Dangerous Love. The Riders Motorcycle Club. Book One.

Chapter Six - Part One.

Chapter Six - Part One.

“So, what are you going to do with your newfound freedom?” Amy asks me as she lies prone on the bed, sipping from her long glass of vodka and Coke, before digging into the Cajun chicken pasta I ordered for us from room service, which is laid out before her.

My cousin had offered to pay for the food, but I insisted that it go on my tab. After all, it is the least I can do for my cousin, after she dropped everything to hang out with me. Plus, she must have spent a small fortune on drinks for me last night.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, because I honestly don’t have a clue.

“Will you still go to University?” she asks, as I shake my head.

“No. I am not cut out for further education,” I answer, as she passes a slice of garlic bread that we are sharing, whilst giving me a puzzled look.

“I thought you passed all your exams and were going to some fancy business university,” she said, looking at me quizzically. Yeah, everyone thinks that, because that is what my mother was telling them. Showing off, when truly, there was nothing to brag about.

I let out a small scoff, shaking my head.

“I got D’s and E’s, and to get into any uni would require me to go through clearing. I know my mother made out I was the brain of Britain, but honestly, I am far from it. I narrowly passed my GCSE English and Maths, only because of the extra tuition she paid for. I got mostly C’s and D’s in those exams. My only A was in Art, but I was not allowed to study that at A-level, even though I really wanted to. It was, and I quote, ‘beneath me’,” I inform her, giggling at her shocked expression.

“Even with the extra tuition, my spelling and grammar are so bad that even Grammarly cannot make head nor tail of what I am attempting to write sometimes. It gives me options, and I have no clue if it is the correct word I am spelling. Half the time, it isn’t,” I say, taking another sip of my own Vodka and Coke, giving in to Amy, when my cousin seriously informed me that I only lived once and to have some fun for a few days. I guessed that she had a point, so yeah, the alcohol has loosened my tongue.

“s**t, she was that obsessed with you being perfect; she lied,” Amy said, shaking her head in dismay.

“I am not perfect. I never wanted to be. But my life was made horrific if I didn’t pretend like I was,” I say, the flood gates opening about how I really feel about my upbringing. The constant pressure, and how I had felt suffocated, not accepted for who I was.

“I do not think my parents even loved me. They loved the version of me who they presented to the world, but not me. The truth is, I don’t even know who I am myself,” I add, my hands trembling as I feel a wave of emotion wash over me, taking me by surprise.

“f**k! That must be awful,” Amy. said, placing her vodka down onto the bedside table, and wrapping her arms around me, hugging me with such affection the damn of tears that I am holding back almost break free. They don’t, because ‘ladies do not cry in public’, and I ‘don’t want to make an exhibition of myself’

“Well f**k them. This next couple of days we are going to find out just who you are, and what you want to do with YOUR life,” my cousin declares, as I nod my head, wiping away the small tear that managed to escape and cling to my lashes, dropping onto my cheek.

“What do you want to do with your life?” she asks again, and I shrug my shoulders, I honestly don’t know, my life has always been one of following my parents’ path.

Amy. see’s my struggle and offer’s me an encouraging smile.

“Let’s play pretend. What would you do if you could do anything in the world, without needing permission? It can be anything at all from being a bog washer, a famous singer,” I cannot help but laugh at that, Taylor Swift, I am not. I cannot hold a tune to save my life.

“ A sports superstar, even an only fan’s model, no judgement from me,” My cousin asks me again with a wink, grinning at me. I furrow my brow, because I really don’t know. Plus, I could hardly become an Only Fan’s model, I mean, don’t you need experience in the bedroom for that! There is one thing though, the thing I have always wished I could do, but put the idea to the back of my mind, because it was not something which would be ‘approved’.

“I guess I would like to draw. I love drawing, but it isn’t something I could make a career out of,” I sigh, repeating the argument my mother and father had levelled at me when I informed them I wished to take the subject as one of my A ‘Levels.

“Yes, it is. That is just your mother speaking. I bet there are loads of options. I mean, art gallery person who purchases the weird as f**k s**t, they sell. What is the name again?” she asks.

“Curator,” I grin at her as she nods her head at me.

“That’s it, curator,” Amy. giggles.

