Blood of Cupids (2 page)

I told him not to. I actually took my father aside and
begged him not to, but I guess once the president of a motorcycle club makes a
decision about something, he refuses to listen to reason.

I sat outside the clubhouse, waiting for the decision. It
was surprisingly warm for early October in Philadelphia, and I wanted to enjoy
the sun on my skin before heading in to secure my fate. What I actually wanted
to do was go for a ride. I looked at the line of motorcycles; mine clearly
stood out from the rest. The guys are all great at scouring the Boneyard and
patching up their bikes when they need maintenance, but eventually the patches
are obvious. They think it’s the mark of a great MC veteran. The rougher your
bike looks, the more rides you’ve been on, the more trouble you’ve caused.
Isn’t that what we all want?

My bike, on the other hand, is my baby. She’s a deep maroon
Harley-Davidson FLHTC with leather bags and straight drag pipes, and she is
pure perfection. If she falls ill on a long ride, I’ll put every bit of money I
have into making her brand new again. The guys tease me, saying I give the
impression that I’m a Waxer. I’m not. I don’t just sit around waxing my bike
all day. I’m a full-fledged member of this club, I do the work, and I have the
patches to prove it. But my bike, she’s my everything, my only, and my one
escape plan—if I ever need it.

“Ryan Cassidy, get your ass in this clubhouse!”

That seemed pretty chipper for my Pops; the vote must have
gone in his favor. We don’t do any of that ‘majority rules’ shit in our club.
It’s either everyone is for it, or it doesn’t happen. It’s that simple. Still,
I couldn’t imagine my Uncle Sean, our tattoo sleeved Sergeant-at-Arms, would
let this vote slide past him. Something had to have happened in there. Or maybe
Sean had something in mind for later on down the figurative road.

I stepped into the dimly lit meeting room where we held
church, our weekly (and often more than once a week) meetings, and greeted my
fellow MC members. We were a small club; there were only sixteen of us all
together, now that our prospect had been voted in. Shit. Who was going to do my
laundry now?

My father stood at the end of the table, leaning over my
cut. In the one-percenter life, you never hand over your colors to anyone, but
Pops had this ceremonial fetish and I didn’t mind placating him. When he became
president, the club turned into something like a frat house. The “hazing”
rituals were a little more extreme, but for the most part, we’re just a bunch
of guys who find pleasure in our family bond. We also gamble and move guns,
which could possibly set us apart, but nowadays I’m not promising some
fraternities don’t follow that same path.

Pops nodded to the table, impatiently waiting for my
reaction. My eyes lowered to the thick leather, and I noticed a new patch lying
over the right chest pocket. I studied the words, not wanting to grasp their
meaning, but there was nothing I could do now. The vote was cast. It had
happened. I was the new Vice President of
The Blood of Cupids MC
.

Class felt long today. I know you need a master’s degree to
be a teacher, but sometimes I just want to forget it all. I mean, why bother?
Let’s be honest, who would hire me to teach in their school system anyway? My
blood literally began the most feared motorcycle club on the east coast. My
family is
The Walking Shadows
. That’s the only life I know. I am the
granddaughter of the creator, and the daughter of the president of the mother
chapter. Within the last fifteen years, eleven charters have formed under my
father’s rule. With about twenty members in each chapter,
The Walking
Shadows
were close to 250 members strong. There are 250 violent people
performing acts of crime at the call of my father. Is that the kind of person
you’d want teaching your kids?

Still, I try to tell myself it’s not me. I stand on the
outside of that life, only allowing it to reach my surface. Sometimes, I’ll
admit, I fall victim to the acts of my surface, but deep down, I am different.
I am only a daughter and a granddaughter. The club does not define me. Instead,
I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t follow in my mother’s footsteps,
that I wouldn’t let this life I was born into dictate who I was to become.

My mother. She was a teacher. I never understood what drew
her to the MC life. At least from my memories, and the stories I’d been told
about her, she seemed…different. She didn’t wear the normal ol’ lady clothes,
she stayed away from drugs, and mostly, she paid attention to me. That’s not
the case for many club parents. There’s so much shit to deal with otherwise
that the kids become neglected. But my mother, she saw to it that we were all
taken care of, at least until I was four. That’s when she died. I don’t
remember her very well, but the memories I do have are spectacular—well, most
of them are. She taught English. I would just watch her lips move as she spoke.
Her words were beautiful. Everything she said had meaning.

My father would tell me stories about her when I was little.
Every night I would learn something new, something that made me love her even
more. Then the stories stopped. I think once I lost my freckles, I reminded him
too much of her. I wish I had gotten to know her better. I wish I still had the
stories to sing me to sleep at night.

