What’s done is done.
I have a future to look forward to.
5 Months Later
My bastard of a father is dead.
Thank fuck for that.
My hands shake a little as I read the letter from his lawyer, my rage for the man pouring out of my fingertips.
I was brought into this world by that bastard, who taught me how to grow a set at a young age. I’ve not seen the man in nearly twenty years. I had often thought about finding him and showing him exactly who I’ve become, but that’s no longer relevant.
I was lucky because I got out from under him when I was eleven years old. The bastard was blackmailed into releasing...
But that’s another story.
Over time, I’ve learned the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in the end. That seed was apparently already sown, or I wouldn’t have turned out the way I did.
His death had happened eight months ago, and it’d taken them a while to track me down. I’m surprised they found me because I sure as fuck didn’t want to be found. Now, some bitch named Whisper has my fucking shameful inheritance.
No. Fucking. Way. Is any bitch taking that from me.
Who is she but some money-hungry old whore who got in good with him? She got her name on those papers, because he sure as fuck didn’t want to give his only son anything but one hundred dollars.
Yeah, I hold in my hand a check for one hundred dollars and a letter with my deceased father’s address on it.
It’s like he’s gloating from the grave.
Cocksucker!
My mother apparently left him when I was a baby, and he refused to talk about her or give me her name. She abandoned me to that man and no doubt got herself safe and sound away from his evil ways. I have no clue if she’s alive or dead. I was never granted any answers, and I sure as hell knew only to ask once. I haven’t even thought about her in twenty years.
I slam my fist down on my kitchen table, making my beer jump. What a pain in my fucking ass. I was gonna settle down tonight and get some sleep for once, but now I have this to deal with. I finish off the beer and toss it with enough force that it shatters against the inside of the bin.
“Motherfucker!” I roar at my ceiling.
I hope he can fucking hear me, too.
I’m pleased the bastard is dead, but there ain’t no way some old, bitching whore is taking what’s mine.
I snatch my cell phone off the table and punch in one number. I’m the fucking Soulless Bastards’ enforcer. I know how to make bitches disappear. My president picks up on the first ring. “Hazard...yeah, good...I need some personal time for a couple weeks because I just found out my father’s dead... Don’t be sorry. I sure as fuck ain’t,” I grunt back and I mean every word.
“Hazard, I need to clear up some financial matters. Are we good if I take off immediately?” I know he won’t have a problem with my request. I’ve given my loyalty to the club, and now I need to sort this mess out. He wants to know if I need backup. “Nah... this little misunderstanding will be easy to reconcile. Some random whore got dibs on my money.” I listen as he curses at my injustice. “Just holler if you need me for a job. I’m heading to Louisiana...no problems, will do. I’ll let you know when I get there.”
I scrub my hand over my face. He wants to send a brother with me. I don’t need anybody knowing about my past. “I’m good. I can’t see how this will be any trouble for me. I’ll be in touch.” I disconnect and grab a few things. I’m always packed, ready for a job.
I stop off in the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I need to be careful because this isn’t club retribution; this is personal. I worked hard at keeping my birth identity a secret for fear my adopted parents would be harmed.
By the time I’m finished, my long, light brown, shoulder-length hair is laying on my bathroom floor. I’ve used the clippers and shaved it close to my head around the back and sides, and left it long on top, so I can comb it back or tie it up. I’ve taken my thick beard and reduced it to a closely shaved scruff on my face.
I grip either side of the hand basin as I look at myself in the mirror, admiring my handiwork. I look different, and that’s a good thing. Now, my own MC brothers would walk past me without a second glance. Without my cut on, I’ll be just another civilian. I have to go in this way. I don’t need the club brought into this.
My father would’ve been around fifty when he died. I’ve been gone nearly two decades, and I’m not Dallas, the eleven-year-old, scared, broken little boy.
I’m now Edge, a stone-cold motherfucking killer. Make no mistakes about that.
It doesn’t take me long to head on out to my Harley and start the trip. I can get a few hours ride in tonight, and then I need some sleep. If I stayed at home and went in the morning, it would only set me back a night. I need to sort this shit out ASAP.
Albuquerque to Louisiana, here I come. My father owes me, and if this is the only way he can pay up, then so be it. I don’t care if I burn the house to the ground, but some whore isn’t getting it just because she was weak and slept with the sick fuck.
The bitch now has a price on her head, to be paid in full.
She’s already dead.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
Boxer and Miss C are my champions. Boxer, my forty-five-year-old British friend, has helped me get back into society with legal papers, although they’re fake.
In the past eight months since I have lived with Miss C, many things have happened. I’m now a member of society. I exist on paper in a world, where before, I didn’t. I’m now a human being with rights and identification.
I didn’t ask how he made it happen, but I’m grateful I had stumbled across Miss C on that cold, rainy evening eight months ago, and that she trusted Boxer to know my secrets. I thank my lucky stars every day.
I will never know who my parents are or if I have anybody related to me, but I’m okay with that. There are still a lot of unanswered questions buzzing about in my head about my real parents. I try not to let it get to me too much. I know Boxer has tried. I worry about them and how they must feel having lost me.
There were no stories in papers that could be linked back to me. My birth date was given to me, a day that man cooked up. My colorings suggest I’m European. But who could give me those answers? The truth is buried six feet under.
My long dark hair and light olive skin make me look Italian, but the world is such a melting pot living among each other that I’m truly lost to my ancestry.
I don’t want anybody claiming me and knowing what their child went through, the horrors that had been done to me. It’s bad enough Miss C and Boxer live with this knowledge.
There’s such a deep void of emptiness when I think about my parents, so I don’t. I lock them away in a box. I am surrounded by people who care about me, and that will be enough.
I just want to start fresh and be plain ol’ Whisper. I never offer my surname, if I can help it, as it is a fake. I’m simply Whisper, and my name is my voice. I never raise my voice. I speak quietly; it was how I was trained. I find it easier to be quiet and not a loud presence. I don’t want to stand out.
I’m not looking for a man to notice me. I could be quite happy if I end up going to my grave single and in control of my own life.
I’m free. It feels amazing.
I’m Miss C’s friend’s daughter, and that is that. I simply appeared to have arrived in the small town of Connard one day looking for a job, and Miss C hooked me up with Boxer. I’m now his bookkeeper. I earn an honest, paid living. Miss C made sure the townsfolk welcomed me, and nobody questioned who I was. I was who I appeared.