“Graffiti artist. I mean look at Banksy, he earns a f*****g fortune,” she adds. As I laugh, shaking my head at her.

“Can you imagine my mother’s face if I took to spray painting walls for a living,” I grin at the absurdity of that suggestion.

“Yeah, all the more reason to do it,” Amy. laughed, as I bob my head in agreement with that statement. I mean, I wouldn’t, but it is tempting, because her meltdown would be nuclear.

“You could even get a YouTube channel, or p*****n do some lessons, and sell commissions there, plus it is decent money if you get a good following,” she knowledgably said, nodding her own head at her suggestion.

“What, like an Art influencer?” I giggle, because don’t you need a large social media following for that?

“Or become a traditional art teacher,” she added, getting out as many art careers as possible to prove her point. But to teach would require me to go to university, and that is the only thing I am certain of, I am NOT going. I have reached the pinnacle of my academic prowess. In fact. I think I have exceeded my talents. Another three or four years of putting myself through all the stress again, is terrifying, and probably pointless, because even if I did pass, I would get the lowest grade. My mind wandered to the amazing artwork in the window of the tattoo studio. They really were inspiring me to draw more.

“Or a tattoo artist,” I add, as Amy looks at me wide eyed.

“Really?” she asks.

“Yeah, I mean that place I went to the other night, whoever does the artwork is amazing,” I said, my mind wandering to the hot artist who refused to ink my virgin skin.

“But. I am not that good,” I say.

“Have you got anything with you?” Amy. asks, as I shrug, not wanting to show her my sketchbook which I packed.

“You have. Can I see. PLEEAASSSEE!” she says, looking at me with her big bright blue puppy dog eyes.

“They are not very good,” I protest, as she raises her eyebrow at me.

“If you got an A at GCSE they are not bad either,” my cousin comments.

I don’t know if it is this really large vodka drink I have consumed, or because finally I have someone who wants to see my work other than my old art teacher, but I head to my case, open it up, and pull out my latest sketch book, and hand it to her.

She flicks through the pages, past the landscapes, clearly, they are not her type of thing, to be honest, I only did them because I wanted to something my mother would like, back when I was attempting to have her allow me to take the subject at A ‘level. I had harboured a hope that she would enjoy my work. She never did though.

Amy continues to flick over the pages, but then her fingers halt, as she stares at something.

“You drew this?” she asks, lifting up the sketch pad, the page open at the butterfly I began working on, inspired by the art at the tattoo shop.

I nod my head slowly.

“Wow, this is amazing,” she states, as I find myself blushing at the compliment.

“It isn’t finished yet,” I tell her.

“I know, but it would make the perfect tattoo. In fact, if you finish it, and decide to ink people for a living, I want that on my foot, with some added vines that wind up my leg,” she states.

I am sure that is the alcohol talking, but I take the compliment.

“I think my mother would prefer me to be a graffiti artist than a tattooist,” I grin at her as Amy shrugs.

“f**k Aunty Jayne. This is your life. Not hers. She forgets she was raised in a council house, without a pot to piss in, just like my mother, till she met your dad. As my mother says when we talk about her, ‘put a beggar on horseback and they will ride to hell,” Amy. states.

A sting of something I cannot put my finger on pierces my heart. Yes, I know my cousin is correct in her assessment, but to know that everyone is gossiping about my mother’s pride and behaviour still hurts. After all, for all her faults, you only get one mother; she could be worse. I mean, she never hit me or anything. Sometimes I wished she would have, rather than the emotional torment she put me through, threatening to kill herself if I didn’t behave in a manner she believed I should.

I blow out a breath, pushing that pain and thought out of my mind. After all, I have just been unloading my feelings on my cousin; I suppose it is natural that she and her family have their own opinions.

I take the sketchbook from my cousin, looking at the butterfly emerging out of a cocoon I was working on, with fresh eyes. Maybe it would make a decent tattoo, well, if someone with more talent than me drew it. After all, it was the one I was designing for hip, when I go back to that tattoo shop, sober, with my sketch to give the artist to improve, and ink it on me. I shut the book, and place it back in my case, returning to the bed and my drink, because that is enough thinking about my uncertain future for now. My brain cannot handle any more.