The Rampage MC #3: Atlas and Joy

Prologue (Joy): I'll Sign

"I will break these chains that bind me, happiness will find me

leave the past behind me, today my life begins." ~ Today My Life Begins, Bruno Mars

Pull it together, Joy. Pull it together. Do not lose it in front of this man. Do. Not. Lose. It!

How embarrassing. I was about to cry in front of my brand-new employer.

I'd applied for a job I'd seen advertised for a live-in cook. No other details, just a number to call. It seemed sketchy, but I couldn't afford to be particular. Having just lost my job thanks to my ex showing up and causing a scene in the diner where I was a short-order cook, I needed income, fast. I'd also lost the room I rented because he'd shown up there, too, and had terrified my landlady. 

Joel wasn't vioIent, but he was a drama king and ever since he'd been released from jail, he'd been calling and crying, begging for me to take him back. When I'd blocked his number, he'd shown up at the diner, thrown his arms around a server's ankles and refused to let go until I'd agree to take him back. The police were called, he was taken away, and my job went away, too. We replayed almost the exact same scene where I lived, except he threw himself around my landlady's ankles. When I threatened him with a restraining order, he finally got the message that we were done and tearfully left me. But the damage had been done, and she'd told me to move out immediately.

Rather than move in with my little brother, I'd called the number in a want ad. A man had answered, somehow knowing I was calling for the job. He'd asked a few short questions about my experience and had given me an address after he'd taken my name.

"Be there in fifteen minutes or forget it."

Twelve minutes later, I'd pulled up to the gates of the Rampage MC clubhouse and the guard waved me through. A man who introduced himself as Beard pointed me to the industrial kitchen and sat himself on one of the bar stools at the island.

"Make me food."

"What --"

"Anything." And I could tell from his tone that was all the direction I'd be given.

Surprisingly, this relaxed me. Pulling together a meal from nothing was my specialty. I flew into motion, raided the pantry, looked into the cupboards for spices and began chopping, slicing and sauteing, all the while trying not to notice that the kitchen was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning. 

I pulled some other side options together, and about half an hour later, I set a plate of chicken fajitas in front of him with some minute-rice and black beans for sides that I'd found and doctored with some spices. By now, a crowd had gathered around Beard and had been watching me work with interest as they drank beers and tried to guess what I was making. The ingredients were sub-par, but I made the best of what I had to work with and felt reasonably confident that he'd find the food more than acceptable.

Trying not to look anxious, I watched as he took his first bite. Then another and another until he'd devoured the first fajita.

Getting up from the bar stool, he looked at me, his face giving nothing away. "Come to my office."

My heart sunk. Had he liked it? Had it been mediocre? Had I missed something? Added too much seasoning? Not enough?

Following behind him, he seated himself at his desk and motioned for me to take a seat. He picked up a paper in front of him and read it before he turned his attention back to me.

"That was damn good food."

"Thank you."

"You didn't make excuses, didn't ask questions and worked fast. You've got a job if you want it."

I know my breath hitched audibly at the good news.

"As part of the job, you get a room at the clubhouse, a weekly paycheck, free meals and a truck for your personal use since you'll be hauling a shit ton of groceries to feed the men and club girls that live here. That's about twenty people. You'll also be in charge of the food when we have parties and barbecues. That'll be a lot more people. You get one day off a week of your choosing, preferably a Monday or Tuesday, and you'll have a food budget that you'll need to stick to. We put you on our health insurance plan after ninety days."

By this time, I was nodding like a bobble-head doll.

"Your background check showed up clean, but you got shit taste in men. You don't bring any men to the clubhouse. You'll be done by seven each night, so that's your time to do what you want, unless there's a party we need you here for."

He looked at me. "You may see shit here. You do, you keep your mouth shut. You don't keep your mouth shut, it won't end well for you."

I knew exactly what he meant.

"You sign a one-year commitment right now, I'll give you a two-thousand-dollar sign-on bonus. But I'll hold you to that contract, so don't sign it if you can't commit."

Two thousand dollars? I'd never had even a tenth of that in my life. "I'll sign."

This man had just given me the very first break I'd ever been given in my life, and I was feeling overwhelmed. Despite me not being a damn crier, despite not having shed a tear for more than ten years because no one cared if I cried and tears never changed anything, I found out the well wasn't actually dry. When I felt the long-forgotten sensation of my eyes filling with tears, it took me a minute to recognize what was happening.

"You got a problem?" he asked me, and he wasn't being unkind. I got the feeling Beard was just abrupt and harsh and not in touch with his softer feelings. Maybe he was that way naturally or maybe his job as president of the Rampage MC made him that way, but no matter the reason, he was a scary man.

"No," I sniffled. Blinking hard, trying to beat the tears back.

"You look like you got a problem."

The first tear slid down my cheek.

Beard's eyes widened, and he pointed at me.

"That right there is a problem."

"You don't understand," I said as one more tear escaped.

"Make me understand. You got one minute to make me not regret offering you this job."

How to summarize a shit life?

"Dad took off when my little brother and I were young. Mom was a serious drug addict. From the time I was ten, I had to take care of everything, earn money to put food on the table, raise my brother, dodge mom's boyfriends, cook, try to detox my mom. I've never gotten a break in my life until you offered me this job."

He sat back in his chair, his face unreadable.

"So you're going to see me working hard, doing more than you asked, going way above and beyond because I want to keep this job. I won't do anything to jeopardize it, and I promise that you won't regret hiring me." I gave a watery laugh. "And you'll never see me cry like this again. That I can also promise you."

"Make sure you don't make it a habit," was all he said before he stood up and held out a hand for me to shake. "The men and the club girls here are rough. If they smell blood in the water, they'll circle you then attack. I don't want you run off."

"No worries," I said with assurance, shaking his hand. "I can handle anything."

And right then, I was filled with hope that life, for the first time, was about to be good.

That things had finally taken a turn for the better.

At the time, I thought that was true.

But I hadn't met Kit yet.