Page 170 of 12 Months of Mayhem

Aside from one. And of course, everyone else has their eyes on him too.

My coffee finishes brewing, so I busy myself fixing a cup. Plain, black, and strong. Sounds like I’m dreaming up a man, but alas, a fresh cup of coffee will have to suffice. I add a few drops of my latest organic essential oil blend I’ve made. Each has properties to somehow aid in hearing loss. Oregano, basil, ginger, lavender. I cycle through different mixtures, hoping one day I will discover the blend that works for me.

One bad fall, doing what I love the most, and it’s changed my life. I should be a prima ballerina right now. Not a stripper. I’ve worked so hard, and for me to lose it all. It wasn’t even my fault. The fall—no, the drop…

“No,” I say aloud, feeling the vibrations carry over my tongue and lips.

I shake my head for good measure, take a sip, then breathe deeply. Inhale and exhale. I will not allow myself to spiral, not today. I may not be a ballerina dancing in the company of my dreams, but I get to dance every single day I choose to. Not everyone has the same opportunity as I do, so I will not cheapen it with a pity party.

To top it off, I make money doing what I love, losing myself in the emotions of dance. I should be grateful. This is the hand I was dealt, and I’ve done what I’ve had to-to adapt. My injury doesn’t define me; my handicap doesn’t define me because it’s not a weakness. I’ve become stronger because of it, more resilient. I know how to communicate without using my voice; my other senses are amplified, and it’s forced me to learn other methods of dance.

Some of them I love.

Yep. Today I choose to be thankful. To be strong.

My abuelita is proud of me, that I’ve kept going. She doesn’t know it, but her support some days has been the only thing to get me up and moving around. With another deep inhale, I move to my yoga mat and begin my stretches. I have work tonight, and my body needs to be limber.

I can’t help but wonder, as I take my favorite spot on my mat and relax my muscles, if Powerhouse be there tonight too. He comes in a lot, but I wonder if it’ll change now since we’ve slept together. Will he expect it again? Or will it be the opposite and he’ll disappear completely?

One night, while Roxy was spiraling, she admitted to me that she wished the giant biker looked at her the way he does me. I thought she was being ridiculous and that she was only witnessing lust. I couldn’t recall him giving me special attention, but then again, I’ve hardly looked at him in passing. Don’t get me wrong, I saw him, several times. It’s hard not to notice his looming presence when you’re on stage and you accidentally flick your gaze out at the crowd.

He’s the only one I ever see, and it’s enough to rattle my nerves every single time, so I’ve learned to stop looking.

Could I have been blind since I started working there as well? I pride myself on having exceptional senses, but it seems I haven’t been paying attention to someone who has apparently been giving me most of theirs.

With a centering exhale, I lay on my back and do a raised hip thrust. I concentrate on lifting and holding, needing my pelvis, back, thighs, and core to all be on the same page. The stronger I make my body, the more in tune I am, the better I dance. The less I fall, and in return, I keep myself injury-free. I never want to hurt as much as I did before—my head, my ear, nor my mind and heart.

You ever been physically hurt while your soul was crushed at the same time? I give it zero stars and do not recommend.

My fists clench at the negativity, and I force myself to push it from my thoughts. I’ve got to concentrate, because one thing’s for certain: if Powerhouse comes in tonight, I only want him looking at me. I may not be able to hear the deep timbre of his voice, but I can certainly show him with my body exactly how he’s making me feel.

Of what he’s making me crave.

Him.

Chapter Four

Powerhouse

We stand around, watching as our old cuts burn to ash. It’s cathartic in a strange way I never expected to experience in this lifetime, especially after being so loyal to the previous club. I hadn’t imagined I’d feel this was right in any way, but here I am, happy with my decision. We’re beside our new brothers of the Oath Keepers MC, as we’re no longer any part of the RBMC. Prez has talked about patching over for years, and it’s finally happened for all of us; our central Texas charter is not affiliated with RBMC in any way. All it took was shit hitting the fan with Plague and us calling in for backup against the cartel because of it.

