Page 7 of Bound by Family
Life without my mother hasn’t been easy, but we push through. Her spirit is everywhere, and that’s what I hold on to. Me and my brothers, we’ll get through. Somehow, we always do. Each day the void is still there, but we keep pushing.
Pulling out my round lip balm, I smear it on my lips. A man must’ve created this just wanting to see a bunch of women put their lips around something. Every time I apply it, it looks like I’m giving head. A chuckle escapes me as I twist the cap on and toss it into the desk drawer.
The damn books on the desk mock me. I’m going to let my brothers hear it. How damn hard is it to bring me a receipt?
Three hours later, my music is turned up and I’m on my last bit. After getting off the phone with two banks, it’s finally straight. I just have to crunch a couple more numbers, and then I’m golden.
“What the fuck is this shit?” my youngest brother, Hunter, stalks into my office, snags my phone off the speaker dock, and turns off the music.
“I was listening to that.” I make a grab for my phone and snatch it back, only because his hands are full of papers. Most of the time, he’s quicker and just has to hold it over his head since he’s tall.
“That’s shit music.” He’s always thought my music choice is stupid, but I don’t care. If I want to listen to pop, rock, and rap, so be it. Whatever mood hits me is what I listen to. Hell, my tastes change moment to moment.
Huffing out a breath, I ask, “What do you need?”
The stack of papers he has in his hand comes fluttering down on my desk, scattering all over the books and my notes like leaves falling from the trees; some even falling to the floor.
“What the fuck?” As I rise from my chair, I notice they are receipts, and while I’m happy he gave me the damn things, he just tossed them on top of everything, making another mess that I have to clean up.
I lose my temper and my tone, but a woman can only take so much.
“Watch yourself, Bristyl the pistol. Noogie time.”
Jetting my hand out on my hip and cocking my foot, I call this the brother-kiss-my-ass stance. “Hunter, don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.” He makes a move to come around the desk, but I don’t move. If he’s going to act like a goofball, it’s best to just let him do it and get over with.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to him and not rubbing the hell out of my hair.
“What’s wrong? I know we fucked up the receipts, but you’ve been acting weird.”
An audible sigh leaves my lips. No way I’m talking to him or anyone about this shit. Instantly, though, I calm and feel bad for my attitude, wishing they would listen to me so my job would be easier.
“Period.”
His arm leaves my body like a snake is about to bite him, and he jumps back. It’s funny, so I laugh. One thing is for certain, living with men has taught me that one mention of the time of the month has them backing the hell off. Hunter even brought me chocolates one time, and truthfully, I was just feeling off. It had nothing to do with the cramps. Now, it’s just everything—
“You keep that shit to yourself,” he barks, moving to grip the back of the chair in front of my desk.
All three of my brothers are in Sinister Sons. The Sinisters are based out of Crest, Florida, where we all grew up. As soon as my brothers could, they prospected and joined the club. All the while, I sat back and watched, happy for them, on the outside looking in. Always on the outside looking in when it comes to the Sinister Sons. My parents even kept me away from the club most of the time, only allowing me to come to specific events.
The clubhouse is an old warehouse that the Sinisters turned into their own. It has bedrooms, bathrooms, and a huge kitchen. My mother would cook for the guys, and I would try to help, even though I burned pretty much everything. Most of the time, she’d just have me sit in the kitchen and talk to her.
Down from the clubhouse is the garage. It’s more of a hobby garage, but the guys use it to work on their bikes and cars. They don’t take many outsiders, but my brothers do fix my car. My office is inside this building, with the door normally open. I don’t hear much, because I keep to myself.
“Can you please,pleasemake sure you give me these little pieces of paper”—I pick some of them up and shake them in front of me—“when you write a check? I can’t do my job if you don’t do yours.”
“I’ll work on it.”
Hunter loves being the life of the party and spreading his jokes around to everyone. He’s tall, a gene everyone in my family seems to have gotten, and his light brown hair is down to his chin. He shares my blue eyes that we got from our mother. Unlike him, I also got my mother’s blonde hair. I know the women find him hot because I heard the talk, but ewie. That shit’s just weird.
“Do you need anything else? I now have a shitload to file. Thanks for that.” I plop into the seat, and it makes a squeal as the air flows out of it. The damn thing is older than me, but this chair is history and reminds me of my mom.
He pulls out his cigarettes and puts a tip in his mouth. “Nope, got shit to do.” As he walks from the room, I hear the click and know it’s his Zippo. He’s had that thing since before he started smoking. Part of me wonders if he took up the habit because of it, but I dismiss that thought, knowing everyone around here smokes something. If it’s not smokes, it’s weed. To each their own. Personally, I choose neither.
After filing, organizing, taking calls from people who want to rent a unit and calls about machines taking people’s money, I close down for the day. It’s early, but I did everything I need to do.
One thing I do love about my job is that as long as shit gets done, I can come and go as I please, which means the alarm can go off a little later than normal tomorrow.
