A year ago, I stepped down as the president of Satan’s Sons. It was supposed to mean less stress. No more breaking up fights in my clubhouse-turned-restaurant. No more playing peacemaker between rival biker gangs or worrying about the cops knocking down my doors.
I was supposed to relax. That was the doctor’s advice after my heart attack.
With Kimmie's help, I started eating healthier. I quit drinking and even stopped smoking.
I should have been riding my bike on the open road, feeling the sun on my back and the wind in my thinning, gray hair. Maybe I should have taken a cue from Abby and just shaved it all off.
“Look at me,” I sighed heavily. “Whining because the restaurant’s doing well. All thanks to you, baby girl.”
I glanced at the framed photo on my desk.
It was an old picture of my girls, back when their hair was long and wild. Kim’s hair was freshly dyed red after a spat with Abby. It suited her, and she kept it for a while, but I was glad when her natural blond started to grow back. It was a quiet, significant sign that she was changing.
She stopped partying and started taking care of my health.
She even got serious about going to medical school.
Kim went from wild to mild, as she put it.
The photo blurred as a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Boss?”
“What?” I gruffly wiped my face.
Gitz poked his head in, either not noticing my red-rimmed eyes or deliberately ignoring them. “Want me to set up the circle? The place will be packed with bikers soon.”
“Nah,” I grunted, pushing myself away from the desk. “I’ll do it. My doctor says I need the exercise.”
Gitz nodded and stepped back, leaving the door slightly ajar.
This place and its people had changed more than I could have imagined in a year.
The old clubhouse had been covered in wood from floor to ceiling. Neon signs and TVs hung everywhere, and the place reeked of spilled beer and cigarettes. Sometimes, when it gets hot and humid in the summer, I can still smell the smoke.
It was a disgusting smell, but I loved it.
At first, we just took down the offensive posters, removed a couple of pool tables, and slapped a fresh coat of paint on the walls. It was a good start… until some of the guys got rowdy and busted a wall, revealing the brickwork underneath.
Kim liked it so much that we ripped out all the paneling, including the wood flooring, to expose the concrete and brickwork.
That’s when Gitz stepped in, talking about an industrial yet cozy feel, an open floor plan, and other things I didn’t understand. And just like that, we had the newly renovated Harrison’s. We knocked down the doors and walls between the club bunks, giving us more space for tables and small lounges.
I left my office, walking along the bar. It was nice to see the glasses sparkling in the morning sunlight. It was Abby’s idea to put real glass in the hanging racks, and Kim’s rule never to use them.
Smart girl, that Kimmie. Because no matter how much the Satan’s Sons had changed, we were still a bunch of clumsy bikers.
But we were trying, damn it. We were trying really hard, Kimmie.
Gitz was getting the front of Harrison’s ready for the lunch crowd while I headed to the members-only lounge. This was Abby and Reaper's idea: to have a place where we could conduct Satan’s Sons business away from prying eyes.
Like the debriefing we were going to have tonight about the raid in Avoca yesterday.
The raid went well, but both Reaper and Abby came home upset.
I went behind the bar of the MOL and saw that Gitz had already brought in and stacked the chairs. All I had to do was set them up.
Jerk, I’m not that old.
I smiled anyway.
I pulled out the folding chairs and set them up in a circle. Rena, one of our club girls-turned-waitress, brought in the coffee and assorted cookies.
I had just placed our printed affirmation on the last chair when the bikers started to trickle in. The regulars like Ox and Brad strutted in, confident as ever, and headed straight for the snacks, thanking Rena on her way out. The newer faces, the pledges, and initiates walked in timidly, wondering if this was the biker club they wanted to join.
Sometimes it wasn’t.
“Fuckin’ G’day!” I shouted.
“Fuckin’ G’day,” the room of bikers shouted back.
That was their cue to sit, and the regulars did, with the newbies quick to follow.
At the head of the circle, I picked up the affirmation and started to read out loud, quickly joined by the other members:
It is what it is.
I’ve always despised that phrase.
What’s it supposed to mean?
If a dog was a dog and couldn’t be anything else… then it is what it is. Nothing could change that. From its genetic makeup to its gross habit of eating its own vomit, a dog was a dog.
It is. What. It is.
Okay.
I get it.
