Page 2 of Secrets Unveiled

“Shut up, Frankie. You know she doesn’t celebrate her birthday, you damn fool,” my brother barks. He makes his way through the kitchen and to the laundry room, where I stand in front of the washer examining my now dingy-looking clothes.

“Morning, sis,” Saxon whispers in my ear, kissing the top of my head. He takes my white shirt from my hands, turning it over to get a good look. The once bright white piece of cloth is now a hue of blue from my jeans that had been tossed in with it. “Go get ready, I’ll take you shopping,” Sax says to me, tossing my shirt back in the wash before turning on our uncle and leaving the laundry room.

Our uncle Frankie, our father’s little brother, stepped in and became our legal guardian when our father died. I appreciate him every day, but let’s be real, Frankie was an adult child himself when he took on the fatherly responsibility. He was twenty-eight when he found himself in charge of two children. He was only just reaching a mature age himself and was forced to grow up really quick. Frankie didn’t mind, though; he was equally distraught after losing his brother, his best friend, his boss.

Frankie and my father had been working together since before I was born. My family started a less than legal underground business some wouldn’t approve of. Okay, no one would approve of. My father, Luther, is what most people called the real mayor of Golden Heights, which is not far from the California coastline. Luther, and his father before him, had been running a motorcycle club as far back as my great-grandfather, Lorenzo, who created the club.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. We, as a motorcycle club, must be involved in a slew of illegal activity. To be honest, you’d probably be right; I couldn’t give you a straight answer. I honestly have no idea what occurs behind closed doors within the club. Since my father was alive, I haven’t been allowed to know the inner workings of what the club does on a day-to-day basis. What I do know is my family’s club is not the kind you want to mess with. We, or rather the members, are ruthless, brutal, and, dare I say, barbaric at times. One time, I caught my father and brother brutally beating a rival motorcycle club member because he was caught snooping around the clubhouse. I couldn’t even recognize the man after they were done with him. My brother’s best friend, Saint, found me spying on them and told me to never discuss what I saw, or he would tell my brother. I haven’t told a single person what I witnessed and never will.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve tried my hardest to sneak my way into the club’s meetings, listen in on private conversations, and even drill my brother to tell me what actually goes on, but I have yet to know a single thing. Other than the one incident with my father.

I stand there in the kitchen a moment longer, listening in on the conversation while I drink the rest of my coffee. I’ve asked Sax if I could tag along with him on the club activities, or secret activities, if you will, but I’m always hit with a “no” before I can even finish my sentence.

The world has bigger plans for you, sis, and I’m not allowing you to be something you’re not meant to be. You’re meant for so much more.

I’ve heard this a million times. So, I’ve just accepted his answer and stopped asking. I understand that my brother wants to protect me from whatever the hell they do with the club. As hard as I’ve tried to pry Saxon and Frankie for information about the club, I’ve given up when I’m constantly rejected and told to stay out of it. I’ve accepted that I may never know what happens behind closed doors.

Saxon has now taken up the responsibility of being “the leader” for all intents and purposes. Frankie never wanted that responsibility, so when our father died, he took Sax under his wing and taught him the ways of the club. Frankie isn’t a bad guy—I fucking love him actually, it’s just he’s more of another brother than an uncle in some ways. Yes, he cares, he really cares; he never let me date or see boys my age. He basically followed the same rules my father implemented. He’s the father-figure, but also a friend and understands the pain we felt of losing our father because he also lost a brother.

I look over my shoulder and see Frankie throw a tangerine at Saxon, smiling as he calls him a dick, but Saxon is too quick. He catches the fruit with his left hand, giving him a smile back. Saxon makes his way over to the table sitting across from Frankie and pulls out his phone, setting it on the table. Saxon is a big guy, way bigger than Frankie. He’s twenty-seven years old, six years older than me, but our relationship has always been close. Protect your sister, my father would tell him, and he always does.

His large six-foot-three frame towers over Frankie’s smaller build of five foot eleven that he swears is actually six feet even. Saxon leans back in his chair, his black leather vest, or “cut” as the club calls them, opens in the front, exposing his bright white shirt that hugs his muscular chest. Saxon’s hair is a deep brown, not entirely black, but pretty close. He’s pulled his hair back into a messy bun so it’s off his shoulders. Liquid black eyes stare across at Frankie as they start discussing upcoming club activities that have been sent to Frankie’s laptop. Their arrangement works perfectly, Frankie is the brains and Saxon is the brawns. Each doing what they like doing best, so it works out. They speak in a cryptic language when I’m around, to not give away too much information for me to hear.

We look nothing alike, Saxon and me. He looks every bit like my father, and from what I’m told, I look like the spitting image of my mother. I never saw her in person, but I have one photo of her holding me in the hospital, and it’s true. I could be her twin. We both have long blonde hair, a smaller, slightly upturned nose, high cheekbones and unique gray-silver eyes that are so bright in the light, they’re almost eerie.

“I’m getting dressed real quick, and I’ll be right down, Sax,” I call to him as I make my way up the massive staircase to my room that’s still on the third floor. After our house burned down, we rebuilt the house right back up, just how it was before. It looks as though it was never a pile of ash on the ground at all. I was against it at first, not wanting the constant reminder of the place my father died, but once it was built again, it just felt right. It felt like my father was still here, in a sense. Frankie obviously moved in with us during that time but has since moved out into his own home right down the street from Saxon and I. It’s been mine and my brother’s home ever since.

