Page 1 of Where We Promise

PROLOGUE

Penelope

Age 13

The glass was cold against my face as I watched the city fly by. The streetlights were bright, hovering over well-cared for sidewalks, casting the tall buildings in a soft orange glow. The grass was manicured to perfection and even the parks looked spotless.

So unlike the tiny town I’d just escaped in North Carolina.

My eyes trailed the varying government offices and lifted as the capitol building came into view. Richland was supposedly a safe place, and surely the town itself was, but I knew we wouldn’t be staying inside it.

Mom just kept driving until the lampposts thinned out, and the asphalt turned into dirt. She slowed her speed as we passed by a few houses with motorcycles parked in front. Then within the span of a few more scattered homes, we turned into a thin driveway.

I knew what would come next and tried to adjust my expression, so nothing slipped through. Nothing at all that would betray that this life was getting old, and I was sick of packing my things into a shitty duffle that had to be kept closed with safety pins because the zipper broke three clubs ago.

Mom parked our chipped, four door sedan sticking out like a sore thumb against the myriad of well-maintained motorcycles. I turned my head to catch her gaze before either of us made a move. It was our thing. We never spoke about this life, or what it did to either of us, and I never asked why she insisted on only living with clubs. This was our silent pep talk, with one look we both knew we’d get through this just like we’d gotten through all the others.

Her blue eyes landed on mine.

People said I looked just like her. Same silky black hair that nearly kissed the top of my butt. Same dark blue eyes. Same nose and mouth. The only difference was my freckles. She didn’t have any, and she wore all her secrets in the lines of her face. The ones near her eyes were from bullshitting people, the ones creeping up on her forehead were from the bills we could never pay, and the ones near her mouth were from laughing with me.

Seeing them had me smiling at her. Regardless of how shitty this life was, at least we had each other. She was my entire world, and while it was exhausting that she chose to live with motorcycle clubs, at least she’d never left me behind. At least she’d die before ever letting anyone touch me.

Her smile said all the things she’d occasionally whisper to me when it was just the two of us. Sorry that this was happening again. Sorry that we couldn’t have a normal life not covered in leather, chrome and immersed in danger.

I gave her the same smile I always did. The one that said I was fine. I really was, being almost fourteen and about to start high school, I’d manage. New town, new house, new club. Rinse. Repeat.

We exited the car, grabbed our bags and walked in through the front door. Classic rock blared from the speakers, and there was a ring of smoke hovering in the air. Pine floors ran under our feet, which mirrored the paneling along the walls. Flags from various military branches were pinned up, mixed in with several photos of their club's history. A few leather couches faced the front room, which seemed to frame a large flatscreen that was playing an MMA fight. The men sitting on the couches ignored us as we walked in, their focus solely on the match in front of them.

Several women were around the room too, most of which were stationed in the men’s laps, while several others were hanging with the men playing pool, closer to the bar.

I followed my mom as we just kept walking through the space until we were pushing into a small office right off the kitchen.

Mom rapped her knuckles against the door, which had the woman inside peering up from a pile of papers. She had short hair, cropped just above the ears, her gray eyes looked hard like she accepted zero bullshit from people.

“You the new patch with Miles?” The woman faced us and stood up from her desk.

Mom nodded. “I’m Wanda Pruitt. This is my daughter, Penelope.”

The woman’s assessing gaze flicked over to me.

“Well, come on then, I’ll show you around. You can drop your bags here for now. I’m Gene by the way.”

Mom let hers fall to the floor, flicking a quick look to me. I knew what she was telling me with that glance, but my nose flared in silent dissent. Everything I owned in the entire world was inside this bag. If someone came along and stole it…I felt like I’d just disappear from the face of the earth. I gripped the shoulder strap of my bag as Gene moved down the hall. Mom cleared her throat, her last warning. I let my bag slide down my shoulder until it was dropping on top of hers.

“That’s my office. I’m the kitchen manager—overseeing the shifts and everyone who helps. There’s a roster over here for duties.”

I followed my mom as she followed Gene.

“You’re patched, so you living with Miles?” Gene looked over her shoulder, her brow raised.

My mom nodded. “Yeah, but he said we needed to check in here first, said the patch would be here.”

Gene nodded. “Got in yesterday. This here is the club kitchen.” Gene pushed on a swinging door, leading to a massive industrial kitchen.

There sitting atop one of the far counters was a boy my age, eating out of a chocolate pudding cup. He had hair that reminded me of one of the wheat fields I’d seen in Nebraska. His eyes were warm brown, like cream soda. He watched me like he’d never seen a girl before, like I was some exotic bird that just landed in the kitchen, and he wasn’t sure what to do with me.

I’d missed what Gene said to my mom, but I heard her bark out a command, which was aimed at the boy. He set his pudding cup down and hopped off the counter, his deep-set jaw flushing pink the tiniest bit.

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