But using that phrase in everyday situations? Like when it starts to rain and your umbrella has a huge hole in it, or you drop your last cookie in the toilet; well, it is what it is.
You can’t fix your umbrella.
That cookie was now a soggy mess.
You were out of luck. Tough break.
It is. What. It is.
You couldn’t change it. You couldn’t fix it. You couldn’t fish it out of the toilet and still eat it.
You know what I say to that?
Screw that.
I’ll welcome the rain and walk bare in it. I’ll bake my own damn cookies.
A splash of paint hit my face, snapping me back to reality.
I was in my studio, next to the shooting range on our biker compound-turned legit ranch. Some might’ve found the constant gunfire unsettling, but I found it soothing. Even relaxing. Kim would have called it unnecessarily aggressive, but I disagreed.
It's not like she was here to argue anyway.
I dipped my palette knife back into the thick neon pink paint, flinging the excess across the canvas, studying the pattern and arc it created. It looked like blood splatter.
Perfect.
The canvas was a mess of black strokes and layered textures. Bold lines in pink, yellow, and turquoise screamed at me in a chaos of anger and confusion.
At the center of this chaos?
A familiar pale face.
His features were sharp and cunning, his eyes were flat black voids.
A rough crosshair sat right on his forehead between two long black devil horns.
“You know you’re only letting him win by obsessing like this,” Reaper remarked from behind.
I ignored him, cleaning the palette knife on my apron and dipping it into the turquoise next. These specks were softer, adding a touch here and there.
“Is this what you were working on a few nights ago?” He changed the subject.
“No.” I pointed to a smaller canvas deeper into the studio. “It’s a self-portrait.”
Reaper walked over, studying the figure. Her round, soft features. The big blue eyes and full lip smile as she leaned over a sleek black chopper.
“That’s not you,” he accused. “It's Kim.”
“Same thing,” I shrugged.
“Not the same thing at all,” Reaper turned to look at me. “Who do you think I am? Trigger?”
I scoffed at the memory that the name brought.
The once too touchy vice president of Satan’s Sons, Trigger used to be Kim’s on and off again old flame. If twenty-four could be considered old.
Maybe it was, for a sixteen-year-old.
I looked at Reaper, but he’d already turned away from me, looking back at the painting. I shook my head, like I was any better, letting another equally “too old” biker touch me on a lonely hilltop. Pot meet kettle.
Reaper’s shoulders tensed, “Why do you do that?”
“What?” I asked innocently. “Paint? My therapist says it's good for me. Joanna says to use it as a medium for all the negative thoughts in my messed-up head.”
“You aren’t messed up.” Reaper faced me again.
I raised my eyebrow at him, and he shrugged.
“No more messed up than the rest of us anyway.”
He flashed that smile of his, and I felt my insides flutter. I squashed it. I hated that his smile, slate-gray eyes, and sweet words did that to me. They always have, and probably always will. Those broad shoulders and slim hips didn’t hurt, either.
“You know what was messed up?” I spat out.
“Abby, not this again—”
“Not telling me,” I argued, “that Blake wouldn’t be there is messed up. No, it's fucked up. You lied to me. You only wanted to use me for the raid.”
“Where we saved six girls from sex slavery.” Reaper shook his head. “How is that not a win, Abby? It’s all going according to The Plan.”
I rolled my eyes, “Yes, yes. Kim’s Great Plan.” My finger quotes made Reaper wince. “Fat lot of good it did her.”
“We all worked hard on that plan, Abby. Can’t you see it's working?”
I turned away from him.
“Your dad’s healthier than ever,” Reaper pointed out. “We’ve turned the compound into a thriving ranch bringing in more money than we ever got as an outlaw biker gang.”
He stepped closer. “We’ve got the distillery, the farm. We’ve even cleaned up Snake Valley.”
I stared hard at the canvas, at Blake's face.
“No one dares sell drugs or smuggle guns across our territory,” Reaper continued, “The cops look the other way when we conduct raids like last night. Why? Because of Kim’s Plan.”
Reaper was right behind me now, but I wrapped my arms around myself tight, like armor against his words of reason.
“And where is Kim now?” I whispered.
He’s silent.
He doesn’t have a rebuttal.
Why would he even try? Nothing he did could ever alter the fact that Blake had hurt my twin. No words he spoke could quell my relentless pursuit to find Blake.
Why, you ask?
Simply because that's just the way it was.