“Happy second chance!” I hear someone bellow from the front door, and I know who it is without even turning around. I shoot him a middle finger; his chuckles echo up the foyer, and I roll my eyes. Saint, my brother’s best friend and member of the club since he was seventeen years old, has made it his job to remind me every year that I’ve been given a second chance at life. So, instead of happy birthday, he says happy second chance. I used to hate it, and sometimes I still do, but there is something to be said about God giving me another shot at life. I hate the saying, yes, but I appreciate and thank God every day I get to continue walking this earth. As for Saint, well, I wouldn’t say I hate him per se. Saint has always been present. I knew him and I would butt heads the moment he tried to drown my first boyfriend in the pool. On the rare occasion my father let me have a boy over, Saint showed up, as usual, and tried drowning him in the deep end. If you ask him, he’ll lie through his teeth and say it was all fun and games, but I knew his true intentions. He didn’t like the way my boyfriend looked at me in a swimsuit. He made that very clear when he threatened to stab his eyes out with his pocketknife. He’s that second brother I never asked for, and to be honest, he torments me more than Saxon ever has.

Swinging open my bedroom door, I head for my dresser and pull out a pair of blue jeans and a loose black V-cut T-shirt. I don’t bother doing my hair, I just pull it back in a low pony and fit my black ball cap on top—my go-to look. As much as I would love to be the girly-girl, I am definitely one hundred percent a tomboy through and through. Raised by my dad and brother, you could say it was inevitable. I go for comfort and that means my usual jeans and loose T-shirts, and I never forget my ball cap. Saint calls me a bro-girl; I don’t fit in with the usual girl crowd. I prefer the motorcycle club and that means a lot of males. I’ve grown up in it, and it’s my comfort zone. I love them all, and they love me like their daughter or sister. We’re a family.

There’s a tap at my door, and I turn to see a smiling Mira, our fake mother, if you will, but really, she is the glue to this house. Mira has been working with our family since I can remember. She is a fifty-five-year-old widow of the club that has been taking care of me and Saxon since before my dad died. She’s here every morning, seven o’clock sharp, and doesn’t leave until early afternoon when she finishes her work. We’ve offered to have her live with us since she’s here all the time anyway, but she refuses. She likes having her own spaces, and I know she doesn’t have the heart to sell her home that she shared with her husband.

“Good morning, my beautiful angel!” she calls out to me, stepping into my room and pulling me into a tight hug. Mira is all of four feet, ten inches, and I have to bend over to fit into her arms. I love it though; she calls me an angel, but in reality, she’s the real angel. She’s taken care of us and makes us feel as though we never lost a mother at all. Saxon says Mira is more of a mother figure than most others; sadly, I never knew my real mom, but I was told she was the definition of perfection. Saxon was extremely close to our mother, even though it was only for the six short years he got to spend with her. So, with that, we’ve started calling Mira “Mom,” and she loves every bit of it; I call her mom more so than Saxon. Mira lost her husband when they were both in their twenties. The club was targeted by a rival motorcycle club across the border, and we lost a lot of good club members that day, Ronaldo being one of them. She’s never married again or had any children of her own, so when we started calling her Mom, she was over the moon.

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl. I can’t believe my baby is twenty-one. It was like yesterday I was changing your diapers, and now look at you, the epitome of beauty and grace.” She grabs my face between her hands and kisses my cheeks and then the tip of my nose. Tears well in her eyes as she continues to hold me tight in her embrace. I laugh as she plants kisses all over my face, as if she doesn’t see me every day already.

“Thank you, Mama,”. Mira is the only person I don’t mind telling me happy birthday. After my father died, I banned anyone from wishing me happy birthday, but Mira refused. She said it’s important to celebrate the day of my birth; it meant that she was blessed with a daughter since she didn’t have any children of her own. For that, I allow her, and only her, to wish me a happy birthday.

After the assault of hugs and kisses, she steps back and looks me up and down.

“Aye, so beautiful.” She clasps her hands together, holding them under her chin as a few tears fall down her delicate face. I smile down at her as I brush away her lingering tears.

“Alright, Mama, no more tears from you. You’ve reached your quota for the day,” I say to her, making her laugh her squeaky laugh, which only makes me smile wider. Her joy and positivity are so infectious I can’t help smiling and laughing along with her.

“Okay, okay, but I was coming to tell you there was a package left for you at the front door. No name was left on it, but it’s addressed to you,” Mira says to me, but she’s fiddling with her apron, looking in every pocket as if she’s lost something. “Where in the world did I put—” She cuts herself off. “Aye, here it is.” Handing me a card, she puts her hands up in the air before continuing. “You will take this without any fuss, you hear me?” I laugh because I know what it is. She gives me fifty dollars for my birthday every year. I’ve refused to take her money in the past, but it’s no use arguing with her. I’ll usually find the bill hiding somewhere in my room a few days later. So, I accept her gift with a smile.

I thank her, giving her another hug and kissing her cheeks before she turns to leave my room and get back to whatever she was doing before. She stops before closing the door and turns back to look at me over her shoulder.

“By the way, I’ve told Frankie not to touch the damn laundry before. I don’t understand why he insists on doing so. No worries though, my dear. I can make your whites brighter than they were before. You have my word.” With that, she closes my door and leaves me standing alone, with a smile pulling at my cheeks.

“Thanks, Mama,” I say to myself.

SAGE

Making my way down the stairs, I swing myself around the banister, a habit I have, and back towards the kitchen. The guys are still sitting at the dining table talking in their secret language I can never decode, but I pay them no mind. Opening the fridge, I grab a water bottle, twisting the cap before turning to the white granite island and seeing the package Mira informed me about.

I take a big gulp of water before setting it down beside the package. I hesitate a moment, not wanting to open it.

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