Page 7 of Falling Hard

Chapter 2

Libby

As the wind blew through my barely shoulder-length, pastel-pin hair and the sun beat down on my skin, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh country air.

Life on the back of my father’s bike as a nomad connected to the Sacred Souls MC was the only life I’d ever known. ‘Riding, the sky filled with lightning until struck by death’ was the motto my father lived by, and his leather cut, which had two crows with skulls coming out of their backs facing each other, never came off. My mom, whom I’d never met, never wanted kids, and the second she had me, she took off.

My father always wanted me and never let me doubt his love for me. Half the time, we lived in a small house just outside Montgomery, Alabama, and the rest of the time, we stayed at the mother chapter with the guys. That was until I was old enough to travel with him, and we haven’t had a stable home since, but I loved my father wholeheartedly, and I knew that settling down was just not something he really wanted to do.

So I went everywhere with him without complaint. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the thrill of being on the back of a bike, and I loved traveling, but sometimes, I just wanted a permanent place to call my own. Being nineteen, I knew I could find a job and get my own place, but one, I couldn’t handle living by myself, and two, there was no way my father would allow it. In his line of work, the kind of men he had to deal with put a giant target on my back, and even though half the time I stayed in hotels, it was best I stayed within an hour of him unless I was with a club member.

“We are almost there, kiddo. Just a few more miles,” my father shouted just loud enough for me to hear.

Leaning forward, I pressed my cheek against his leather-clad back, then closed my eyes as I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze. When he grabbed my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. I inhaled deeply, and the scent of leather, grease, and his favorite Irish spring body wash filled my senses. The smell was forever ingrained in my mind and would always be a source of comfort when my anxiety attacks flared up.

Living the life we did definitely came with its consequences. I developed anxiety slash panic attacks five years ago when I was fourteen.

I did my best to hide it because my father felt really guilty and blamed himself for my condition, but he did the best he could. When you’re a member of an MC, the club came first, family second. I respected but hated it at the same time because even though they respected and treated me like family too, they were a large part of why my father was always gone, why we never had a permanent home and the reason why he might not come back someday.

My heartbeat quickened as I held back tears, and my stomach rolled as nausea started to creep in, which was a surefire sign an anxiety attack was coming.

Death was a natural thing and was something I accepted could happen, but the thought of losing my father and being truly alone scared me more than anything in the world. I shook my head and tried not to think about. As I took deep breaths, I noticed the outline of a small city in the distance—Quitman, Mississippi, population 27,458.

A few minutes later, we hit the town, weaving in and out of the afternoon traffic. It had to be close to five now, give or take, and the roads were filled with people going about their busy day. Just on the other side of the city, we pulled into the Best Western hotel where I would be staying for the few days we were here. I preferred this than staying at the clubhouse since I wasn’t one for large crowds. Parties, scantily clad women, and men getting into fistfights over them just made me really uncomfortable, so I preferred to stay as far away from the club and anything to do with club business as possible—except for the mother chapter, which was run by my uncle, Hammer. He was a hard man and kept the club in line, but deep down, there was the biggest softy anyone would ever meet, even though he would never admit it to anyone.

As we got off the bike after parking it, I looked up at the average-sized hotel. The building was white with three stories and large windows.

“All right, sweetheart, I probably won’t be back for a few days. You know the drill. I’ll send someone over to keep you company,” my father said and kissing me on the forehead, he got back on his bike.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine. I don’t plan on leaving the hotel, anyway. I’ll just curl up on the bed with my book, so you don’t have to send someone over,” I complained, causing him to glance over his shoulder.

“I’m sending someone over, and that’s final. It’ll give your old man peace of mind, so please, just let him in, and behave yourself,” he said sternly. Shaking his head, he revved his bike and took off.

“Peace of mind, my ass. He’s just trying to get you to socialize more, Libby. He doesn’t like you alone all the time. It’s his guilt that’s getting the best of him,” I muttered to myself. I checked in, then headed to the elevator, stepped inside, and rose to the second floor.

“I wonder who he’s going to send over this time. The poor man’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s gonna drag me anywhere,” I said to myself again.

The elevators opened, and I stepped out as two young women in their early twenties walked in and gave me a weird look, having obviously heard me talk to myself, which was something I did quite often. At first, it started off as rambling on and on when I was really nervous, then it kind of became a source of comfort, and later it just became a plain old bad habit that caused other people to look at me strangely.

My steps faltered, and I scowled. Shaking my head, I brushed them off. I was used to the different ways people stared at me and the way their faces scrunched up with disgust, the way they moved a little farther away from me like what I was doing was a disease, and they didn’t want to catch it. The worst, though, was the look of sympathy, like people automatically thought there was something either physically or mentally wrong with me that medication couldn’t fix. Believe me, at first, my father thought something was mentally going on with me and made me see doctors who suggested therapy. When they found nothing physically wrong with me, they would offer to prescribe me medication for my anxiety, but I refused. I could deal with it and control it on my own.

I knew my father meant well, that he just wanted to make sure his little girl was okay, and once it was confirmed I was, he accepted my little quirk, even going as far as giving me shit about it occasionally, which always made me smile.

I made my way down the hall and found my room. Opening the door, I took notice of my surroundings. To the left was the bathroom with its off-white walls and gray tiled floors, double vanity, and a large soaker tub, which I would be enjoying later. Next to the bathroom was a simple closet with a few hangers and extra towels. The main room had white walls with teal accents, and a large bed was in the center of the room with white blankets and teal pillows. There was a dresser with a flat-screen TV on top, and a black round table with two chairs was situated next to a glass sliding door that led to a small balcony.

“Well, this looks a lot nicer than the last hotel you stayed at, Libs. What shall we do first?” I muttered, taking off my shoes and setting my backpack filled with some clothes and necessities down. I jumped on the bed and lay on my stomach, letting it finally sink in that I was alone once again.

Frowning, I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. You would think after years of being on the road with my father I would be used to being alone quite often, but I wasn’t, not really. Don’t get me wrong, I was a bit of a loner and didn’t mind having time for myself, but at the same time, I craved companionship.

I wanted at least one person who I could open up to, spend time laughing or crying with, someone who understood me and accepted me for all my qualities, the good and the bad.

“Come on, Libby, no man is ever going to want to put up with you and all your quirks, what sane man would? You can hardly stand to be alone without going crazy, you can get a little too obnoxious at times, and your mood swings are bad enough to give anyone whiplash. Don’t forget, you talk to yourself and have such bad anxiety attacks you’re either hyperventilating, or you’re throwing up,” I said aloud as I rolled over to my side. The restlessness crept in slowly as my mind began to race with a million unwanted thoughts, doubts, and insecurities, all the little things I tried my best to control.

Reaching over, I picked up the raggedy backpack I brought along on every trip and grabbed a few of the essentials. I pulled out my phone charger and Bluetooth speaker, and then plugged my phone into the wall and scrolled through my phone before finding Pandora. I set my speaker on the small table next to the bed, then lay back on the bed and closed my eyes as ‘When Two Are One’ by Atreyu started to play, humming softly along with the music.

* * *

A sudden bangingon the door made me jump.

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