Always Crew by Tijan

BREN

I had no plan. I just knew that when Jordan pulled up outside The Twister Sister, I needed to talk to my dad. Ignoring the entire row of Harleys backed up and parked in front of the door, I headed inside. A few bikers were at the door. I recognized the cut and emblem of the Red Demons. Two had the word ‘prospect’ across the back of their cut. All of them stopped, skimming me over, but I walked past.

They didn’t stop me, or Cross and Jordan.

One of the guys was pulling out a phone just as I stepped inside and waited for my eyes to adjust.

The inside was a stark contrast from the sunny outside.

The music in the background was at a soft lull. It wasn’t overbearing, and neither was the smoke. The smell of stale booze lined with a faint trace of sweat and dust. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed different groups inside. A few pool tables were smack in the middle of the room, with different bar counters placed throughout the bar. A large main bar ran the length of the back end of the room. High-top tables and lower tables were placed all over. Some dartboards were on the far side of the room, alongside the jukebox. A stage was in the corner, running the length of a wall. The hallway to the bathroom was just beyond where the stage was set up. An open floor area was in front of the stage.

A few guys were playing pool, and all paused to stare at us.

A group of people were bellied up at the bar, sitting and talking with the staff. Some waitstaff were handing out drinks. There were maybe twenty people inside, maybe a few more. For the large room, it didn’t seem like that many.

I heard movement behind me, a page being turned, and I looked.

My dad was sitting at a high-top table in the corner. He was alone. His arm was bandaged, and some of the papers from earlier were all spread out in front of him. A beer bottle was next to him, but unopened, and there was a coffee mug sitting beside it.

“Can I help you folks?” A waitress was heading for my dad, a coffee pot in hand. She paused, her black hair in two thick pigtails resting just beyond her shoulder. She had a white shirt tied in a knot underneath her rib cage, as well as tight purple shorts that just covered the tops of her thighs. Her makeup was red, rosy, and cheery. All three words came to mind. She looked like a ’50s pin-up girl, and her eyes were warm. Her smile was welcoming.

“Bren.”

“Aww, Pops. This your daughter?” The waitress moved around me, heading over to fill up my dad’s mug without him asking.

He was watching me, a lot more cautious than this morning. “Yeah. This is my daughter. Bren.” He had a pen in his hand, and with it he gestured to Cross and Jordan behind me. “And a few of her friends.”

The waitress’ smile just got warmer, but she barely took in the guys. Her hand went to her hip, the other still holding the coffee pot. “Well, there you go. Pops here is family, so you know what that means, right?”

I didn’t respond.

My dad coughed to clear his throat, and he stood from his stool. He moved around the waitress, patting her on the hip. “How about we get an order of some burgers and chicken baskets? My daughter is underage, her friends, too, so we’ll just do soda.”

“Gotcha.” She winked at me, moving past us. “You guys get ready for some Twister Sister food, and you’ll never eat at another place again. Montreal’s won awards for his creations at the grill.”

“Thank you, darlin’.”

She winked at ‘Pops’ before she left.

Jordan moved closer, saying under his breath, “What’s her name?”

I elbowed him in the stomach.

He harrumphed, cradling his stomach and shooting me a look.

I ignored him, standing at the end of my dad’s table until he took a silent breath. He nodded to the empty stools on the other side. “Thinking you should claim one of those, hmm? Maybe your boys can take a walk.”

“Or play a game of pool.” Jordan was already spying the last open table.

The back of Cross’ hand grazed mine. “You okay here?”

I nodded, grazing mine against his arm in response. “I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, you’ll come running.”

A crooked grin was my response.

Jordan had started for the table, and he picked up a pool stick, holding it over his head. “You break, buddy.” He started pulling the balls out from the dispenser. “Have I told you how seriously phenomenal I am at pool?”

I couldn’t hear Cross’ response.

“They ain’t stupid, are they?”

I turned back, taking the inside stool across from my dad. It gave us enough space, and I shifted so my back was to the wall. I was facing most of the room, my feet resting on the stool’s footrest beside me. “Why do you ask that?”

He dipped his head, his gaze somewhere. “Because they’re about to get hustled.”

I looked over at them.

Three of the guys playing pool at the neighbor table were moving in.

Jordan started to converse with them, but Cross looked back at me. He held his hand in a small wave, motioning for me to stay where I was.

“You forgot how rough Roussou is? You get dementia in prison?” I flashed him my teeth, knowing it wasn’t a smile. “Maybe you were actually in there longer than you thought.”

