If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (6 page)

And it’s only my prayer I hear as the outside world spins on around me. Only my prayer, and my prayer alone…

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake…   

***

I was booked into New York’s Juvenile Department of Corrections when I was just two months shy of my fourteenth birthday. And that was over two fucking years ago.

To say things have changed since then, that I’ve changed, is an understatement to say the least.

As far as I’m concerned, on most days, it’s all fucked up now—just like Puff Daddy said.

“O’Malley!” The relentless sliding of metal against metal is my only constant these days. It’s like everything changes here, constantly—except the bars and the cold. That shit stays the same. Always.

The people change, the guards change, your level of freedom even changes. But not the frigid temperatures, and not the damn metal bars sliding on their tracks.

I slip my hands between the bars for the cuffs, and only slightly hesitate when the guard waves my hands back into my cell.

“Not needed, Juvi. Not today,” the overweight Pillsbury dough-looking boy tells me as he slides his key in the lock before turning it. “Today’s your lucky day. You’re busting out, kid. Congrats.” When the guard smiles at me, his eyes stay on my chest a little too long and I visibly shudder, even as his words finally settle in the confused thoughts and questions circling my mind.

“Busting out?” I blankly mimic his words and step from behind the bars before they slide closed and lock loudly behind me.

“Yes, ma’am. Busting out.” He nods then holds his arm to the side and ushers me forward.

I aimlessly wander in front of him, waiting for any cues such as straight forward, left, or right down the long dark corridors. And when we finally come to another gate, exiting the main building, the concrete floors turn to carpet. It’s shitty and navy, but it’s still the first time I’ve seen carpet in over two years.

“O’Malley, step this way.” I’m guided through a few halls, and once we’ve entered the third or fourth door, we enter a hallway with an elevator. After Pillsbury the dough guard smashes his big fat finger on the arrow button pointing down, a petite brunette woman steps up and smiles at me.

The initial freak-out wears off when she quickly introduces herself. “Hey, Eve. I’m Matilda, your social case worker. How are you doing, sweetheart? Are you ready to get home?”

I blink a handful of times at her before blandly speaking. “How am I doing? That’s rich, Mati, even for someone as simple-minded as you. And home, did you say?” My chuckle sounds a bit harsher than I intend it to, but I don’t correct it. I let the sinister chuckle spill from my lips before going dead still and even more quiet, then I remind her, point blankly, “I don’t have a home, Mati. Check your files next time before you speak.” I step around her and into the elevator when the doors slide open.

And after Pillsbury the dough guard explains that I’m to follow the kind social worker to the next floor where we can start the proceedings, Matilda hits the elevator button for the ground floor. What proceedings, you may ask yourself… well, don’t fret, because I’m asking myself the same damn thing.

When the elevator doors close, I glance up and watch the number change. And when we’re at our designated floor, the elevator slides open, and it’s around this time I realize I haven’t heard metal sliding against metal in the last five to ten minutes. Then I shiver, only to realize it’s warm where we’re at. The tension that’s been wrapped and strung so tight around my bones, finally, blessedly releases its hold…just a tiny bit. But it’s enough. ‘Cause I can breathe. For the first time in two years, I can breathe.

“Your grandmother, meaning your mom’s mom, was sick and in and out of the hospital for a while. Do you remember her? Eleanor Blakeney? Your mother says the two of you know each other pretty well…the three of you lived with her in Florida…” Her words trail off when I simply stare at her with no reaction and I attempt to piece my response together. And for justifiable reasons that have
way
more to do with this than hormones, I speak as coldly and clearly as I possibly can.

“I don’t have a mother. Nor a grandmother. And if you’d look a little closer to the file in your hand, you’d see it’s more than quite obvious that you and Mr. Pillsbury the dough cop have the wrong fucking kid. There’s some sort of mix-up. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been
completely
stranded in the last known city my mother occupied for the last two years. Without so much as a single word from Ilsa, Eleanor, or Eden. So, no, Mati. Check again. Because I’ve gotta a lotta reasons to believe right now that I have no freaking family.”

The nice social worker blinks. And nothing else for a good minute or two. “Ahh…” Her brows furrow again just before her eyes skip down to the file in her hand, and she seems to debate with herself on whether or not she wants to actually open it and verify what I’ve just said.

But I couldn’t care less. Nor could I give a shit what her file says. I know the truth now. As much as it hurt to learn it, and as many times as I had to learn it—every single day. I fucking know the truth.

Two years? Hadn’t I been through enough? At fourteen? I didn’t take anything I didn’t need. I didn’t steal money for fun; I stole it because I was freaking hungry. Or afraid of getting there. And I couldn’t work. I was fourteen! How the hell was a fourteen-year-old supposed to get home so she could help her mother? With no money. No car, or transportation. What did they expect me to do?

And the system? How’d they help out the situation?

They punished me. That’s what they did. They cut me off, took all my possessions, threw me behind bars, and then they left me. There to rot. Without any real explanation. For two fucking years.

And no one even cared enough to check on me. No friends. No family members—no one.

So, no—I don’t have anyone. Not a single freaking person I know who loves me.

In the end, ol’ Mati did flip the file open and double check my story. But as soon as my grandmother walked into the little anteroom, outside what I assumed was a conference room, it wasn’t necessary. I knew then whatever I said would be treated like it was when I was eight years old, screaming I was having a heart attack when the good ol’ doctor came in and called me a liar.

