Fight For Her (Devil's Right Hand MC #2)

Chapter 1

Brenna's POV

Fight or flight.

That instinct is engraved in each of us and appears in the face of an emergency. When our mind shuts down, our hearts speed up, and our muscles tense, that's when our primal instincts kick in and we no longer have a choice. Fight or flight.

There are stories of grown men crying and running away when a gun is pointed at them. Maybe it's not their fault. Maybe they were just born with the flight gene.

On the flip side, there are stories of 100-pound women who lift cars off their babies or fight off rabid coyotes one-handed. They are born fighters.

This instinct is supposed to only occur in life-or-death situations, but I feel like I am living in a constant state of fight or flight. For all of my adult life, I've walked around tense, waiting for the next shoe to drop, preparing to fight.

Maybe that's just because I'm a fighter.

Maybe it's because I've always known something bad was coming.

"Stop daydreaming, Brenna! Order up." My thoughts are rudely interrupted by the line cook Harry who is annoyingly ringing the bell to notify us there is an order at the window.

"Harry, get your panties out of a twist, I'm coming," I groan as I grab the four plates of food and run off to my table. I've been a waitress at this run-down truck stop dinner almost 4 years. While this obviously isn't my dream job, it pays the bills, and I make very good tips when I flirt with the truckers.

At the end of my shift, my feet are throbbing and my skin is coated with a thick layer of grease. I know, very attractive. I want nothing more than to go home, strip down, and lay in the bath for a week, but that's not possible. I'm never off the clock.

"Mommy!" As soon as I open my front door, blonde curls come barling towards me as she jumps into my arms. She does this every day I get home from work, but somehow I am never prepared. I throw my bags onto the ground and try to grab her one-handed as I place her on my hip.

"Hi, baby," I smile once I know I'm not going to drop my child. I'm already pushing to be on the worst-mother-of-the-year list, surely dropping her would send me to the top three.

"Did you have fun at school today?" I ask as I try to pick up the contents of my bag which are now scattered on the floor.

"Mhm," she says with an exaggerated head nod. She is only three so technically she goes to daycare; however, I figured if we called it school from the start she may not hate it when it is time for kindergarten.

"Why don't you tell your mommy what else you did at school today," my brother Brody says with a knowing look as he emerges from the living room.

"What?" I ask as she buries her head in the crock of my neck and tries to hide her face. She only does this when she knows she did something bad.

"Go on, tell your mommy what you called Ms. Sue," Brody coaxes. This can't be good at all.

"Hazel, just tell me," I say, a little annoyed Brody won't just spit it out.

"I- well - I walled her a -ucking stupid bich," she mumbles into my chest. Through her baby babble, I still know exactly what she called her teacher. Yep, this puts me on the worst-mother-of-the-year list.

"Why did you do that?" I ask, trying to keep my tone even but anger clearly seeps out.

"Well, that part I can tell you," Brody finally laughs, "she tried to give Hazel a sandwich with cheese on it. Thankfully she checked before she ate it, but she wasn't too happy about it being there."