Page 3 of Stella
Two months ago
My palms are sweatingas I ride my Softail to the clubhouse. It has nothing to do with my grip on the handlebars; I’ve brought this upon myself.
It’s gonna be okay.I tell myself.Just breathe!
But I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything.
Today is the day that decides my fate. The day I’ve been working up to for as long as I can remember. Prospecting for the NOLA Rebels MC.
For one, I’m a chick, so that’s a big deal in itself. No woman in the history of the MC has ever patched in, much less prospected, so if I fuck this up, there is no going back.
I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember, so today of all days, I have to get it right.
My overprotective and highly annoying dad, Harlem, who is the club’s Enforcer, is dead set against the idea because in his eyes, even though I’m twenty-one, he still sees me as a little girl with pig-tails playing with Barbie dolls and skipping rope. I love him to bits, but he needs to seriously chill. Not only is he one ofthe most vocal in the MC about why this is a bad idea, but he won’t let up aboutallof the reasons why. They range from day to day depending on his mood, but the most common theme is he thinks I’ll be taken advantage of. I’m not dumb. I know how it works. And I’m well aware that the club wants me to fail. Mainly to prove a point, but likely because deep down they’re worried about appearances. I don’t see what I can’t do that other dipshit prospects are already doing, if not better. It isn’t rocket science, but becauseI’m a girl,the NOLA Rebels MC think I’m gonna fall flat on my face.
They clearly underestimate me.
My biggest issue, according to some, is my attitude, though I like to call it spirit.
I stick up for myself; my father taught me well after all. He not only taught me self-defense and martial arts, but raised me and my brother, Kai, all by himself. My mom took off years ago when she couldn’t handle having responsibility, and my gran — who was my best friend — passed away years ago. Then it was just me, Kai and Dad until he found the love of his life; Indigo, who owns the NOLA Sweet Treats bakery where I’ve worked for the past few years. Dad lives with her and her daughter, Camille, whom I adore. I only do a couple of shifts now to help out since I started an apprenticeship with my dad’s best friend, Tag, at his garage; he’s the other man in my life who thinks he’s in charge of me even when I’m not at work. Just because Tag is the Sergeant at Arms doesn’t mean that he knows everything. Try telling him that, though.
Don’t get me wrong, Tag means well, even if he is the grumpiest man I’ve ever met, plus I adore his ol’ lady, Luna, we’re good friends. But being my godfather; he gets a little overbearing. Usually, I just butter him up with food, and that distracts him for a decent amount of time so I can go ahead and do what I set out to do. Men are fickle things.
Still, working for Tag hasn’t been easy, and when he kinda stuck up for me at church when they had a meeting to discuss the possibility of me prospecting — according to one of my best biker friends, Pipes, — Tag threw everyone a curveball. That’s just like him. He’ll do the exact opposite of what you think he’s going to do. Dad wasn’t happy, but better them arguing it out than me.
Still, I have no doubt that he, along with countless others, are setting me up to fail. Basically, they’re giving me a shot to shut me up because they owe some kind of loyalty to my dad; he established the club with Cash, the club’s Prez, when I was little. Long before things got bad with my mom and he had to take on more responsibility. Ultimately, this club saved him, and my deep respect for the NOLA Rebels MC, and Cash, is the reason I feel so strongly about wanting to patch in. Even if Dad disagrees with my choices, they wouldn’t be denying me if I were Kai, and deep down I think he knows that.
For one; IknowI would be an excellent member. I’m sassy, some may say, but I’ve got smarts. As my dad would agree; I’m not just a pretty face. I can fight like a scrapper, and I’m not afraid to do it if the cause asks for it.
I admit my mixed heritage has served me well. My long raven hair, olive skin and hazel eyes are a testament to my dad’s side of the family; Creole through and through with a little Cajun thrown in for good measure. New Orleans runs deep in our veins. I was born and bred here, and I love this club. The NOLA Rebels aren’t just another MC, they’re a brotherhood, a family. I’m part of that family and proud of it.
I’ve been customizing my Harley ever since I learned how to ride; another thing my dad wasn’t happy about because apparently motorcycles aren’t safe if you’re a girl. It’s not that he’s purposely being sexist, he just knows how the world works, and he worries about my safety. Men may be physically stronger, but I ride a Harley without assistance, thank you very much.
Because I’m short, I had to make sure that I picked my motorcycle with care. A Softail 2020, black with a hot pink tank; my signature color. It’s lightweight, but heavy enough to keep you grounded on the floor. There’s nothing worse than not being able to touch your feet on the ground, so it’s perfect for my height. I love my stilettos, but when I’m riding, I wear boots with a thicker heel so when I stop at the lights, the bike won’t topple me over. I’ve only ridden my dad’s touring bike around the block once, and that thing is fucking huge. It’d be good to have all that extra storage, but sadly, I’m not ready for a bike that big. Maybe I’ll work up to that in time, but for now, I’m happy with my Softail.
I park it in the club’s lot. It’s not usually busy during the day because everyone has regular jobs around here. Usually it’s Jasmyne, the club’s accountant and Hawk’s ol’ lady. Luna — who spreads her time between here, Rock’s Truck n’ Haulage and Faux Paws; the animal shelter she founded. Amber, Bronco’s ol’ lady, who works behind the bar and keeps track of stock and inventory, and Manny; the club chef. Manny’s is the only motorcycle I saw in the staff parking area.
Smelling the waft of cinnamon rolls as I enter the empty clubhouse, I head straight for the kitchen, knowing Manny will not only feed me, but offer words of encouragement before I head to the dreaded church doors. I’ve been in there a couple of times, but not for an actual meeting. That’s only for patched members, and even then, it’s usually only the main committee.
I push the door open and find him and Bandit, his boyfriend, in an embrace. Manny, Bandit and Lace —who’s Riot, the club Secretary’s sister — are in a throuple. I do not know how Manny keeps his head on straight having two people to worry about, but he seems to manage. Manny is the glue of this place. I swear without him, I’d be a basket case, not to mention we would all starve to death.
“Oops,” I say as they both look at me at the same time. “Sorry.”
Manny grins; Bandit looks a little sheepish as he pecks Manny on the lips. “Was just tryin’ out the cinnamon rolls.”
I snicker. “I see what you did there, but I need a pep talk.”
As if sensing the panic in my voice, Bandit waves his hands in the air. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve gotta take off.” He runs a hand through his lover’s hair. “See ya at home.”
“See you later, hot stuff.” Manny squeezes his ass on the way by, and Bandit disappears out the door.
“Later.” Bandit gives me a chin lift as he leaves.
“Cavorting in the kitchen,” I tsk. “That is kinda hot.”
Manny, all dreamy from his make-out session that I just interrupted, fans himself. “That man gets hotter every single freaking day.” He rubs his hands together. “Now, Senorita, what can I do for you?”
“Ugh, today is the day, and I was meant to go through my list of questions with Pipes, but then he got attacked and I can’t exactly go to his hospital bed and make it all about me,” I sigh. “But he’s been really supportive, and I don’t want to let him down.”
