Dangerous Love. The Riders Motorcycle Club. Book One.

Prologue. See that girl sat in the corner, of the function room, under the ‘Happy Eighteenth’ banner. The one in the nice presentable pink chiffon dress, with tiny white flowers peppered around the edges. That good girl, who looks little more than a pretty wall flower, as she smiles politely, and only speaks when spoken to? That is me, Mellisa Hardwick, one year ago to this very day. The day of my 18th birthday. I was attending the family organised party, devoid of friends my own age, as they were deemed unacceptable. It was the day I would come of age, yet there I sat, in my corner spot, behaving as was expected. What was I expected to be? Perfect. Nice. Good, in every possible way, anything less was not acceptable to my parents. The pretty, acceptable dress, I did not choose. It was chosen for me. The sensible shoes, again, presentable, nice, if you like, but not my choice. My long chestnut brown hair scooped back in a respectable knot at the nape of my neck, not a strand out of place. Again, the style that was deemed suitable, and not my preferred choice. You see, I didn’t get a choice, not on how I was to be presented to the world, nor on how to live my life. I was the perfect child, of a wealthy family. To the outside world, I had everything. But that was an illusion. Fine respectable clothing, money to burn meant nothing to me, because I was not allowed to be free, to make a mistake. I was allegedly the prettiest girl in the family. My parent’s words, not mine. I was the object of scorn from my peers, who sneered and mocked me behind my back. But I knew what they said, when they thought I was out of ear shot. How I was too perfect, and that one day I would fall from my pedestal, I had been placed on. Some even wished that when I did, I would break my neck. I look like I have it all, the looks, the money, and the adoring parents, who never miss an opportunity to tell the world of my perfection. Any perceived imperfections were quickly brushed under the carpet, for the world not to know my flaws, keeping the illusion of my perfect existence firmly in place. Even in that moment, my mother was saying how I passed all my final exams. What she didn’t mention was that I barely scraped through them. Yes, I passed, but not with good grades. I was not academically minded, I never was, no matter how hard I tried. Nor how much my parents spun the narrative, to cover up the sin of my lack of academic prowess. I had glanced over at the dance floor that day, seeing my cousins all dancing, carefree, laughing and joking, whilst other family members flitted from table to table, to talk of inconsequential things. Yet as they approached our table, to congratulate me on becoming a woman, my dear mother did not miss the opportunity to brag about my perfections once more. False smiles came my way, laced with jealousy and hatred. I do not blame them. I also hated the version of myself that was painted to the world around me. I had yearned to be free from my gilded cage. To have the confidence to fly, to make my mistakes, to do something for me, to rebel. For once not be the perfect angel. Because they belong in heaven, and I am here on earth, unable to escape the perfect world I resided in. But any step off the path chosen for me, lead to an hysterical outburst from my mother, the disappointment etched into her features, as she blamed herself for my perceived abhorrent behaviour. She would question the heavens above what she had done to deserve the humiliation of having a daughter who did not live up to the perfection she had presented to the world. So, I had remained under the control of my parents, not wanting to disappoint them. I desperately wanted to smash the door of my cage and fly free, and dare to be myself, but one look on the face of my disapproving mother, and I bid a hasty retreat, back to my perfect persona. I was a people pleaser, and terrified to upset my parents, especially my mother, who would threaten to end her existence if I didn’t adhere to her wishes. However, something changed inside me that day. The need to be free, almost overwhelming, with every alcoholic drink, from the one set of cousins who recognised my fight. The need to rebel against the persona of perfection, which I held deep inside, surfaced, as fledgling confidence, had grown with every drink I took. I had wanted, no, needed to do something rebellious. Something just for me, that nobody would know about, and would be my secret to hold. The tipsy decision I made that day changed the course of my life forever. For better, or for worse? I will leave that for you to decide.