Madeline Sheehan - Undeniable

"You gotta death wish?" Uncle Joe whispered to the old man.  "Horsemen are in good with the Demon's.  Let's fuckin' keep it that way."

"Ah," The old man said, looking back at me.  "You must be Preacher's little girl.  He's talked 'bout you.  Proud as fuck, he is."

I nodded proudly.  "I am Preacher’s little girl.  And I'm gonna be just like him when I grow up.  I'm gonna have a Fatboy but I want mine to be sparkly and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it.  And instead of being the club President, I’m gonna be the club Queen cuz I'm gonna marry the biggest, scariest biker in the whole world and he's gonna let me do whatever I want because he’s gonna love me like crazy."

My Uncle Joe burst out laughing and the old man shook his head, smiling.  The beautiful man turned to face me and leaned forward.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," He whispered.

I didn’t respond.  I couldn’t.  I was captivated by the intensity I saw in his bright blue and white flecked eyes.  They reminded me of a frosted over lake.  He had beautiful icy blue eyes that sucked me in to a warm safe place that I wanted to stay inside of forever.

He stuck out his hand, breaking the spell.  "Name's Deuce sweetheart.  My old man here is Reaper.  It was nice talkin' with ya."

I put my hand in his and his big fingers closed around mine.  "Eva," I whispered.  "That's my name and it was so, so great to meet you too."

He smiled.  And his eyes smiled too.  And I got lost again in his pretty eyes.

Then Uncle Joe picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.  "Isn’t that fuckin' expensive as hell private fuckin' school teachin' you 'bout talkin' to strangers?"  He said.  "Gonna have a talk with those prissy fuckers.  Gonna have a talk with my fist."

"Bye," I yelled, waving frantically, as I was marched away.

Reaper gave me a two handed handcuffed wave and a big smile.

Deuce got to his feet grinning and gave me a two-finger salute.  "Bye darlin'."

Darlin’.

It was official.  I was head over heels in love.

☼☼☼

Deuce watched One Eyed Joe, Silver Demon CM, stalk off with Preacher's kid hanging over his shoulder, grinning and waving like a lunatic.  He shook his head and smiled.  When he could no longer see her, he lost his smile and turned back to his old man.

His old man had lost his smile too.

"Cute kid," Reaper grumbled.  “Shoulda had a girl instead of you two fucks.”

He stared at his old man.  He’d had a moment of longing watching him smile at that kid, talk to her the way he should have talked to his own kids but never had.  He’d been too busy beating on him and his brother.

Good times.

"Preacher's on the move," Reaper growled.  "Takin' that fuckin' deal with the Russians right out from under you.  Why the mother fuck didn't you snap that shit down when you had the chance?"

And there it was.  He was VP and that’s all he was to his old man.  Someone to pass the fucking gavel to when he finally - and it couldn't come fast enough - kicked it.

"Preacher's RC beat me to it.  Snagged that shit fore' I even heard about it."

Reaper's expression went glacial.  "You're such a fuckin' fuck up.  Shoulda made Cas VP, shoulda had that fuckin' cunt of whore get ridda ya."

His mother had been a whore.  Not a streetwalker but a club whore.  She'd been sixteen when his father knocked her up, his old man nearly thirty.  After he was born his old man kicked her to the curb with nothing but the clothes on her back.  All he'd ever had of his mother was a gritty picture of a very young girl sitting on his old man's Harley, Olivia Martin written on the back.  He liked to think that she'd started a new life somewhere else, with someone who was nothing like his old man.  Found some peace and a family who loved her.

His younger brother Cas was the product of another knocked up whore.  Same story, different day.

Twenty three years he'd been putting up with his shit.  He'd had enough.  Pushing out of his chair he stood up, placed his palms on the table and leaned forward.

"Nobody, and when I say nobody, I mean fuckin' everybody, gives two fucks about what happens to you, you miserable shit.  The club respects their Prez but not one of your boys fuckin' give a fuck whether you live or die.  You got life old man and I been runnin' shit in your absence.  And seein' as I been runnin' shit a fuck of a lot better than you, I don't have to come here but I fuckin' do outta fuckin' respect and I just lost the last shred of respect I had left."

