'Sons of Denver'
1498 Words
Denver.
After I left school, I drove straight to the club, where my father and the other members of the gang were waiting for me.
Once I got outside the club, I parked my bike in the only spot that had been reserved for me, right beside my father's beast of a machine. Both bikes stood like kings among the rest—untouchable.
I got off, yanked off the plain leather jacket I wore in school, and replaced it with the one I pulled from my backpack. Midnight black, stitched in blood-red thread.
At the back of the jacket is encrypted 'Denver.'
Using the back of my hand, I wiped off the concealer I’d used to hide the tattoo that spelled my name that stretched from just below my ear to my neckline.
That ink was earned, not designed. It was a reminder. A warning.
Once I was done, I pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, and within seconds, I was savoring the mint-flavored smoke.
No one in that pathetic excuse of a high school knows the truth about me or the things I am capable of. I wasn’t some lost teenager with attitude problems.
I was actually twenty-five years old, a Harvard Medical School graduate, but thanks to good genes, I don't look anything my age.
Besides my academic background, I also happened to be the president of the most feared outlaw biker club on the East Coast—
Sons of Denver
My father started the gang over a decade ago, but I gave it its teeth. We had more than ten thousand riders nationwide. We didn’t wear our cuts for fashion. We wore them for war.
People always asked whether we were part of the one percent. I say it depends—who the hell are you to us?
I was undercover as a high school kid for one reason only—to make the bastards who put my mother behind bars choke on their own sins.
Over ten years ago, my mother was unjustly sent to prison after she was accused of killing several patients with overdoses in the hospital where she worked.
Among the patients was Mrs. Davidson, wife of Dr. Davidson, who happened to be the chief medical director of the hospital at the time the incident happened.
Mrs. Davidson had been rushed into the hospital after she had a ghastly motor accident.
According to the information we later gathered, Dr. Davidson was one of the first responders that attended to his wife, but he later left to attend to other patients while my mother was asked to continue the treatment.
According to my mother, she had barely administered any drugs to Mrs. Davidson when she died of an overdose.
My mother believed that she was set up and that someone was deliberately trying to make her take the fall for their mistakes.
That is, if it was even a mistake.
My father wasn't exactly rich enough to fight legal battles with the Davidsons, so my mother was convicted of murder and thrown into prison for life.
She died in prison. Heart attack. Or maybe heartbreak. Or maybe someone made sure she wouldn’t talk.
Either way, she was gone—and I had to live with it.
Her death was both devastating and a fatal blow to my father and me, but somehow, my father found comfort in riding.
It helped relieve him so much, and all he wanted to do was just keep riding. When he saw how much it made him feel better, he later started talking to other people who had gone through similar pain or had some irreplaceable loss to join him as a way of uplifting their spirits and helping them forget the pain they felt.
Some of the early members had lost children, siblings, or parents to gun violence, addiction, or corrupt justice. They didn’t just find a group of bikers—they found a family that healed on two wheels.
We weren’t just a gang; we were a movement. Our rides weren’t only fueled by gasoline but by grief, vengeance, and the hope that riding forward meant leaving something behind.
Soon, my father, seeing how many they were becoming, decided to register the gang and named it after me:
**Sons of Denver**
Inside the club, the air was thick with sweat, whiskey, and rage. I walked in like I owned the place, maybe because I f*****g did.
I spotted my father at the far end, talking to Trigger, one of our enforcers. Dad looked like an older, meaner version of me, with his Viking beard, weathered tattoos, and dead eyes.
He didn't look happy, and from what I could hear, I was almost certain that the conversation was about me.
"Hey, Dad," I said, sliding into the seat across from him, flicking ash onto the floor without apology.
"What the hell am I hearing about what you did in school today?" he snapped.
I raised an eyebrow, not in the mood for his tone. "You’ll have to be more specific."
"Stop acting dumb. I heard you were messing around with some fat, ugly kid in school. How could you be seen kissing a student who is probably just a minor? You seem to have forgotten why you were sent there in the first place," my father said, his voice harsh and loud enough for the other members of the gang to hear him.
In all the things he had said, the most striking one was the fact that I didn't know Zee's age, though I was a little hurt that he had called her fat and ugly.
Zee was anything but ugly. She was a beautiful, curvy girl who lacked the confidence to shine.
Still, I very well understood my father's concerns.
I leaned forward, voice low but sharp as I locked my eyes with his a daring manner.
"First, first of all father you know I don't appreciate you raising your voice at me, . Secondly, her name is Zee, if you must talk about her,"
He blinked. Trigger smirked. The tension at the table twisted into barbed wire.
"You are falling for some kid?" my father asked, but there was less fire behind the words now.
"No," I replied coldly."
But, seeing my father curious eyes told me I needed to explain my new plan to him.
"Look, It's not what you think. Yes, I agree I shouldn't have kissed her because she might be a minor, like you have rightly stated, but I have no interest whatsoever in her. There has been a little shift in plans, and she is a very important tool in my new plan," I said with a sigh.
"I don't understand," my father pressed.
"Zee isn’t just a random girl. She is obsessed with Lawrence Davidson—the golden boy. She wants to be noticed, to be wanted by him. That makes her useful to me as she’s willing to do anything I tell her,” I explained. “All I need do is shape her into what Lawrence wants, get close to him, and then we work our way to his old man. The plan's intact. Just upgraded.”
"And how long will this take? Look, we don't have time," he asked, grinding his jaw.
"It will still be within the same time range we previously agreed on, but I will need you to stay out of my business," I said.
My father stared at me for a beat, then nodded. “Fine. Do what you have to. But remember—no feelings. No attachments.”
"Don’t worry,” I said, crushing the cigarette under my boot. “She’s just a tool.” I said, waving down a waiter to get me something strong to drink.
“less I forget, Your old lady's been looking for you.” my father said.
"I don't have an old la—" I started, but of course, I was cut off.
Cherry strutted in, hips swaying, eyes locked on mine with that filthy grin she wore like lipstick.
"Hey Denver,” she purred. “Wanna go somewhere...private?"
On a good day, I would have turned her off, but the little moment I had with Zee earlier had turned on a little monster in me, and I needed someone to release that tension on.
I couldn't help but reminisce the feeling of her soft lips against mine. it was so pure and tasted like something I haven't felt before.
No matter how I tried to deny it, that kiss, innocent as it was, had stirred something in me, something sinful, almost criminal.
"Sure, I’ll join you shortly," I said toCherryy, who had been waiting for a reply from me, and as she walked away, I could see my father smiling knowingly at me.
"Go, make your father proud, son," he said, letting out a signature laugh that I found very annoying..
Nevertheless, making him proud was something I lived for.
- Writer
