Home > Bound by Family (Ravage MC Bound #1)(4)

Bound by Family (Ravage MC Bound #1)(4)
Author: Ryan Michele

“Well, hell, that can’t be good. Nox, come with me,” my mother says.

Nox looks at our father, who lifts his chin, and then follows Mom into the clubhouse.

“Never a dull moment.” Ryker clasps me on the shoulder, laughing, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

He patched in with Ravage a couple of years before I did, and we got pretty tight since I joined officially three, almost four, years ago.

“Such is life.” Giving a shrug, I turn toward him. “What’s the plan?”

He inhales then blows out the smoke. “I don’t give a shit. One of the brunettes wants me to meet up with her later, but the bitch is getting too needy, and I need to cut her off.” He’s referring to one of the club mommas who hangs around. Their names all seem to intermingle after a while. Sex with them is release, plain and simple. There’s no emotional attachment, no relationships, or any of that.

Don’t get me wrong, I respect them, but I have yet to find one who I want to change that outlook for. I’m not looking for anything more than to get off. As soon as one of them thinks there’ll be more, she’s out.

“I’m ridin’ for a while.”

Ryker crosses his arms, tattoos splaying. He gets closer then opens his mouth, baring his teeth while moving his head back and forth.

I step back. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

He chuckles. “Checkin’ my teeth. Those mirrored shades you wear are perfect for it.”

“Asshole. You just wish you could pull this shit off.”

“Nah, I’m hot enough.”

I laugh. Ryker is definitely comic relief.

“Coop?” I hear my sister call as she walks up to us. Her eyes are on Ryker, though, and not me.

Austyn’s had a thing for Ryker for years now, and I wish she’d get the hell over it. He’s about nine or ten years older than her, so it’s not happening. Hell, even if they were close in age, it still wouldn’t happen. I love Ryker, but that shit’s not cool with me.

“Yeah?” I ask.

She sweeps her long, dark hair behind her ear, her big blue eyes coming to me. I fully admit she’s pretty, and I’ve seen more than one guy stop and pay her attention, but no fucking way.

“Dad wants to see you,” she tells me before glancing back over at Ryker.

“Hey, little one.” He ruffles her hair.

Her fists clench and shoulders tense. “Hey,” she growls before stomping off, running her hand through her hair.

I just shake my head and move into the clubhouse. Either Ryker is blind or is damn good at ignoring it. Either way, I’m good with the way he’s playing it.

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

 

 

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.

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