Child’s gibberish. Whatever I said, however I balked, would be brushed aside in order to assist in the transition of a child in the system to a child in a happy home…

Excuse me while I gag.

“Miss Eleanor?” The social worker’s brows furrow to new depths and get deeper the faster she flips through the file. “Eve is saying…she doesn’t have any family. Now, as the State’s family counselor explained, there will be a few setbacks involved with our progress. But that’s to be expected. You need to keep Eve’s feelings in mind, no matter how rough the road ahead gets. Her feelings come first, but always to an extent.” The good social worker smiles warmly at both me and then my grandmother, and I decide in that moment, I freaking hate her. Probably a bit prematurely, but hell—we all know I don’t do the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed type.

After the lady standing beside me who looks a lot like my grammy, only older, nods, she steps towards me and reaches for my hands, smiling. “Sweetie, ya’ve got family. You know it? Grammy was sick, darlin’. I didn’t know. I didn’t know any of this was happening. And then when I found out, I couldn’t get better and strong again quick enough. But I’m here now, my Evie. Grammy’s here.” It’s her embrace, in case you were wondering, that makes me crumble so quickly. Well, that and she smells like fucking chocolate chip cookies. Either way, my arms circle her round middle and I bury my nose in the crook of my Grammy’s neck before inhaling.

And instantly…cue the waterworks. My resolve, it seems, is much more prone to crumble without the frigid cold temperatures and the constant clanging of metal against metal in the freaking background. Tears flood behind my eyelids at the same time my sinuses flood with snot. To the point where I have to pull slightly away in order to catch my breath. And as soon as my eyes land on the only other pair that match mine on this planet, I smile crookedly at the woman who halfway raised me, before muttering, “I know. I know. I’m sorry you were sick, Grammy. They didn’t even tell me—” The sob tearing its way up my throat cuts off my words and I fall apart around my broken heart.

Right there, in front of God, the social worker, and my grandmother, I fall the hell apart.

I thought life was hard before I left Chicago. Hell, I was afraid of
In School Suspension,
or worse, of being expelled from school because of Lacy’s freaking cigarettes! I ran away from a perfectly good home, with weird, but perfectly good guardians, with a brand new zebra comforter
and
new sheets and shams on my very own bed, because of ISS? Let me tell you, the alternative I chose to my life in Chicago when I left school that day and headed to the bus station was a terrible, horrible freaking mistake that I regret, even to this day.

Life in New York’s Juvenile Department of Corrections system was hard, don’t get me wrong, but when the warmth around my heart thaws the ice that’s been encasing it since the third or fourth night I spent on that cold, stiff cot, the pain of all those old scars splitting then finally breaking open is utter and pure agony to the nth degree.

Personally, I think it’s the mixture of accepting your wrongs and being shown your rights that stings the most…but that’s just me. And I’m just Eve—I’m only sixteen.

The rules in any Motorcycle Club, or MC, are virtually the same. And they all stem from two things: Respect and protocol. Now, don’t worry—I won’t bore you with the full MC history lesson, but you will walk away from this with some sort of knowledge about the lifestyle. And for the most part, all your MCs are chock full of those two things. Respect and protocol.

But for the love of God, don’t forget the fucking respect. Respect is something that’s very hard to earn among these guys I call brothers. Very hard.

And for the Sons of Silencers, it’s even harder.

Now, for the most part, civilians aren’t even aware we have things like protocol and procedure, and I only mention it now so you’ll be one of the few well-informed, as well as prepared for the story ahead. No matter what we look like, and no matter how uncouth we may appear, we’re not all savages. We do have rules, just like every other member of society. The only difference is we obey a set of rules that are of a very different decree. Rules that most of you won’t understand—and hell, that’s because you can’t. And I hope one day you never have to.

I’m just saying when the end-of-the-world shit starts going down, we—me and my brothers—are gonna be some motherfuckers you wish you knew, ‘cause we’re gonna be okay. Understood? Good.

And just in case you don’t—know us, that is—I’d try using some respect when you come running to us for shit like food, water, gas, and shelter. We may look disorganized as fuck, but we are some efficient, organized motherfuckers. And once you’re loved by us, you’re loved by us. Period. At least until you fuck us. Or snitch. We’ll snuff out a snitch quicker than shit.

I’ve been manning the Sons of Silencers directly under Pops now for a little more than two years. And I’ll be honest, it’s been no walk in the park by any means. It’s been hard, because at twenty-four, this shit’s a lot to take in—even for a guy who swiped his Bachelor’s in business on this newest badass invention called online college courses.

Man, I don’t know what your thoughts are about how fast technology is finally actually helping the public now, but it’s making shit a lot easier. Not just for people like us who live the MC lifestyle and have to work and do our job for the club to make money, but it also helps keep our asses out of jail!

And the funny thing is, for guys like me, the only way my pops ever thought I’d have any education was if it was earned from behind bars. Well, that and for the lack of better shit to do. When in reality, it was just the latter.

I buckled my ass down after Ben went from nomad to damn near semi-rogue two years ago when he pulled the shit he pulled in Chicago with Eden. Once I dropped off Ilsa’s youngest kid at her sister’s house, and whatever mess there was after was worked out, (and I still don’t know what all that was about), Eden was put on a plane the next morning and sent back to the safety of her mother’s loving arms. And the last I’ve heard of that girl or her momma was they were living happily ever after in Jersey with Ilsa’s new boyfriend. I’m just glad they’ve stayed the fuck away from SOS and its club members. Hopefully they’ll stay away, too.