Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
But as I wait for him to walk out of church, I wonder if this will always be my life. Dad says he wants a better future for me. He doesn’t want me stepping up to run the club, but if anything happened to him, I know I wouldn’t be able to walk away from the family who helped raise me.
I know Dad would much prefer it if I studied for a degree at some fancy ass school when I’m older. I doubt I could ever sit in an office or walk around in heels and a designer labelled outfit. It’s not me. Instead, I’m the tomboy who’ll walk around with inked up arms and riding a bike because that’s what I’ve always known and come to love.
Everyone isn’t the same, of course, but just from my short life experience, I’ve witnessed that the roughest looking people are usually the kindest. Being judged on your looks, on your outer appearance is something the men of the club deal with on a daily basis. At school, I’m the girl most kids stay away from because of my father. Some fear him, some respect him. But most don’t know him like I do.
All I want to do is find where I belong. And live with people who see me. The friends I have made at school are lovely, but I don’t have anyone close enough to call a best friend. So, instead of focusing on a circle of friends, I’ve allowed myself to work hard at my subjects.
I’ve been passionate about a few things in my life, but I’ve always been focused on getting lost in art. My favorite school trips always involve visiting museums. Being able to see what the masters created all those years ago is a privilege. It’s how I want to be remembered.
When I’m eighteen, I’ll train with the tattoo parlor who did all my dad’s ink. I refuse to work in some suit and tie world where I don’t belong. I’ll be famous for my drawings one day.
I flick through my iPad that Dad got me for Christmas, and find the design I was working on a few days ago. There are so many intricate lines. I need to focus on the drawing, rather than what’s going on around me.
Crossing my legs, I ignore the noise of the bar, and work on the dark lines on the screen instead. The clubhouse has always been a hive of activity. Even though I prefer the quiet, there’s a sense of belonging in being so close to the family I grew up with. They may not be my blood, but they’re loyal and they love me.
Each of the men my father rules over would die for me. It’s as if I lost one mother and gained at least a dozen dads. Sometimes more when the other chapters visit. Being the daughter of a motorcycle club president comes with perks. But it also puts a damper on leading a normal life.
Most boys don’t talk to me. Most are afraid. My friends all have boyfriends, but I’ve never even been kissed. My dad says it’s a good thing because boys only hurt you in the end. But he’s never hurt a woman in this club. He’s never even punished me when I’ve done something wrong.
The clinking of glasses is soothing as the prospects get ready for a party tonight. Being of Irish descent, Dad always celebrates St. Patrick’s Day with an all night drinking session. There’ll be music, dancing, and hooking up—that’s what the kids at school call it. I may not be entirely innocent. I’ve learned about the birds and bees from my friends, listening to the stories they tell me. Their folks sat them down when they turned twelve and explained what happens when a man and woman love each other. My father has avoided that chat with me, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m glad he has.
I’m far from considering having a boyfriend. Even though Lindsay, my best friend, has a boy she kisses sometimes, I find it all too emotional. She’s constantly worried about her clothes and hair, while I love my short cropped, dark, spiky look.
I’m lost in thought, wondering what it would be like to have a boyfriend one day, when the doors finally open and the men file out. Some of them greet me, others ruffle my hair. I wanted it like my mama’s, dark and super short. It’s a boyish haircut, but I love it.
“Hey, Clover girl,” Dad says as he nears me.
But I can’t focus on my father, who’s now staring at me. Instead, my gaze lands on the person behind him. It’s a man I’ve never seen here before. He’s standing half hidden, but it’s as if he’s taking up the entire room. As if he’s sucked all the air from my lungs and stolen my breath.