Page 2 of Bullet

Never in a million years. That's what I'd always told myself about going back to Laughlin. As soon as I’d turned eighteen, I’d left that place, vowing never to return to the place where I'd been raised. However, my grandpa's funeral was an exception, and I felt like it was punishment for never visiting.

Making the four-and-a-half-hour drive alone with my thoughts after finding out my grandpa had died in a motorcycle accident made the situation worse. It gave me time to think about the bad choices I'd made since I'd left Laughlin to pursue my dreams of becoming an actress in Los Angeles.

I'd wanted to make something of myself and not just be known as the daughter of the founder of the motorcycle club, the Forsaken. I hated club life and the illicit activities my dad, brothers, and grandfather orchestrated and participated in, so as soon as I was legally able, I'd left and didn't look back. I'd basically given my family the middle finger and told them that the next time they saw me, it would be on the big screen.

What a joke that was. I'd been living in LA for a little over four years and still hadn't been given the time of day by anyone who mattered. I made ends meet as a cocktail waitress at a high-end lounge in Hollywood. I wasn't proud of it, but at least I was making it on my own … well, for the most part.

And even though I never thought I would, I was going back to Laughlin to make a fresh start. I needed an escape from the hell my life had become, and deep down, I felt like my grandpa somehow knew I needed a reason to come home.

Tears clouded my vision as a sad smile tipped my lips. I ran my hands over the worn leather steering wheel of the 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am my grandpa had gifted me on my eighteenth birthday. She was my most prized possession, and I was thankful I had the memento of him now that he was gone.

My father had property about ten miles outside the heart of Laughlin close to the California border. He owned a strip club in the casino district, which was a front for all the club's illegal dealings. Drugs, guns, you name it, and my dad was involved in it.

My dad had been in and out of jail throughout my childhood, and at one point, he'd been imprisoned for eight years. Him missing almost half my life because of the club was the main reason I resented him so much. Plus, he tried to act as though he hadn't missed the better part of my childhood, which pissed me off even more.

My mom was a junkie prostitute who'd overdosed shortly after I was born. I didn't remember her since she'd died when I was so young, and there were plenty of times I longed for a mother.

That was where the bond with my grandfather was rooted. When my mom died, he and my father took care of my brothers and me. More so my grandpa than my dad since he was always in jail or on runs. Having grandchildren made my grandpa pull back from club life, especially when my grandma was still around. They were the reason I had anything resembling a normal childhood.

Once we were old enough to take care of ourselves, my grandpa got involved with the club again. He and my dad basically ran Laughlin during my teenage years, and my older brothers immediately acclimated to the family business. I wanted nothing to do with it from the time I was old enough to understand what was really going on. Nothing was worth going to jail or dying for in my opinion.

My dad met me outside as I pulled up to his property. His house was the only one for a few miles in each direction, which he preferred given the club's criminal activities.

He opened his arms to me with a grin as I exited my car. “Hey, Dixie girl. Long time no see.”

My dad never seemed to age. He still looked the same as I remembered him from when I was a little girl, save a few gray hairs peppered through his dark hair. He was only forty-five, starting at the young age of sixteen having kids. “Hey, Dad.”

We embraced, and the familiar smell of cedar and smoke washed over me. I pulled back and smiled as my father gazed over my shoulder with nostalgia. “You kept her, huh?”

I frowned at the fact that he thought I'd sell my grandfather's car. “Of course. She was Grandpa's. I'd never get rid of her.”

He nodded, still staring at my cherry red Firebird. My grandpa said he'd chosen that color because of my hair. I'd been dying my dark locks bright red since I was twelve.

My dad directed his attention to me, tucking a strand behind my ear. “Your hair has gotten long,” he observed.

My hair was almost down to my ass. “Yeah. I need a trim.”

My dad draped an arm around my shoulder, leading me toward the house. “Your brothers are inside. The funeral is tomorrow, so we have some last-minute things to finalize before then. We could use your help.”

I felt a pang in my chest as I thought about the finality of my grandfather's funeral. “Of course.”

My brothers were sitting at the dining room table but sprang up when I entered. “Dixie!” My eldest brother, Jameson, greeted me, enveloping me in his arms.

I preferred Dixyn to the childish nickname, but I couldn't tell my family that. They'd just use it more than necessary to spite me, so I didn't complain.

After Jameson pulled away, my other brother Raleigh took his place, squeezing me tight enough to make me yelp. “Can't breathe,” I squeaked.

Raleigh chuckled as he let go. Both my brothers looked the part of tough biker with their tattoos and muscles, and for a moment, I wished they hadn't chosen the club way of life. I didn't want them to get hurt or arrested by following in my father's footsteps. But my brothers were grown men, and I knew there was no way in hell they'd listen to their baby sister.

My dad opened the fridge as he asked, “Want something to drink?”

I shrugged. “Water is fine.”

He tossed my brothers a beer, then grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water before handing it to me. I took a seat at the table, and the three men followed suit.

My chest felt tight as the silence settled over us, and the seriousness of the situation sank in. I gripped my glass, trying to avoid looking at any of my family members for fear of bursting into tears.

My dad cleared his throat. “We're planning the funeral to be at Spirit Mountain. He wanted his ashes spread there.”

---