Find My Way Home (Bulldogs MC #4)

1: Your Story Starts Here

A/N: Hey my lovelies! So, I've started on Robin's story. A lot of it will be WGA, but from her POV, especially at the start, but as it goes on it will be more about Robin and high school, friends, boys, etc. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think =) much love xx

^^ Robin ^^

I hate buses, especially this one. It stinks; like really stinks, to the point where I'm scared to breathe too deep in case I end up chucking up everywhere. On the other hand, maybe that would improve the smell. It's like a mixture of stale beer, urine and sweat. And the windows only open a crack, so it's not like I can rely on a breeze to clear the air out. Also, who invented bus seats? It's like the thinnest layer of cushion over a bumpy metal bench. I'm pretty sure a folded blanket would provide more padding. Every bump sends jolts through my body, and the backs of my thighs are almost certainly bruised where they bang against the edge. The seats are so cramped together, that even my tiny legs don't have enough room. I'm only five foot three, but my knees are digging painfully into the seat in front of me. The man who sits there is constantly pressing his back against them, and I'm pretty sure he's hinting at me to move them, but it's not like they have anywhere else to go.

He turns around to scowl at me, pointedly looking down to the back of his seat, but I simply raise an eyebrow and hold his gaze. It's not like I purposely chose to have my knees crushed, and if I could randomly magic some more legroom from somewhere, I would. He huffs and turns back around, and I roll my eyes before leaning my head against the window.

I take another look at my phone and frown when I see the battery is almost dead. I've been listening to music the whole time, but I lost my charger somewhere in Dallas, and haven't been able to find one to borrow. I've got no calls or texts from my mother, not that I expected any, but there are two messages from a couple of the guys I usually hang around with. Nothing important, just letting me know the plans for the evening. I won't be joining them; I'm not even in the same state as them anymore and haven't been for weeks. They won't care that I'm not there - our group isn't like that. It's not even like we're all really friends, we just kind of hang out. They're not the kind of people you open up to or spill all your deep dark secrets to. We just happen to be in the same place, at the same time and spend a couple of hours getting drunk and dancing in each other's company. Every day I get the same texts from them, telling me where they'll be, but not once have they asked where I am.

My phone finally dies just as we cross the state line into Arizona and I internally whine as I mourn the sounds of Bring Me The Horizon. They had been drowning out the noise of the bus and the other passengers, and now I was alone with the irritating noises. I leave the buds in my ears as a deterrent to stop people trying to make conversation with me and close my eyes as the vibrations from the window rattle my brain.

I'm jolted awake as the bus stops with a loud hiss of brakes, and rub my bleary eyes to clear my vision. Grabbing my backpack from where I had stuffed it under the seat, I swing it over my shoulder and begin squeezing my way down the aisle, heading for the door. As I'm about to descend the steps, a hand shoots out to grab my arm gently. There's no pressure in the grip but I tense anyway, turning slowly to look at the bus driver.

He smiles softly at me and lets go of my arm. "You got someone meeting you, sweetheart?" He asks, and I return his smile without even realising it. His stomach presses against the large steering wheel, and his eyes are a pale blue. He makes me think of Santa as his face crinkles with his smile.

"My dad's picking me up," I tell him, nodding towards the car park. It's a lie, of course. My dad has been dead since I was three, and I don't remember him at all. I've seen one photo of him, holding me just after I was born, but it was the only one my mother hadn't gotten rid of.