Heavy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance by Cate C. Wells

Author:Cate C. Wells [Wells, Cate C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

8

HEAVY

The first time I bumped into someone and knocked them on their ass was in seventh grade. I shoulder-checked a teacher, a young guy with a slight build. Mr. Anscomb. It was completely unintentional. I was walking down the hall, and my growth spurts had outpaced my spatial awareness. I got put out for three days even though my mom went toe-to-toe with the principal.

In retrospect, I probably got three days because Mom went toe-to-toe with that asshole.

No one believed the long-haired son of the local MC president was innocent. And in a sense, I wasn’t. We young’uns weren’t raised on sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, but we sure as shit were raised with ‘em. Brawlin’, huntin’, and ridin’. Flashed titties and polishing off beers left unsupervised. It was the life. Charge, Nickel, Scrap, Forty, and I were all doin’ time at Petty’s Mill Junior High, and everyone knew it.

Ever since that incident with Mr. Anscomb, I’ve known my size. There was a time I reveled in it, flexing on the football team, walkin’ towards a gang of wannabes at the carnival, gettin’ my jollies by watchin’ as they parted to flow around me, a rock in their stream. Or taking a sudden step toward a dumbass with a big mouth just to watch him jerk back and duck.

If you want my origin story, that’s it—shoulder checking a history teacher. Not the legendary father, gone too soon. Not the mother, gone even sooner.

Not the Blown Job or when the baseball bat cracked my little brother’s skull or when the guidance counselor sat across her desk from me junior year, flipping through my file, forehead furrowing as she realized the sixteen-year-old greaser with the full beard had a 4.5 GPA and a perfect SAT score, and she said, “Well, you could go to a pretty good school with these grades. What are you into?”

The beginning was an accident. An unintentional swing of the arm, and from the consequences, I came to understand that I am a force whether or not I want to be. From October until June, I watched Mr. Anscomb flinch every time I raised my hand in class.

I am stronger than other men. Bigger. I see further. I’m the guy my brothers look to—at first only because my voice boomed the loudest, and I stood two heads taller—but later, because I was the one who knew his own strength.

Because my brothers followed me, I lead. I’ve stumbled. Made mistakes the club is still paying for. But I don’t knock into folks by accident anymore. Haven’t for a long, long time. But people have never stopped making way.

I am a legend. They see me coming, and they clear out of my path. Everyone.

Except Dina Wall.

This fun-sized woman has careened into me at least a dozen times since I had the limo let us out at the intersection of Tropicana Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard. She has the spatial awareness of a bumper car. Every time she collides with my side, she goes “oof” and grumbles.

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