Page 11 of Truck Off

I heard her mom left because the past president wanted to take her as a wife. Steal her away from her family like she didn’t have a choice.

I heard Lina was supposed to marry him in her place.

Stupid fuckers.

Sadly, most of it’s true. Not the evil part. I may walk around with a permanent bitch face, but I’m not evil. Not even close. I’m also not a member of the motorcycle club, nor have I ever been.

I just don’t like most of the hypocritical people that live in this community. They whisper about me like I’m the devil incarnate when they should look inward at their own lives.

I know for a fact one of their husbands is cheating. I see him at Posey’s Lounge all the time picking up young and willing girls. When he sneaks out the back door with them, he’s not taking them out for ice cream.

But none of that matters. I’m still the scandal of the town.

It’s like they think I asked to be born to a member of the Unholy Ghosts MC. I love my dad, but if I could change anything about him, it would be his past career.

Life for a retired MC member is not pretty. At least not for my family. Maybe things would be different now if Mom never ran off and instead acted as the dutiful wife of the MC. Or if Dad hadn’t refused my hand in marriage to the former president once Mom was gone.

The MC viewed both events as disobedience and betrayal.

Mom was gone, Dad fell out of favor, and Jonas left home the moment he turned eighteen. Our life has been a slow journey downhill ever since.

For reasons I’ve never understood, Dad stayed an active member of the MC until his liver disease made it impossible for him to work. Well, that’s not true. Once a member, always a member. It’s not easy leaving an MC once you’re ingrained in club business. It’s Dad’s loyalty that confuses me.

He’s loyal to a fault. Not a bad quality in a man, but also one that’s easy to take advantage of. Despite how the past president tore our family apart, he stayed. He continued to do their bidding out of loyalty, obligation, and maybe even as payment for Mom leaving and then refusing my hand in marriage in her place.

I turn down the cereal aisle to move further away from the gossip. Unfortunately, this aisle is a worse fate than the gossip. I come face-to-face with Vicky Lynn Baylor, formerly Vicky Lynn Williams as she likes to tell everyone, and mean girl extraordinaire.

She thinks she’s hot shit because her family’s name is on the side of this building—Williams Family Market. It’s just a stupid small town grocery store. It doesn’t make them royalty. But they all act like they are. It doesn’t help that most people treat them like royalty too.

Just because her parents are upstanding citizens, go to Church three times a week, and own a respectable business does not make them royalty. Who cares what people accomplish? It’s how you treat others that matters the most. And from where I stand, they’re all assholes, especially Vicky Lynn.

To make matters worse, we were in the same grade. I had to spend every single school year with her from kindergarten to senior year. She was a bitch even at age six.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” Vicky Lynn says in that sickly sweet, over-the-top sympathetic voice that always makes my bones hurt.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. That’s a sure way to push her buttons and drag this conversation out longer.

“Just getting some groceries,” I say, keeping my voice flat and even. I push past her and do my best to ignore her presence.

“There’s a sale this week on Frosted Flakes. You know, if you need to pinch your pennies.”

I turn a narrowed glare at her. “I’m good. Thanks.”

Her eyes flicker down to my neck and then my exposed arms. Her faux look of concern morphs into one of disgust as she takes in all my tattoos. I’ve covered my body in ink from my neck down to my toes.

I love all forms of art, but tattoos are my preferred medium. It’s why I work as a tattoo artist. It’s why my body is a living advertisement for my skill and ability.

And it’s another reason small-minded people like Vicky Lynn judge me so harshly.

In her mind, my tattoos make me a bad person. It’s just fucking art. Art I happen to love dearly.

I whip around and continue walking down the aisle, moving my feet faster than normal to put as much distance between her and me as possible. She calls out something, but I don’t hear it. I’ve already tuned her out.

Before I turn the corner, I quickly grab my dad’s favorite cereal and rush to gather the remaining items on my list. The faster I get out of here, the better.

Sometimes I hate my life.

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