He was reaching for his coffee but paused. A soft laugh came out as he finished his grip and lifted the mug to his lips. “Right.” He took a sip, putting it back down. “But this ain’t Roussou. These guys follow a different set of rules than your crew.” He gave me a steadying look. “You’re out of your depths in this world, and for once, I’m eternally grateful. You got a foot in the good world, and by good, I mean at college and find a job that’s not bounty hunting. You find your niche there, embrace it, and you stay out of this world. I don’t want you here.”

I swallowed a whole fucking knot, because damn, that stung.

“You get all that because I stabbed you?”

He snorted a laugh. “I got all that because you walked in here with your boys, without a trace of fear on your face.” He scowled. “I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. This world, I do not want you in it.”

“So you said.”

“I’ll say it again,” he bit those words out, roughly. He pounded a fist down on the table. “Not my girl. Not my daughter. No. Your brother did a horrible job raising you—”

I hopped down, shoving back the stool. It crashed into something behind me. I didn’t care.

This wasn’t a quick reaction.

This had been building from years of listening to him and Channing fight, years of watching him walk out that door after Mom died, years of hearing him coming back drunk and stumbling. Years.

And I snapped, again, because apparently I needed to.

I let loose and this time, it felt damn good. This time, I knew exactly what I was saying. “Fuck you.”

He went still, his eyes narrowing. “What’d you say?”

I raised my voice. “Fuck. You.”

His eyes got big, showing off the whites, and his cheeks filled out, showing off more redness. I noticed then that he had a slight mustache growing, and he wasn’t keeping it combed. It was all mangled, the strands pointing in every which way.

“Excuse yourself. Right now.”

I was experiencing whiplash. The room was spinning around me.

Who did he think he was?

No.

This, this was what I came to tell him. He was laying it out for me, all nice and to the point, so here goes my turn.

A sad laugh came from me. He heard it, growing even more still.

I shook my head, just barely. “You got out of prison for killing someone, and you came right to my door. You want to know what Channing did, right? He shooed you away. He got between us, and he kept you away because of this.” I skimmed him up and down, my lip curling up in disdain. “You don’t have a right to tell me to ‘excuse myself.’ You don’t have a right to judge Channing on taking care of me. He was there. You weren’t. You want to know what you left behind? A goddamn mess. That was me. I went to jail, Pops.”

He winced, jerking backwards.

“I got dark.”

“…I thought we were going to lose you one day.”

I winced, swallowing that memory. “I got seriously dark, Dad.”

The firefly.

I felt her rising.

“I wanted to die.”

He was paling. I kept on.

“I stabbed my principal. He didn’t take to it. I got jail, counseling, parole, community service. All of it. And it could’ve been worse. Wanna know why it wasn’t? Because of Channing. Want to know the type of parenting you would’ve done? Wait. That’s right, you can’t. You weren’t there.”

I was getting worked up now, on a roll.

My voice rose.

“Always fucking fighting with Channing. I lost my brother for years because of you. He left because of you. You did that. You. Your fucking drinking. And she died! Mom died, and where were you?! Gone! Drunk! I had no parent. None. My only one died, and I still go and look for her. Same fucking house, Dad. But she ain’t there. She’s not even a ghost. She’s just gone, and you get out because of something I helped set in motion. That crooked cop, people found him out because of me, because of my crew. We were a part of that, so where’s your gratitude? You ungrateful dick.” I backed up.

The entire bar was silent behind me.

I so didn’t care.

I was still going, and I raised my hand in the air. “The fact is that I didn’t kill that guy. You did. I thought it was my fault. I thought you did what I couldn’t do, and you did it for me. That wasn’t the truth. All this guilt, all this debt that I didn’t even know was in me, buried deep—that’s yours. Not mine. Don’t you fucking dare tell me to ‘excuse myself’. You don’t want me in this life?” I threw both my arms out. “When the fuck did I ASK TO BE?!”

Panting.

Breathless.

My lungs were shrinking.

But I had more, so much more. It didn’t register that my dad started looking behind me, or that he straightened away from his table, or that he had a whole different sort of look on his face. Nope. None of that registered until it was too late.

All I was registering was that I needed to end this. “Stay the fuck away from me. Stay the fuck away from my friends. You don’t know who your daughter is anymore, and you clearly don’t give a fuck about getting to know her, so do her and yourself a favor. Stay. The fuck. Away!” I was thrusting my finger in the air, punching it with each word. “And I’ll do whatever fucking job I want to do. Holy shit! I want to throw my knife at you.” I tore myself away, my chest rising rapidly, and I blinked away a couple tears.

They weren’t from sadness. They were from frustration because I really wanted to hurt him again, so bad.

Then I saw the guys who had come inside.

Then I saw how everyone else was watching the guys who had come inside.

Then I recognized one of them.

Maxwell Raith.

The president of the Red Demons MC was staring smack-dab at me.