are being laid to rest together. I’ve never been to a double funeral, and as I enter the church with the many pews filled with people, I’m not liking it much. It’s double the grief, but it does make sense. Mr. and Mrs. Brown would have wanted it this way.

  I take a seat at the end of a pew about ten rows in. There are about twenty in front of me, but this one didn’t have anyone in it. It’s not that I don’t want to be around people, it’s that everyone deals with grief differently and talking and laughing isn’t my way.

  I know people believe in celebrating their lives. I agree. But I also want to mourn. I need to mourn. I need to find that release of the sadness in their loss.

  Looking up to the front, waves of emotions hit me as thoughts of my mother laying up there come back full force. A year, a decade—I’ll never get over her loss.

  I sob in the front pew trying to be quiet for the pastor to talk, but having a hard time doing so. My mother was my best friend, my confidant. She was all I had and now, she’s gone. Poof. One day here, the next day I’m burying her in the ground never to see her or hear her laugh again.

  She’d burn the pancakes every Sunday morning and do it with a smile after we came to this exact church. The tears fall as I hold the tissue to my face. My best friend, Elizabeth, puts her arm around me, giving me her strength and I need it. Now, more than ever.

  I’m jolted back in to the present by the sound of the pastor’s voice and pay attention to everything he says. My grief isn’t as strong as when I was here for my mother, but that weight is something I continue to carry daily. To this day, I can’t eat non-burnt pancakes.