Page 10 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

“I know,” she says. “I’ve got skills…”

Yum. Who needs a boyfriend when you can get a warm hug from a mid-afternoon latte?

* * *

Four

Ethan

My stomach burns. It feels like someone poured gasoline down my throat and made me swallow a cigarette. Therapy. It’s for bitches. Pussies. But I needsomethingto make me stop and if I don’t pull myself out of this hole now, I’ll do something much worse than what I’ve done already.Fuck.

Owen convinced me to come here, but now I think he only did it to torture me. Come to think of it, that was definitely his motivation. He threatened to tell Wyatt that I was out here if I didn’t go… But Wyatt can’t know about mom. Not until we have answers. We can’t get answers if I screw up and lose all my money at poker, craps, dice, or even sports betting.

No more late night German scythe mowing competitions. You can make a killing betting on rare sports like that and all you have to do is a little bit of legwork…

Maybe my brother is right. I’m fucked up. There’s a reason dad never pegged me as the future club leader. I tell myself I never wanted it, that it wasn’t in my nature, but from a young age, I never did right by anybody. Mom called me her little bear partly out of love, but partly because I destroyed everything I touched.

I made Boston a dangerous, unlivable hellhole within a few months of being here even though mom still has treatment at Mass General. Medical bills piling up. More medical bills than I can even comprehend. Even if I could call an Italian connection to whack somebody over this shit, I wouldn’t know who to put down.

This system is fucked and her screw up son isn’t making it any better.

My losses at the card table directly cause her suffering. I should be better than this. But I’m not.

The door to the waiting room opens and I nearly fall out of my chair. This woman is the therapist? She looks like she belongs on a stripper pole. I don’t mean that in a racist way but holy shit, she has an ass on her. Like, a big ass that would make any outfit look inappropriate for work. My jaw slackens.

Maybe I do belong in therapy.

“Mr. Shaw?” she asks, peering over thick dark lashes to look around the room, even if I’m the only one in it. I don’t look like the type of guy who belongs in therapy.Good.

“Here.” I raise my hand sheepishly. What the fuck was that for? I’ve never raised my hand like that in my life, but this woman instantly melts me. It’s not just the ass.

She gives me a warm smile, but not one that’s overly friendly. I look away from her to stop myself from ogling her rack, which is just as blessed as her ass.

“Come on in,” she says. “I’m Dr. Yancey.”

Amanda Yancey & Mallory Knowles

I saw their names on the door. I didn’t realize Amanda Yancey was a black woman’s name – not like it matters. I’m just saying that I didn’t know. For years, I fought against the club rule. It’s just fucking stupid. We don’t need those sorts of rules as much as we need rules about loyalty. Having each other’s backs.

This sexy ass Dr. Yancey reminds me of my first grade teacher, who wasn’t black, but definitely had a set of tits on her. I knew I wanted a woman the second I laid eyes on those things, before I ever even knew what sex was or anything like that. I got in trouble one time for stealing dad’s flask – the nicest thing I could find – and bringing it to my teacher as a gift.

Flirting is easy when you’re a stupid ass kid.

I get up, my hands suddenly sweaty and duck through the door to follow this therapist to her office. She’s small. Must be at least a foot shorter than me and looking at the top of her head makes her look like a cute ass munchkin. I wouldn’t give a second thought to gambling with my face buried between those tits.

Her perfume smells incredible. I am so sick in the head I can’t even focus on the reason I came into this office anymore.

I’m here because of the gambling situation.

Not sex. Not thinking about my therapist’s ass or tits.

I can’t stop gambling and I almost lost every penny that Iabsolutely neededto pay for my mother’s cancer treatment. I finally hit rock bottom enough to admit that I have a problem. I’m worse than Wyatt – worse than all the family that came after me. I’m getting older, and the older I get, the harder my mistakes hit. I have to look in the mirror and see my beard getting grey, knowing perfectly well that I’m going to be an old man with nothing to show for it.

No woman. No family.

And what if I lose mom too after screwing up like this?

They should serve liquor here.

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