My New Life

• • • Layla’s POV * * *

We just moved into a new house across the street from the Wolf MC clubhouse in Sapulpa, Oklahoma. I didn’t want to move — nobody asked my opinion, though. It’s easier to go along with it, let them think I’m just some dumb kid who doesn’t care.

My mom’s got a new boyfriend now, and he seems decent enough, I guess. I don’t bother interacting with him much; I keep my distance, like always.

Two years ago, my dad died protecting the wife of Spirit MC’s president during a botched hit by a rival club. He was standing right beside me and my godmother when it happened, shielding us with his body. Two bullets hit him in the back, and he was gone.

I’m not angry that he saved her — she’s my godmother, and losing her would’ve gutted me. But I miss him every day. That doesn’t mean I’d trade someone else’s life to have him back. Life doesn’t work that way.

I pull up to the house on my bike, the engine’s low growl cutting through the quiet street. The house is a three-story fixer-upper with peeling white paint and faded blue trim. Of course, Mom picked a place that needs work. It could be pretty once it’s fixed up, but I’m not lifting a finger to help. I’ve got my own plans and only a few weeks to get them done.

The basement apartment is mine — my own space, separate from the chaos of the main house where my three younger brothers are staying with Mom and her boyfriend. I have a bigger brother, Ghost, but Dad sent him away when I was little, for reasons no one’s ever explained.

We were close when Dad was alive, but now? I barely hear from him.

I take a deep breath, still straddling my bike, and glance across the street. The Wolf MC’s clubhouse looms there, a sprawling log cabin that looks like it was once a hotel, converted into their gritty headquarters. Why anyone thought a nice hotel belonged in a nowhere town like Sapulpa is beyond me. This place is a hole-in-the-wall, not some tourist destination.

The MC guys are already staring, their eyes tracking me from the porch. I keep my helmet on, the word “Ice” scrawled in deep purple and silver catching the sunlight. I got the nickname because my hair has always been a white silver color, plus dealing with the 4 of them has made me cold and sarcastic. I don’t like most people. Hell, you can’t even trust your own mom.

I’m dressed in blue jeans, a black tank top, my leather jacket, and boots, ready for whatever this day throws at me. My 9mm is tucked into the holster inside my jacket, and I’ve got knives stashed in a few places. Drunk bikers think they can grab whoever they want and get away with it — not with me. I’ve learned to protect myself the hard way.

“Layla, your stuff’s already in your apartment downstairs,” Mom says, not even glancing up from whatever she’s unpacking.

“Okay, thanks,” I reply, forcing politeness. “You guys need any help?” I don’t want to help, but I ask because it’s expected, not because I care.

“No, we’ve got it handled,” she says, dismissing me.

I knew she’d say that. She doesn’t like me much — I’m the oldest of her four kids, and she’s always babied the younger three: Travis and Thomas, the 16-year-old twins, and Sean, who’s 15. They’re spoiled rotten, always have been. Ghost, my oldest brother as mentioned, is 10 years older than me and off in the military somewhere.

Mom wasn’t around much when I was younger. She’d disappear for months, then show up out of nowhere with a kid or two, claiming they were Dad’s. A year after the twins, she had Sean. It’s like she’d vanish for their pregnancies, only to return once the babies were born, dumping them into our lives like nothing happened.

I pull off my helmet as we talk, letting my silver hair spill out. Across the street, one of the MC guys mutters, “What the fuck, that’s a girl.” Idiots. Like my figure didn’t give it away. Another voice, rougher, adds, “She’s gonna be trouble. Better stay away.”

My family doesn’t bother defending me. They never do. Since Dad died, I’ve had to fend for myself. To them, I’m some distant cousin they tolerate, not a sister or a daughter. I turn to see who’s talking and spot the Wolf MC president chatting with Mom’s new boyfriend. Even he doesn’t say a word in my defense. God only knows what lies Mom’s fed him about me.

Strike one, I think, glaring at them before heading to the side of the house and down the stairs to my apartment.

The basement door is flimsy, a cheap piece of wood I’ll have to replace once I get access to the money Dad left me. The apartment itself isn’t bad, though. It’s not some dank, moldy basement — there are large windows, about three feet by five, letting in plenty of light. I can hang my curtains and make it my own. I step into the living room and start opening the windows facing the street, the faint hum of voices from the clubhouse drifting in.

The president’s talking to my brothers now, something about prospecting for the MC. Good for them. I don’t care if they see me moving around; I haven’t found my curtains yet, and I’m not stopping to worry about it.

I’ve already unpacked the kitchen and half my bedroom. Four boxes sit in the corner: one labeled “living room,” one “bathroom,” and two marked “art room.” I open the living room box and find my curtains, the clock on the wall reading just past noon. Plenty of time to hit the store and grab some food before it gets late.

I decided to take a break and do just that. Grabbing my keys, I headed out to my Harley, its chrome gleaming under the midday sun. The bike roared to life beneath me. As I cruised through the small-town streets of Sapulpa, the wind whipping past my leather jacket, I let my mind wander. The town was as dull as I’d expected — faded storefronts, a couple of diners, and not much else.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on the sidewalk. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a graying beard and a worn leather vest.

Uncle Rick? I shook my head, my silver hair catching in the breeze. No way. I hadn’t seen him since I was eight, back when Dad sent Ghost away for reasons no one ever explained. I must be seeing things, projecting ghosts from a past I barely remember.

I pushed the thought aside and kept riding until I hit the Walmart parking lot, the asphalt shimmering in the Oklahoma heat. I pulled into a spot near the entrance, kicking down the stand and cutting the engine. Just as I swung my leg off the bike, a beat-up black pickup truck rolled in behind me, its tires crunching on loose gravel.

My stomach twisted as I recognized the dented fender and the faded Spirit MC sticker on the tailgate. It was Uncle Rick’s truck. Guess I wasn’t imagining things after all.

I pulled off my helmet, letting my hair spill over my shoulders, and watched as Uncle Rick climbed out of the truck. He looked older than I remembered, but his presence still carried that quiet strength I’d clung to as a kid. Before I could process what was happening, he was striding toward me, his boots scuffing the pavement.

“Uncle Rick?” I said. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with us.”

His face softened, but there was a weight in his eyes, something heavy and unspoken. “That’s not true, princess,” he said. He reached into the truck and pulled out a sleek black laptop and a cheap burner phone, holding them out to me. “I’ve got a file for you to read. It’s on this laptop — locked tight, so no one else can get into it. And take this phone. Don’t let your mom see it, Layla. She wasn’t supposed to take you kids, and this laptop will explain why. I love you, you hear me? Always have. I’m gonna text you every day to check in, and you call me whenever you need me. If you’re in trouble, send the code word ‘unicorn,’ and I’ll find you, no matter where you are.”

He tells me as I look at him confused. My fingers closed around the laptop and phone. “I love you too, Uncle,” I managed. “I’ll check in, and I’ll let you know if I’m in trouble.”

“I love you too uncle. I will check in and let you know if I am in trouble.” He gave me a hug then left. Well that was short guess he is busy.

With that, he climbed back into his truck and peeled out.

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