Page 7 of Storm

"Kelsey!" I call, making my way through the little house until I get to her bedroom. That eerie wave washes over me harder this time and I suck in a sharp breath. All her things aregone.

"She's not here, Talon," Mrs. Witherspoon says, as I walk back to the living room. She laughs, sitting up not even caring that she’s on full display. “She went to the clubhouse and you weren't there so she fucked a bunch of your brothers and came here to tell me she was leaving and not coming back." She leans back with a mischievous smirk and inserts a cancer stick between her chapped lips. “If you’re looking for a lay though.” She spreads her legs further apart, putting on a show before lighting the cigarette. “You’re always welcome in my bed.” She blows out a cloud of smoke in my direction.

Fire courses through my veins and I clench my fists at my side. "You'refuckinglying," I accuse. “You're nothing but a lying, drunk, addicted club whore. Kelsey loves me. She would never leave me without saying a word."

Mrs. Witherspoon takes a drink of the almost empty bottle of booze in front of her and shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I walk out the door not bothering to close it and jump on my Harley. Pain radiates through my chest and I grit my teeth to hold onto that anger. My heart’s broken, but I can’t let anyone see me weak. Everyone said she didn't show up at the clubhouse.Was her mother lying? Did she fuck guys at the clubhouse? Where the fuck is she?

That bitch was lying, I know she was. So was everyone at the clubhouse. Something happened tonight. They did something to my girl, and I won’t stop until I find her. I’ll search for her every day of my life. Kelsey Witherspoon is mine and I’ll have her beside me one way or another.

Chapter11

Storm

Now

Iput on my leather cut with the Daughter of Doom Motorcycle Club written in big purple letters across my shoulder blades and the shield in the middle of my back. My hair covers it most of the time unless I'm in business then I pull it up in a ponytail for all to see. Especially when I want them to remember who they are dealing with. On the breast pocket is my name adorned with a crown and the President patch is beneath it on the right side.

I love wearing my cut, and how it makes me feel wearing it, almost like I am free. When I’m without it, I feel naked. Even more so than I am without my weapons which I strap on next. I put my serrated hunting knife in its sheath at my thigh, a smaller one in my boot, and another one in the pocket of my cut. You never know what problems you will run into on road trips, so I check my twenty-two caliber, and my nine-millimeter and grab ammo for them. I also grab my Lapara, a sawed-off shotgun which I named Janette. Once my stuff is packed and I'm heavily armed, I send out a message to the group, ready to hit the road on my jacked-up Harley.

My girl.

The love of my life.

My bike.

I have a strong passion for riding. We all do or we wouldn't be a motorcycle club. I've loved riding since the first time I climbed behind Talon. The wind in my face, the feeling of peace, the power between my legs, there is nothing fucking like It. Riding a motorcycle is better than chocolate, better than a cold beer on a hot day. Fuck, it's even better than sex, well better than any sex I've ever had.

We hit the road ten minutes later heading towards the Appalachian Mountains, towards the place where I used to call home, towards hell.Kentucky, fucking Kentucky.Where all my nightmares come from.

It’s not even daylight—which seems fitting since that’s when I left that god forsaken place to begin with—when we start our two and a half thousand-mile journey across the states from Heron, California to the small Appalachian town of Jackson, Kentucky. Trinity, like the brilliant road manager she is, has our schedule down to minutes for every stop, bathroom breaks, meals, and hotels for the night.

The weather goes from an eighty-five degrees dry heat to a sixty-five degrees wet as we make our way into the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. We make it to my mother's house in three and a half days.

The house is a disgrace, as if it has been abandoned for years instead of being uninhabited ten days ago. I turn off my bike and gaze upon the home of my childhood. The white paint is chipping away exposing the previous color that’s been hiding underneath. The front door is off from its hinges which was probably never fixed from where I slammed it years ago, and a window where my bedroom used to be now has a cardboard box taped over it where someone must’ve busted it out. This place looks like where hope comes to die. I know mine did.

“This is where you grew up?” Siren looks at me like I am growing two heads. “It smells like hopelessness and regret lives here. I believe there is something dead in this overgrown yard.”

“It looks like a haunted attraction,” Trinity says, examining a spider web that is hanging in the corner of one of the windows.

“Yeah, it’s the star of my nightmares. It definitely still haunts the fuck out of me.”

We sit idled amongst the tall grass, staring at the house as if we’re expecting a ghost or monster to appear. I let out a sigh as I climb off my Harley. My knees knock together and weakness takes over. I have to grab my bike quickly in order to keep from falling. Am I ready for this trip down memory lane? Yes, I can do this. I recover and saunter up to the house of horrors and reach above the door to a small ledge where my mom always kept a spare key. The girl's follow me, keeping their thoughts to themselves. It’s a heavy weight on my shoulders as I’m forced to revisit the skeletons of my past and they know I need this moment of silence.

I fumble the key into the lock. The broken screen door bangs against the trailer as it flaps in the wind. I open the door revealing the same rooms I left so many years ago. The house looks exactly the same as if left just yesterday and not ten years ago. A brown wooden couch from the 80's, an ugly coffee table stained with glass rings and a half of a bottle of whiskey on it and a thirty-year-old green reclining chair sits in the living room. There’s also a rocking chair and an old box television set that looks like it’s traveling back in time. The odor of tobacco, stale liquor, weed, and mildew pollute the air. I can still picture my mother sitting on that ugly sofa drinking like a god damned fish. The smoke from her cigarette engulfing her like she was some kind of evil Djinn and I hear the last words she ever spoke to me,you’ll be back.

She was right about one thing, I guess. I did come back but not until she was buried six feet deep and unable to see me now. She doesn’t deserve the me I am today. That’s for damn sure.

As I make my way through the house of hell with my top lip curled in disgust, I know damn well I have no interest in this house or anything in it. My phone flashes with a text from Quinn, pulling me away from my current thoughts.

Quinn: Y'all okay boss? I haven't heard from ya since yesterday.

Me: Yeah. We are. Everything going well at HQ?

Quinn: The prospects got a little mouthy after I made them help Micah scrub the clubhouse, but we shut them up quickly.

Me: Good. Everything is okay here. Keep them busy. Thanks for the checkup.

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