Page 68 of Straightened Out

“You had a bag when I picked you up. Do you have a change of clothes in there? If not, Bruno will take you home before he drives you to the Academy.”

“Bruno is going to drive me to school?”

“You gonna fly there?”

“I can take the train,” she argues.

“Baby, there is no train that takes you from Staten Island to Manhattan.”

“The ferry then.”

Sexy as fuck and stubborn as hell—that’s Violet.

Sighing, I tear myself away from her and stand. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Bruno will drive you, just let him know if he has to make a stop beforehand.”

“Fine,” she huffs, sitting up. She leans her back against the headboard and crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes meet mine and the annoyance fades from her irises. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before asking, “When will I see you again?”

I don’t give my response a moment’s thought.

“Tonight.”

Her eyes light up and I wink at her.

“You’re not going to disappear on me again?”

Not this time.

It’s my world. My fucking rules.

* * *

I wasn’ta fan of my cousin Adrianna’s boyfriend when we were teenagers and I’m still not. If you look up the word impersonable, I bet you anything you’ll see Anthony Bianci’s mug right there. The motherfucker knows three phrases—'No’,‘Fuck no’,and my personal favorite,‘Get the fuck in the car and shut up’.

He’s not president of my fan club either, so you can imagine how fun the car ride from my house to the Satan’s Knight’s clubhouse has been. I don’t understand why the fuck he’s even the one introducing me to this Parrish guy in the first place. I mean what happened to keeping Bianci out of things? Now he’s the middle-man between me and the bikers.

What a mindfuck.

Who knew Uncle Vic got down with the boys in leather? Not me that’s for damn sure. And this chump sitting next to me doesn’t look like he’s the type to break bread with a bunch of bikers either. Rough their bikes up—sure, yeah, I can see it. But knock back a couple of beers with them? Get the fuck out of here.

However, according to both Bianci and Uncle Vic, this Parrish guy is gold and an ally I can’t afford to lose. With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I divert my attention out the passenger window and spot the infamous bakery, Court Pastry Shop.

“Stop the car,” I demand.

Bianci raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word. He also doesn’t make an attempt to veer to the curb.

“I said stop the fucking car.”

His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel and he drops the Escalade into park—right in the middle of fucking Court Street. A horn blares behind us, but he ignores that too. Turning his steel blue eyes on me, he clenches his jaw.

“You walking?”

“No, you imbecile, I’m not fucking walking. Pull the car over to the curb,” I say, matching his glare. I know he’s not intimidated by me, not in the least, but curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls in front of the bakery. I reach for the door handle and pause before climbing out of the car.

“How many bikers are there?”

“What?”

---