I paced the length of my room. Why was I thinking about my
family? Hadn’t I moved here to get away from it all? Hadn’t I set my foot down
and said that, unlike undergrad, I’d be going away for grad school whether he
liked it or not? My father is quite protective and likes everyone I interact
with to know he’s watching. Everyone. Any boyfriend I almost had was scared
away within the first week. Prospects escorted me to class, and my car was
surrounded by a motorcade of bikes to and from the campus. Not only that, but
my dad had installed a remote start in my car, because he was certain that one
day someone would try to use an ignition triggered bomb to kill me.

I was not one of those girls whose friends shaped their
teenage years, because my only friends were the girls who worked at my father’s
club. But because he didn’t want me ending up like his strippers, he even put a
limit on the amount of time I was allowed to spend with them. With all that
being said, I don’t think I’m too harsh when I say that I hate motorcycles. The
sounds of the engines still haunt me in my sleep. Then again, maybe it’s just
another prospect checking up on me.

I couldn’t think about them anymore. I needed to get out of
my apartment, clear my head. Sure, it was spacious for city living, but the
walls still felt as though they were about to close in on me. I guess no matter
how much I tried to fight it, I would always be a country girl. I peeked out my
window and put faces to the college kids I heard hitting up the bars. Okay. It
was time to get out and meet people my own age without my family here to get in
the way. Maybe I would have a few drinks. Maybe I would get drunk. Maybe I
would kiss a boy. The possibilities were endless. I stopped myself. I couldn’t
believe how juvenile I sounded. I was acting like a high school kid who was
going to their first party. But I never was that kid. I was never invited to
anything, because everyone knew that if they pissed off my dad, there would be
consequences. Well, I wasn’t that lonely kid anymore. It was time to leave my
apartment on a Friday night.

Why was I so nervous? From my window, I could see a quaint
Old City dive bar catty-cornered from my apartment. That would at least be a
little safer. If I happened to get drunk for the first time in my life, it
wouldn’t be hard to find my way home. I grabbed my sweater off the hook and
made my way toward the door.

My phone began to ring. Speak of the devil.

“Hi Dad.”

“Hi Gracie.”

“What’s up?”

“Just checking in.”

“Dad, I’ve been here for six weeks now. Nothing bad has
happened. Nothing bad will happen. You can stop checking in.”

“You know how I feel about Philadelphia.”

“Okay. Next semester I’ll transfer to Stanford.”

He sat silent, knowing I’d defeated him. The only thing
worse than me being in Philadelphia was if I was so far away that he couldn’t
keep an eye on me. Sometimes it feels really good to beat someone that
powerful. Two hundred and fifty men might answer to him, but I just made him
answer to me.

“Message received. Bye kid.”

“Love you, Dad.”

Yes, I knew how he felt about Philly. He hated it. Aside
from the noise and lack of privacy compared to my cushy Central Pennsylvania
upbringing, Philadelphia happened to be the home of
The Blood of Cupids MC
.
They were our club’s biggest rivals. I always thought it seemed silly. They had
a good amount of alliance MC’s, but the club itself was very tiny, maybe
fifteen or so members in all. From what I understood, it started as a turf war.
Our club is much older, and, while never setting foot in the city, it was an
unwritten rule that we had the Philadelphia area. When
The Blood of Cupids
staked
claim, my grandfather was furious, vowing to one day wipe them off the map. He died
not long after, still with that promise at his helm.

Maybe that is why my father always had a personal vendetta
against them. If my father hated any single motorcycle club, it would be
The
Blood of Cupids
. If he could see one club burn up in flames, it would be
The
Blood of Cupids.
Of course, it didn’t help that
The Blood of Cupids
killed my mother.

They started chanting for a speech.

“I don’t know what universe you think you’re living in, but
you can go on dreaming.”

My Pops stood there, all six feet and three inches of him,
looking so proud. It was damn gross. “Come on, Ryan, don’t you have something
you want to say to the guys?”

Of course I did. I wanted to tell them they were all a bunch
of idiots for voting a twenty-five year old kid into such a coveted role only
because his father signed their paychecks, so to speak. What the hell did they
expect me to say?

“You guys are my family. I won’t let you down.” That was the
extent of my speech giving skills.

Pop started the applause, and everyone followed
suit—everyone but Uncle Sean. He was leaning back in his chair with his inked
arms crossed, eyes glued to me. A small smile spread across his scarred face. I
don’t care if he’s blood, I don’t trust him.

An arm circled my shoulder and led me to the corner. My Pops
knew of this unspoken competition between his older brother and me, and he was
trying to break it up before it began.

“How should we celebrate, Son?”

“You know, I think I’m going to be celebrating alone
tonight.”

 He chuckled to himself. “You expect a Mama to drop her
panties when you bring her back to your shit hole apartment? Stay here. I still
have some girls that haven’t yet showed you a good time. Not many, but some.”
It was always weird for my Pops to speak to me in such a way, because I never
saw him partake. I guess I didn’t notice it at first—I was too involved in “the
scene”, but when my honeymoon phase in the club ended, I started to notice that
Pops was always putting on a show. He spent his time making sure everyone else
was happy while his heart seemed to be somewhere else.

