Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
The car shakes as Dad opens the driver’s door, his strength nearly taking it off the hinges.
He starts the car and grips the steering wheel, I spot blood on his knuckles and my eyes fill with tears. He really hurt Thane. Oh my god!
“You’re an asshole.” Emotion so thick in my voice, the words come out choppy.
“Delilah.” My dad’s voice is so sharp and precise, my eyes widen, but I can’t take my stare off his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him glance over his shoulder and the headrest, and then our eyes lock.
“You are my daughter and if you don’t have the brains to respect yourself, then I will step in. Remember that next time you want to stoop so low to fucking a—”
“You don’t even know him!” I interrupt, tears running down my cheeks. Rage blisters inside of me so hard it hurts and demands a release. I want to fucking riot and tear this car apart.
“And neither do you!” he shouts, his face red.
His words stun me. He’s right, I don’t know Thane. What’s that say about me? What does he think of me?
“Guys,” Zane mutters, playing the peace-maker as usual. “Let’s do this at home.”
The car jerks in reverse, and Dad’s hands pound at the steering wheel as he backs us out of the popular bluff. Looking out the window, I find Thane slowly getting into his truck, the windows still fogged from us. He looks bad, he’s holding his side, and there’s blood on his arm and face. Jesus.
The rest of the ride is silent, the only sound to be heard is the engine of the car and the occasional pothole the wheels dip into.
When we get home, my mom rushes outside. Her hair down and past her shoulders, her face clear of makeup and swollen from sleep. She points at me before I even get out of the car, her black silk robe open displaying her skimpy top and panties.
“Why do you have to do this shit? Why?” she scolds, following me into the house. Reminding me how I’m the black sheep of the family all the way through the foyer and living room.
“You need to come back to the studio and practice ballet, Delilah, get your head on straight, and stop acting like this. You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days!” she continues. Finally reaching my room, I quickly go inside and slam the door behind me. It doesn’t shut her up, but it muffles her disappointment.
I fall back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling.
I may be a princess, but I’ll never wear a fucking tutu and pink lace. I don’t wear heels, and if my mother even tried to put a diamond-studded tiara on top of my head, I’d stab her in the heart with it.
I’m the dark-hearted princess that wears black fingernail polish, talks like trash, and wears a leather jacket.
Princess? Pssh.
I’m a biker brat obviously, so how the fuck can they get mad when I behave just like the free and wild spirit I’ve lived around?
Rolling over to my side, I turn my Bluetooth speaker on until it plays Marilyn Manson and shove my pillow under my head just enough to prop it up. I’m sore and sticky in between my legs, my body feeling anxious and excited as I replay what happened in the cab of that truck tonight.
I smile.
Leaning over the left side of the mattress, I blindly swing my hand back and forth under my bed until I touch the cool glass of Jack Daniels whiskey I stored underneath it yesterday. Undoing the cap, I take a mouth full of the whiskey and stare at the window that is now shut. Large screws half sticking out of the wooden seals. My dad must have it screwed shut before coming to find me, that or my mother did.
I smile with whiskey on my lips, my hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
Like that will stop me.
1
Five Years Later
Delilah
Hand out the window, the warm breeze brushes up my arm, and I sing the lyrics to “God’s Gonna Cut You Down” as I drive through the night, finally leaving my title of club princess behind. Thirty-two hours. That’s the drive from Los Angeles to Georgia, that’s what the GPS says. I’m heading down south to start my life, somewhere I can do whatever I want without having to look over my shoulder to see if a Devil’s Dust club member is watching me. Over the last several years I found the best way to talk or express myself is through art, which then bred into detailing motorcycles. I love it, and can’t imagine doing anything else. Nobody can get in my head and tell me to stop thinking what I’m thinking when I’m painting or sketching. I’m lost in a world that only surrounds the art I’m bringing to life. It’s kind of like reading a book, I’ve lived many lives and ventured through many colors and shapes through each piece of art and that’s what I’ll be doing in Georgia.