Chapter 1
Hailey Slater:
I remember that day like it was yesterday. Unfortunately.
The blackness in the sky as the clouds surrounded us. The green of the grass since spring had just started. The tears that kept streaming down my face without end. The pain nestled into my heart, demanding to be felt. The apologies given by people that I didn’t even know. The grip of my uncle’s hand tightly around mine. And the black leather jackets huddled around the casket.
I was 5 years old when it happened. When I lost my parents.
My uncle told me that they were killed in an accidental building fire. But that’s not what I heard from the whispers. The whispers told a different story.
They told a story of a criminal enterprise, and how my family and all the existing members were burned alive. When I was young, I believed that my parents were business owners, and they were, I guess in a way. But the whispers ended up being true.
My parents were members of a motorcycle gang called ‘The Vandals’. But they weren’t just ordinary members, they were the heads of the gang, they were presidents of the MC club.
They had been involved in heavy crime after all. Mainly in drug and gun selling and smuggling. The Vandals were the biggest motorcycle gang in the Midwest for years, up until their extinction.
I always thought that the nickname they called my father was just that, a nickname. He was called Bullet. Little did I come to find out that nickname meant something more in the biker world. It meant he shouldn’t be fucked with.
And my mother, her nickname was Viper. Because she looked like an angel, but bit like a snake. No one fucked with either of them, or so I was told.
Until the day that somebody did. Someone killed them, and killed their entire crew that night. They did it to ensure that no one would come after them. If all of them were killed, then who would make them pay for their crime?
I wondered what went through my parents head moments before they died. Maybe they thought about me and if I’d be safe. Maybe they hoped that I’d find the people responsible for their deaths. Maybe they hoped that I would kill them. That one day I would kill the people responsible for their deaths.
Unfortunately for them, I didn’t have it in me. I was raised to not have it in me.
My uncle was a hippie, he always was and always had been. He used to grow weed in his house and give it to my parents to sell. Who am I kidding, he still sells weed. And after my parents died, he became my guardian. He raised me to be his daughter; a peace-loving, earth-celebrating hippie as he was. And I appreciated it. It was nice being happy and seeing the good all of the time.
Even though their motorcycle club hangout and warehouse burned down, the motorcycle club bar was still left. My parents built it as a hangout for all bikers of different gangs and chapters. They made it a true biker’s club. After my parents died, my uncle took it over and as I got older, I started helping around the bar. I was a jack of all trades, just like my parents, and my uncle, I waitressed, bartended, and cleaned. Basically, I ran the bar with my uncle, just like my parents wanted until I became old enough to take it over myself.
Between running the bar and growing weed, we were busy. I decided not go to college and instead keep their legacy alive and well.
The bar was still called The Biker’s Hideout, the only difference was who ran it. We had found some old pictures of The Vandals and hung them as décor throughout the bar as well as remodeled parts of the bar with new wooden stools, countertops, and booths. The bikers really did a number on the old ones. But nothing ever stayed clean, at least for long. Soon, it’d be worn and the place would look as it did when my parents ran it.
I struggled to maintain the memories I had of them. They were hard to hold onto because I was so young when they died, but they were still there, just a bit clouded.
But their memories lived on through their friends, too. A lot of the bikers that visited the bar had known them well. They would tell me stories of my parents, their past escapades, how amazing they were. Even though they were gone, they weren’t forgotten.
I missed them. I missed being able to call someone mama and daddy. I missed seeing their faces smile down upon me, their stories before bedtime, and their arms wrapping me into a hug.
My uncle was great and he was the only family I had left but at the end of the day, he would never be my parents. Still, I was thankful that I had him. He was the only family I had left, and without him, who knows where I’d be.
I was brought back to reality by the sound of glasses clinking against the wooden counter. My uncle was sliding the glasses across the countertop to me. I caught one just before it went off the edge.
“You okay, Hails?” he asked, a worried smile on his face.
“Yeah, sorry just lost in thought.”
“You almost let that glass slide off the counter top. You sure you’re doing alright?”
“Yes, I promise. Just lost in my own thoughts, you know I’m a day-dreamer at heart!” I let out an uneasy laugh.
But even as I reassured him, he still appeared worried. His brow was creased, lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze wary.
“Alright, Hails.”
I decided to change the topic. I didn’t want to talk about the past or my parents, and my uncle would know better than to try to pry. “I think we need to order some more bourbon and whiskey after tonight. We’re running a little low and it’s going to be a long weekend without any.”
His gaze trailed towards the shelves as he began counting the number of bottles. “Looks like we got 10 total. I think I have a few more in back. That should hold us over until the end of the weekend. I’ll call Bernie and place a delivery for Monday though, good thinking.” He offered me a soft smile before he left the room.
In T-minus three hours this place would be packed with bikers. And rowdy ones at that. Weekends were always a big deal in the biker community. But I guess every day was a big deal for bikers, as long as they could find a reason to let loose. They liked their alcohol, as much as they liked their women. Most bikers would find a new girlfriend to bang every month. I never saw the same faces, and they never chose girls who actually rode motorcycles, instead they chose ones who were groupies. There was an allure to dating a bad boy. Or a man who rode a motorcycle, in a biker gang, and a criminal. Women liked bad boys and bikers benefited from it.
But the allure was easy to see. Who wouldn’t like a rock-solid hunk of a man covered in tattoos, riding a motorcycle, with a low-fade haircut, a leather jacket, and a bad attitude?
Even I fell victim to it once upon a time.
But that was when I was younger, and I’d like to think with age comes experience. Now I’m 25 years old, and have a good head on my shoulder, or so I think.
A few weeks ago, while grabbing coffee in town and almost missing my doctors’ appointment, I met somebody. He’s clean shaven, book-smart, plays by the rules and is a lawyer. He screams suburban, normal, and safe. And I guess I’m at the age when safe sounds pretty good. He’s easy on the eyes and makes me laugh, and right now I think that’s pretty good. But that spark that Hollywood, books, and people always talk about isn’t there. I’d like to think my parents had that spark, that’s why they were so good together. They had found true love before it was taken from them.
Maybe that spark will develop one day, and hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe Mr. Lawyer will be the ‘one’.