“Well the one you sent over last night had no problem with
my shit hole apartment. And I hope you didn’t think for a second that I didn’t
know it was you.”

“I’m just trying to keep you confident. What else are
fathers for?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’m good though, believe me. See you
later Pops.”

I turned my back, ready to get the hell out of that stuffy
room.

“Hey, forgetting something?”

I looked over my shoulder, knowing full well what he wanted.
His muscled arms were open, asking for mine in return. I stepped into his hold.
We were the same height with the same build. Had it not been for the flour
dusting of grey in his hair, you might not have been able to tell the
difference between us in that embrace.

“Thanks Pops.” I had to say it. He thought he had done a
great thing for me. And maybe a year ago, I would’ve agreed with him, but it
seemed that lately I looked around and didn’t understand anything. Was this
really the life I wanted?

“I’d do anything for you, Ryan.”

I knew he meant it, yet I hated him for it. It was my hatred
that seemed to keep me going. I grabbed my cut off the table, saluted the group
of men, and headed toward my shit hole apartment.

Pops had a point: it really was a shit hole. I didn’t care
about my room; I only cared about my bike. I remembered when Pops first started
running with the club I was about five or six, and I would watch the swarm of
bikes pass by our house. How I wanted to join them. I wanted to wear the
glasses, the helmet, and the bandana, but most of all I wanted a bike. When I
finally bought her, I swore I’d never let any wrong come to her. And so my
space took a back seat. Why waste money on a couch that could go toward
repairing my bike? Why waste time cleaning when I could use that time to work
on my bike? My priorities were straight. I knew what I wanted.

I chucked my cut on the floor and pulled a hoodie over my
head. I threw on a splash of cologne to hide the oil and exhaust smell, and I
left it all behind. Even my bike was staying home. I needed to walk, and I
needed to get out of Southwest Philly. Maybe I’d see what kind of girls I could
find up in Old City. Not many Mamas hung out there. No one would know who I
was. That would be refreshing.

I wasn’t crazy. While my short walk was exactly what I
needed to cool my nerves, there was no way I was walking all ten miles. At
least without my colors paraded about, I had no problem getting a cab to stop
for me. To the outside world, I looked innocent. Tonight, maybe I’d pretend to
be innocent.

I stepped out of the cab onto a cobblestone street. This
part of the city was so different than my reality. These people were living in
a dream world. I looked around, both judging and envying the groups of college
kids making their way from bar to bar. How little they knew about life. How
much…

Everything stopped. All envy was pushed aside, and the anger
that had been building up, melted. I watched her close the door behind her and
carefully look over her shoulder as the screams of inebriation began to unfold.
She was simply adorable. It was as though she had never before stepped foot
outside. She turned toward me, and my first instinct was to duck. Fuck. What? Did
I really just hide behind some shrubbery? Smooth. Yet I stayed there. I
couldn’t take my eyes off of her. There was just something about her that I
couldn’t place. She seemed familiar, yet mystifying, and I needed more. I
needed so much more. She crossed the street, and then again, looking around
before she entered into a little dive bar on the corner. If I didn’t know any
better, I’d think she was making sure she wasn’t being followed. This could be
fun.

I escaped my hiding place with enough ease that I didn’t
draw attention. I ran across the street, not caring that I had stepped in front
of an oncoming car. I even found a bit of pleasure from the screech of its
tires.

I swung the door to the bar open and quickly scanned the
room. I didn’t know anyone. That meant no one knew me. It was different, a good
different. I felt oddly safe. But where was she?

“Looking for someone?” I heard a sweet voice behind me.

I turned around, fully expecting to see a face I knew, but
was instead met by
her
. The girl that I had followed into this bar was
talking to me. I opened my mouth in reply, but my voice was frozen. Her beauty
was shocking. She was petite, no taller than 5’4”, and she had deep red hair.
You don’t see red hair every day. I didn’t realize how it would make me feel,
and as I stared at her, the feeling only grew stronger.

Her skin was pale and a few freckles were splashed across
her delicate nose and high cheeks. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, not even
to look down in embarrassment. She must have noticed, because her eyes got very
big. Damn, she probably thought I was an idiot.

“Are you lost?”

She looked worried, and I still couldn’t speak. What the
hell was wrong with me? I didn’t chase girls. They all came to me. They were
always all over me. I’d stopped counting the number of girls I’d fucked when I
was fifteen, because the number stopped meaning anything. Club members don’t
like to be lonely, and they sure don’t like their own to be lonely either. I
was never lonely. I knew how to control a room full of women. I knew how to
make them do exactly what I wanted. Then again, I’d never chased one into an
unknown bar before.

“I was lost until I saw you.”

Oh my fucking God, what did I just say?