Craving My Forbidden Biker Stepbrothers

Wind blew the dead leaves on the ground up, twirling them in the air, the empty parking lot mimicking my heart as I sat inside my battered, hand-me-down car I had gotten from the only family I had ever known, my eyes closed. She was truly gone. The gray hoodie I had favoured since I was sixteen had seen the better part of life, with stains of food and blood on it, but it still protected me from the harsh rain a bit, even though I sat wet in my car, drenching the seat. Too bad it couldn't protect me from the pain I felt inside. My mother was next to me, strapped tightly against the passenger's seat even as I pulled out the letter she wrote to me from my pockets, my hands trembling. I knew it had nothing to do with the cold. The urn I had picked out for her was simple, a black design with her favourite flowers, hibiscus tracing across it. I was going mad. I pulled out the letter, the smell of staleness and mold hitting me almost immediately, yet the handwriting and the words were unaffected by my mother's careless way of living. ‘Never trust the Saints you find at the Church.’ My eyes scanned the paper quickly, ingesting the words that may as well be all I had thought about since my mother died and I found this behind the floorboard. She had addressed it to me, and the date was clear. Seven years ago, she wanted to tell me the truth, if I could believe it. Then her hand tremors started, and she went back to doing drugs. I glanced at the urn for the umpteenth time, the sound of my screams echoing in my head when I found her dead on the couch, a needle dangling from her forearm. The only person that could confirm this to me, was dead, yet it did not stop me from driving through the pouring rain and staying inside my car in front of the large cathedral she had described to me. The one she said my father owned. How did I grow up fighting bullies, facing the worst of the world, struggling to put food on the table for myself and a mother that was a drug addict and suddenly, I had a father and he was just not any ordinary man. No, according to my mother's letter, my father was Victor Creed. A tingle ran down my spine. Even just thinking about it, being related or known by one of the most feared men ever, a man whose name could cause shutdowns for weeks, that his presence made even the toughest gangsters I know to quake in their boots in fear was my father. He owned the entire city, if not the entire country, everyone swore their loyalty to him and he was so filthy rich, he could have turned my life around with a single snap of his fingers. Yet, my mother had kept that away from me for so long. What if she lied? What if she wrote this letter and she was still dealing secretly? Why did my mum die now? And this f*****g rain. My teeth grind against each other, the letter crumpling in my hands. I could have had a normal life, not a better one if this was true. Did he know he had a daughter? That my mother was dead? We're they in love? Did he try to find us? I can't go back to the apartment. This month has been a struggle for me to pay the rent and just as I was sobbing over my mum's dead body, the landlord walked over to us. “Your rent is due, Carmela,” he hissed, ignoring the cold body next to me. “Seventy two hours. That's what I'm giving you, if not, get out.” I placed the letter back into the envelope, my head resting against the backrest of my seat. This was my only choice, my only hope. If there was even, even a little iota of truth to my mother's claims, I had to find out. That is, if I don't get killed for lying to him. She told me my father died at war, that he was a deployed soldier, one that had never come back to her. Just how many secrets has she hidden from me? I wiped the tears I had not realized were in my cheeks, my mind made up. “I just need answers,” I mutter, pushing my groaning door open. The rain seemed to stop as I stepped out, but it did not matter. My phone rang. “Hello?” “Listen to me you little swine,” the man on the other line screams. I flinched a bit, but I still kept the phone at my ear, my boss screaming slurs at me. “I swear to Christ, if you are not here this instant, that is it. I do not want to see your ugly face here, okay?” He hung up before I could reply, the line clicking in my ear. The cracked screen of my phone angers me even more and I almost hurl it across the lot. No, Carmela..restrain yourself. He was the only bastard willing to hire me without a GED. I had to put up with hours of being touched, kissed and practically manhandled without my permission all for a weekly paycheck that was not enough to pay my bills. The big iron gates that seemed to tower to the sky slid open easily and a sleek BMW drove out. Before I could think, I ran towards it, my hands grabbing the bar even as the car splashed water across my frame as it drove by. My heart is racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins and I almost swoon, my stomach empty yet, I grabbed the bars like it was my only lifeline. I heard the loud crunching of rocks against boots and soon felt someone stand over me. A strong arm grabs me, pulling me backwards a bit. “Are you lost?” I shook my head. “No,” I groaned, glancing up. He was tall, very large and he wore a blue uniform with something that looked similar to a gun peeking from his waist band. There's a tag on his chest. Brad. “You are not?” He asked, incredulity filling his words. “Who are you here to meet then?” I stood straighter and stared up into his face. “My father.” Anger flashes across Brad’s face but he conceals it well. “Your father?” I nod, not breaking eye contact with him. He rubbed his chin for a while, looking up and down my body and then his lips curved a bit. “Okay, I'll bite. Your father lives here.” “Yes,” I replied, channeling more courage from all the practice I had dealing with customers at the diners I had to work at as a child. “My father is in there.” “Okay who is he so maybe I could help you calm him? One of the bikers,” he pointed. I followed his gaze to where a group of bikes were parked. “Or is he the gardener.” “No,” I cleared my throat, rain water dripping down my face. “I believe he owns this place.” “Owns here?” “Yes,” I said back, turning to Brad. “My father is Victor Creed.” The air grew still. Brad says nothing and for a minute, I thought he did not hear me. The quiet is broken by loud laughter. I turned around in shock, meeting the gaze of several men, covered in tattoos and visible scars, their gaze mocking as I slowly realized I was the punchline of their joke. I turned back to Brad. “Victor Creed is your father?” I bobbed my head. “Yes!” my heart was thudding in my chest and all I wanted to do was run, but god forbid I showed weakness in front of these punks. “He is my father, and I need to see him now.”