"You little shit," Reaper hissed, "You're gonna pay-

"No.  You're gonna pay.  Puttin' the cash up for bids the minute I walk outta here."

Fear flashed through his old man's eyes.  He'd never seen anything sweeter.

"Remember you piece of shit fuck, when you're bleedin' out, that it was me who fuckin' ordered it."

He turned away before his old man could say another word and strode through Riker's visiting room breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, determined to end that man.

"Deuce!" A little voice squeaked.  He turned.

Eva Fox was gunning for him.  Just before she reached him, she came skidding to a stop, breathing heavy and thrust her hand out.  "Didn't get to share with you," She said breathlessly.

He bent down and closed his hand around a small bag of peanuts.

His throat closed up.

This kid, this little fucking kid who didn't know him at all, had just given him his first gift, nothing expected in return, no favors, no stipulations, no nothing.  He’d been wrong.  There was something sweeter than seeing fear in his old man’s eyes.  Eva Fox was far sweeter.  If he ever had a kid, he wanted a kid like this one.

"Thanks darlin'," He said hoarsely.

"Will I ever see you again?"  She cocked her head to the side, wide eyed, waiting for his response.  He stared into her eyes; her fucking phenomenal eyes, too big for her face.  Big and smoky gray like a thunderstorm.  Fucking beautiful.

He smiled.  "Hope so sweetheart."

She gave him a killer cute grin and bounced back to her old man and uncle - who were staring daggers at him - shakin' those pigtails.

After shoving the peanuts in his pocket, he left.  First street payphone he saw, he posted the hit.  It took all of an hour and he had a buyer.  Three days later, his old man bled out in the showers.

Seven years passed before Deuce and I crossed paths again.

During those years, my father had been released from prison and I had gained an older, pain in the ass brother, Frankie.

Franklin Deluva Sr. had been my dad's road chief.  He had died in a head on collision with a Mack truck a few years back and his old lady had died several years earlier from breast cancer.  As was the case with most biker brats, Frankie didn’t have any other family willing to take him on.  Since my father didn't have a son, he took Frankie in and under his wing and began mapping out his future as a Demon.  If Frankie stayed the course my father had made it clear he'd be taking the gavel from him one day.  Which was fine, great even, there was just one big problem.

Frankie was angry.

All the time.

So much so that all he did was get into fights.  At school, at the club, on the sidewalk, in the grocery store.  Frankie would fight with a brick wall if it pissed him off.  You would not believe just how many walls have pissed Frankie off.

His poor fifteen-year-old body was already covered in scars from street fights.  Since he had come to live with us he'd been hospitalized sixteen times for various broken bones, knife wounds and numerous concussions.

Frankie also had serious abandonment issues.

When he had first moved in with my father and me, he had violent nightmares.  He would wake up terrified, covered in sweat and screaming at the top of his lungs.  The nightmares turned into night terrors and Frankie began thrashing in his sleep, beating his head with his fists while screaming and crying uncontrollably.  My father had to hold him down until he either calmed or regained full consciousness.

One night, when my father was out on a run, Frankie snuck into my room and slipped in bed with me.  He slept soundly for the first time since he'd moved in with us and he’s been in my bed ever since.

And life moved on.

Two weeks after my twelfth birthday my father decided it was time for Frankie to tag along on an MC run.  When he found out I wouldn’t be going he threw a violent fit until my father caved.  When it came to Frankie, my father was a total pushover.

On the back of Frankie’s bike I left Manhattan, Northern Illinois destined, our first stop: A pumpkin farm.  When your father and his cohorts were involved in illegal dealings and needed to meet privately, criminal gatherings at pumpkin farms were more frequent than one would think.

These sorts of meets usually lasted a couple of days; the adults stayed inside and the kids outside.  There was always a lot of yelling, a lot of fighting and a lot of drinking.  And a lot of slutty women.

I'd started developing early and looked rather awkward being as skinny and as tall as I was, all elbows and knees with a pair of C cups. Several boys who had accompanied their father’s to the meet had been following me around, snapping my bra strap, and calling me “stuffer”.  Which was how I found myself hiding in a tree, my headphones on, listening to the Rolling Stones, swinging my legs, bobbing my head and singing along.

I felt a tug on the toe of my chucks and I jerked my foot away.