Page 6 of Bound by Family
When darkness fills my vision, I remove my sunglasses, hanging them on the front of my shirt.
My mom sits next to Nox, and I hear, “Make sure to bend the wrist back,” as I walk by. Only our mother would teach better maneuvers after a fight while she’s patching up a bloody lip and chin.
My dad sits at the bar, beer in hand as I walk up to him. “What’s up?” I sidle up on the barstool next to him. Riley, who’s prospecting, hands me a beer, and I take a heavy pull.
“Your mom and I are going away this weekend. Need you to watch over the twins.”
The bottle stills on its way to my lips. “You’re shitting me.” His raised brow tells me he’s not. I love the little shits, but that doesn’t mean I want to babysit them. “They’re fourteen; can’t you just leave them home alone?”
“Only need you Sunday morning until we get back. Ma’s going to stay over at the house Friday night, Saturday during the day, and Saturday night. Need you to take over when she leaves.”
“Again, can’t you leave them home alone?”
He turns his whole body toward me. “No, I can’t fuckin’ leave them home alone.” Dad just went into the danger zone with his words. I know I need to back up a bit. I don’t want to, but that’s what family does.
“Fine. What time do I need to be there?”
“Nine”—his eyes don’t leave mine—“in the fuckin’ morning. I don’t give a shit if you don’t sleep Saturday night; your ass better be in my house Sunday at nine.”
Great. Just fucking great.
CHAPTER THREE
BRISTYL
Frustration hits me in the gut as my eyes sweep all the figures on the spreadsheet then to the little adding machine, pulling out the roll of paper and looking at them again. The numbers aren’t adding up. I did them four damn times and got four different answers.
“Bristyl, what’s goin’ on?” my father, Regg, asks from the doorway of the office.
I rub my hands over my face, letting out a groan. He’s stoic like he often is. My father is a rock of solid strength for me, for my brothers, and for his motorcycle club, Sinister Sons.
“Same old shit. Trying to get everything to iron out.” Even keeping the laundromats and storage units separate, sometimes people write out of the wrong checkbook, and I have to figure it out.
The “people” I’m referring to are my brothers. I have three older ones who are a pain in my ass. Literally. They do this all the fucking time, along with not giving me their receipts. I’m over it. A woman can only take so much.
“Who did what?” he asks, taking a seat in front of my desk.
“Hunter wrote a check for the new water heater out of the unit account. Then Racer wrote one for gravel out of the laundromat account. Each of them are wrong. Not to mention, they didn’t put the prices they paid, and I had to call the bank to get them. Then I had to talk to the bank again because I didn’t get receipts for some things and needed to know what went where so I could get everything to balance.”
“But everything’s straight?” he questions with a crinkle of his forehead.
My dad is a handsome man. I’m biased, of course, but I don’t give a shit. He’s a hunk, meaning he’s bulky as hell. When he wraps his thick, tattooed arms around me, I feel so damn little inside them. His hair is silver, along with his mustache that runs above his lip, down both sides of his mouth, and down to below his chin. He’s had this look for as long as I can remember. It’s all him, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, even if he’s been a little off lately. I just haven’t figured out why.
“I really wish you’d impose the rule that they have to get the checks from me, or at least give me a receipt when they’re done.”
He says nothing, just stares at me, waiting for an answer to his question.
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Yes, everything’ll be fine. I just need to work this out.”
He rises from his chair. “We’ll work it out.” That’s what he always says. Then, when it’s time for me to do the books, I have a clusterfuck because my brothers can’t keep their shit together. It’s a never-ending vicious cycle, and I’m getting tired of it.
My dad turns and walks out of the small space. The logo on the back of his cut says it all.Sinister Sons MC. That’s what we are. Who we are. Well, what my family is. Me, not so much. My dad is the vice president of the club and overlooks all the outside sources of income, such as the garage, laundromats, and storage units. This means he watches over me because I do the books for two of those. Daily. Sometimes hourly.
I love him, I do, but ever since my mother died, he’s been almost impossible. Sadly, my brothers are worse.
Six years ago, when I was sixteen, my mother passed away from an aneurism. It was a total sudden shock. She was my best friend. I know that’s probably weird and all, but she was. We could talk about anything together, and she always had the best advice. She even schooled me in the art of dealing with a big house of bikers.
It’s a different lifestyle we live in. My place here is to listen and do as I’m told. Not in a way that belittles me, but in a way that I respect the men in my life and their positions. Outsiders don’t understand. My mother did, though, and she taught me all she knew. Only, she’s gone now, and sometimes, it’s really hard to bite my tongue. When you work with family, lines get crossed more often than not.