Help never arrived, and Prez brought the vote to the table to leave for good. There was no fight over it—hell, not even a mere disagreement. We all knew Ripper had been wanting a break from the RBMC, and the Oath Keepers not only offered to watch our backs with our last run-in with death, but they’ve done so time and again in the past. If there’s any other club patch we want on our backs in Texas, it’s an OKMC patch. To be aligned with an MC that has earned the amount of respect they have, not only in Texas but in other states as well, has all of us standing a little bit taller in our new leather.

My shoulder tingles from blacking out my old club ink, only to be replaced with the deep black and red OKMC brand in one of the few available places on my flesh. Spin from the OG charter has been here tattooing us all damn day, one after another, and I suppose it’ll take a few days for us to all make the change with our flesh. The brother knows his line work, as I’ve grown picky over the years about who permanently marks my skin. I imagine a lot of my old ink will eventually be getting blacked out or covered up as I make time in my life for true art to cover my body versus the old shit I have tattooed everywhere.

Over the years of living in the area, I’ve discovered the OKMC not only carries the admiration of others, but their fear as well. Anyone with two eyes can see how heavy the MC’s presence affects the area. Like Viking and Ares, the OKMC prez’s have said, the bigger we are in Texas, the stronger we are together. The more of a chance we have against fighting the cartel and any other enemies who may stupidly make their way into our state.

The hardest pill to swallow for Ripper is the way we make our money. The Oath Keepers don’t deal in dope, only guns, and we make our money in powder—in selling the never-ending high to junkies and anyone else looking to score. I figure if they’re foolishly willing to make the decision to buy, who am I to stop them? I’m not their parents, and I’m damn sure not the little angel or devil on their shoulder weighing their choices for them. I’m just another biker out here on the road trying to live free. If selling dope or anything else makes that happen a little easier for me, then so be it. I’ve made most of my money fighting and betting, but my brothers can’t claim the same.

“We’ve come to terms with Ripper and Blow,” Ares, the president of the OG charter, rumbles, glancing at each of us. He was once like me in his club, knocking heads when needed; now he’s the highest-ranking president of the entire MC. “They claim you’re all on the same page.”His words leave no room for argument; either you’re in or you’re out, and if you’re not wearing the cut or the tattoo, you’re a biker no longer welcome in Texas. Having an Oath Keeper hunting you down is a scary fucking problem to have, and that’s coming from me, a big, stubborn fucker.

I nod, shifting a quick glance at Prez and VP before landing on Angel, making sure the moody fucker nods his agreement as well. I know everyone else will fall into line, but he’s the type to stir shit up just because he can. Like he did with Blow’s ol’ lady, for instance. Locked her up in a hotel, ready to bury her when he found out she could’ve been a cop, rather than talking through it with our VP. It was such a g-damn mess, and now they still have beef between each other.

“Nothing is sold to minors. No heroin. Period. We’ve worked too fuckin’ hard to get that shit outta our area to ever allow anyone wearing our motherfuckin’ colors to be slinging that shit, you feel me?” Ares rumbles, shooting a glower around our group. I’m rarely intimidated by anyone, but I wouldn’t want to fight him. I went toe to toe with our brother, Cain, back in the day, and I can attest they’re a club of mean motherfuckers.

Viking glares, “Cross us and I’ll chop your fucking head off, then watch Saint bathe in your blood.” He promises, and after hearing many of the crazy-ass stories about the club, I don’t doubt it for a moment.

My gaze flashes to Saint, the light-haired, fair-skinned man who has always appeared harmless. He wears a fucked-up, twisted grin, silently promising that his prez speaks the truth and he’ll enjoy every minute of getting bloody. His partner, Sinner, stands close to his side, smirking with the looming threat, and my gut tells me none of it’s a lie.

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