Shanice Wilson, born and raised in Harlem, moves to Atlanta for her new job. The company sets her up in a lovely cul-de-sac in an almost deserted part of the suburbs.
Nate Dylan is the president of the Dead-Eye Angels MC. He rides with his buddies...
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Bryan's POV
Song: Marilyn Manson - We Are Chaos and Sam & Dave - Hold On I'm Coming Song
20 YEARS AGO
The scent of sizzling bacon slips into my bedroom, assaulting my senses and pulling me out of my hours-long trance of staring at the ceiling fan. I can't help but think about how boring and sad my life is for a twelve-year-old. The distinct clatter of plates hitting the floors jerks me back to reality, snapping me out of my thoughts. Mom burned the bacon... again.
"You stupid woman!" Dad's bellow echoes through the house, followed by the sickening sound of a fist meeting flesh. It's the same old routine, day in and day out. The tension hangs heavy in the air, suffocating. But this time, there's an unexpected twist. Instead of the usual cries of pain and sobbing, I hear my mother's defiant roar, and the next thing I know, I'm hauling ass to the kitchen.
Mom stands tall, wielding a frying pan, while my dad cowers before her. It would be comical, given Dad's size—way too large for his own good—compared to my mom's delicate frame. Her gaze locks with mine, a blend of determination and fear. I can read the resolve in her eyes, silently conveying that she's had enough.
"Bryan, sweetheart," she calls out, her voice laced with urgency. It's the perfect distraction for Dad, who jumps to his feet with the agility of a cat and shoves my mom to the dirty linoleum floor.
"So, you think you can hit me, bitch?" Dad's meaty fist lands smack in the middle of Mom's face, the impact causing rivulets of blood to drip out of her nose. It's a horrifying sight I've witnessed far too many times, and today is the last time. Without wasting any time, I step in between them, determined not to let Dad continue beating on my poor mother. The force of his blow knocks me onto the worn white kitchen table, but it holds steady beneath my seventy-pound weight. In that moment, I realize I've inherited everything from my mother — her blond hair, blue eyes, and a body that hardly registers on the scale.
Mom crawls toward me, her eyes filled with concern, anxiously examining for bruises or signs that the brute has broken anything. "What's wrong with you, Robert?" she yells at Dad, her voice carrying the fiercest determination she can muster. I can sense the fear and frustration in her words, knowing that we are at the mercy of this behemoth.
Dad's face twists in anger, his fists tightening at his sides. "That scrawny shitstain needs to learn to stick to his weight class," he growls, his voice dripping with disgust. The venom in his tone sends shivers down my spine, but I refuse to back down.
"And what's your excuse? Beating on your defenseless wife, a woman who weighs less than a bag of flour." I swipe the blood coming out of my mouth. "Mary-Ann was right. You're nothing more than a bully!" The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I'm in a world of hurting. But I don't care. He's a bully, and someone needs to stand up against him.
