Aden

Chapter Two

Leila

I watched him from the peephole like clockwork. As soon as my locks clicked, Aden spun back on his feet and disappeared down the hall without a glance back. Aden Grayson was an anomalous man. He rarely ever spoke.

Mostly grunts or one-word responses, and that's if you're lucky. I don't think I've ever seen this man speak a full sentence or have a full-on conversation. It's not like he couldn't speak, it's that he chose not to.

Aden was the middle Grayson brother. Alex Grayson was the founder and president, Aden was the financial accountant, and Aries was the youngest one who was in charge of anything computer or tech involved.

I've known the Graysons since my father was still alive. That bar has always been a biker bar and they've always treated my father with the utmost respect.

Despite their tattoos and the grand size of them all and how they were always packing heat, The Sinners MC were practically my family.

They stood by my side and had my back when my father passed away and they were with me when my father's family tried to take the bar away from me. They were the only ones that truly encouraged and supported me to keep the bar.

My father, Nader may he rest in peace, worked hard to open it, to acquire the land it was on, and I still remember how drained and tiring it was for him to open it. Nader's Bar took an emotional toll on us. He wanted to be the best father he could be, especially since I didn't have a mother.

She had died giving birth to me and it felt like he was always trying to compensate for her loss. He didn't have to try. My father was a great, great man and I loved him with all of my heart. He died a good man, a good father.

He was my best friend, someone I could always confide in, and he never judged or shamed me. My father was born in Iran, in a small village named Bayaz and he met my mother on his walk home from school.

Said it was love from the moment he saw her smile. He married her right after graduation, despite his parents not approving of her since she didn't wear the headscarf.

My father would say that a woman was free to be herself, free to breathe, free to cover, to not cover and that God was the only one who could judge. He loved my mother with his entire being and soul and I missed hearing their stories.

I missed his voice and the way his presence calmed me down and made me feel so safe and secure. I had pictures; memories frozen in polaroids, and they were enough.

Sometimes they were enough.

My apartment was what they called a micro-apartment which was about three hundred square feet and consisted of one room, one bathroom, and a free room that connected to the kitchen.

When my father passed away, I moved out of the place we were living. It had too many memories of my father and leased this apartment. It was tiny. Sometimes things didn't work, and the electricity had mood swings, but it fit me.

After taking a warm shower and slipping into some comfortable pajamas, I lay down on the bed with my pillow crushed to my chest.

I could never sleep like how I used to when I was a teenager. I used to take those days and nights for granted. I had the worst insomnia and if I were to ever be lucky enough to fall asleep I'd wake up screaming.

My tenacious nightmares chased after me wherever I went and it didn't matter how far or long I ran, they always caught up to me. They were demanding like that. It always started out like a regular dream, a happy one, the sun would be shining, birds would be singing, and right before I could cross the street it'd switch.