In My Stepbrother’s Grasp
by
Tara Lynn
©2015
Tara Lynn
All rights reserved.
As soon as I turned 18, I knew it was time I hightailed it out of Tarmont. Truthfully, I couldn’t tell you what kept me in that stain of a town for that long. I suppose it seemed I needed to be a legal adult before making the decision to be independent. Though, if independence was the definition of growing up, then Tarmont was never-never land. There were no jobs and barely any business. Half the town seemed to hang around on their porch drinking beer or moonshine from dusk till dawn. Anyone with any sense or a lick of ambition got the hell out.
I suppose you could say my daddy had done that, though he’d exited in a coffin. When I was nine, he’d gotten caught in the crossfire of a shootout between the Grim Flyers and some other biker gang. The Flyers were our resident outlaws. If you weren’t living on welfare, you likely had something business with the Flyers one way or another. Even the police were in their pocket. Which meant that the death of my dad went unanswered.
Heck, maybe disappointment is the step to adulthood, in which case, I’d grown up nine years ago.
Mom had basically given up after that, which I couldn’t blame her for. The stuff that she did after that? Oh hell ya, I held that against her. She’d hooked up with biker after biker, some messed up Stockholm Syndrome nonsense. These were the guys who’d killed my dad, and she was letting them in her bedroom? I barely even met her eyes after that, and she didn’t try to get me to listen to her. What advice could she possibly have to offer me?
I percolated like a coffee pot for years, but it all came to a head one night a couple years ago when she came home, found me doing homework in the kitchen table and announced she’d gotten engaged.
“To who?” I asked, just to be polite.
“Marshall Winters.”
I snapped up to her. She had on a mini skirt shorter than one even I would wear, and a wrinkled black blouse top. Her hand jutted out at me, and I saw a thick clear rock sparkling off her ring finger.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’re not lying.”
“Course I’m not, silly.” She giggled, already drunk for the night. “Club president’s old lady. That’s gonna be a fine place for me to sit.”
She stood there dumbly waiting for me to congratulate her. I just pressed myself deeper into my homework, willing myself to hold my tongue. Just two more years, I knew even back then. Two more years and I’m out of this.
“Well?” she asked, slurring even that little word.
I shook my head.
She grabbed my ponytail and yanked it down. I yelped out into her worn, Botoxed face.
“Bitch, you look up when your momma’s talking,” she said.
“I don’t have a mom,” I gritted back. The pain was horrible, but I glowered at her without fear.
She let go and clipped off somewhere.
I rubbed my sore scalp and wiped away the tears. I wasn’t crying for her or for me; it was just involuntary. I didn’t see how things could get any worse with a ring on her finger.
I didn’t know much about Marshall Winters, the club president. I did, however, know his son Lucas all too well. He was a year ahead of me in school, or at least he was when he bothered to attend. The teachers passed him on through the grades, not wanting to cross his father. The only times I ever saw him were in the school parking lot, perched on one of those bikes eating burgers from outside and chatting with a couple other boys who were already prospects for the Flyers. Lucas wouldn’t have to go through that. He would dive straight in whenever he felt ready.
I studied him after mom’s announcement, to see the guy
by
Tara Lynn
©2015
Tara Lynn
All rights reserved.
As soon as I turned 18, I knew it was time I hightailed it out of Tarmont. Truthfully, I couldn’t tell you what kept me in that stain of a town for that long. I suppose it seemed I needed to be a legal adult before making the decision to be independent. Though, if independence was the definition of growing up, then Tarmont was never-never land. There were no jobs and barely any business. Half the town seemed to hang around on their porch drinking beer or moonshine from dusk till dawn. Anyone with any sense or a lick of ambition got the hell out.
I suppose you could say my daddy had done that, though he’d exited in a coffin. When I was nine, he’d gotten caught in the crossfire of a shootout between the Grim Flyers and some other biker gang. The Flyers were our resident outlaws. If you weren’t living on welfare, you likely had something business with the Flyers one way or another. Even the police were in their pocket. Which meant that the death of my dad went unanswered.
Heck, maybe disappointment is the step to adulthood, in which case, I’d grown up nine years ago.
Mom had basically given up after that, which I couldn’t blame her for. The stuff that she did after that? Oh hell ya, I held that against her. She’d hooked up with biker after biker, some messed up Stockholm Syndrome nonsense. These were the guys who’d killed my dad, and she was letting them in her bedroom? I barely even met her eyes after that, and she didn’t try to get me to listen to her. What advice could she possibly have to offer me?
I percolated like a coffee pot for years, but it all came to a head one night a couple years ago when she came home, found me doing homework in the kitchen table and announced she’d gotten engaged.
“To who?” I asked, just to be polite.
“Marshall Winters.”
I snapped up to her. She had on a mini skirt shorter than one even I would wear, and a wrinkled black blouse top. Her hand jutted out at me, and I saw a thick clear rock sparkling off her ring finger.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’re not lying.”
“Course I’m not, silly.” She giggled, already drunk for the night. “Club president’s old lady. That’s gonna be a fine place for me to sit.”
She stood there dumbly waiting for me to congratulate her. I just pressed myself deeper into my homework, willing myself to hold my tongue. Just two more years, I knew even back then. Two more years and I’m out of this.
“Well?” she asked, slurring even that little word.
I shook my head.
She grabbed my ponytail and yanked it down. I yelped out into her worn, Botoxed face.
“Bitch, you look up when your momma’s talking,” she said.
“I don’t have a mom,” I gritted back. The pain was horrible, but I glowered at her without fear.
She let go and clipped off somewhere.
I rubbed my sore scalp and wiped away the tears. I wasn’t crying for her or for me; it was just involuntary. I didn’t see how things could get any worse with a ring on her finger.
I didn’t know much about Marshall Winters, the club president. I did, however, know his son Lucas all too well. He was a year ahead of me in school, or at least he was when he bothered to attend. The teachers passed him on through the grades, not wanting to cross his father. The only times I ever saw him were in the school parking lot, perched on one of those bikes eating burgers from outside and chatting with a couple other boys who were already prospects for the Flyers. Lucas wouldn’t have to go through that. He would dive straight in whenever he felt ready.
I studied him after mom’s announcement, to see the guy
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