The Thunder Wolves MC - Anne (book #10)

****Hey everyone, welcome back. Hope you all enjoy this story as much as you have the others. Like with the last few stories, I will be doing my updates once a week on Fridays. This seems to work the best for me, at least for now. My schedule at work will be changing after the New Year, so hopefully, this will continue to work out well for me. If not, I will keep you all informed, as always. :)**** The sound of the gun going off filled the small room. At such a young age, I shouldn't know what that sound was, but having heard it so many times before, I could nearly tell you with accuracy where the sound originated from. I wish I could say I have never been so close to the sound before, but that would be a lie. I wish I could also tell you that the unmoving body that lay at my feet was the first one I have ever seen before, but that would also be a lie. At eight years old, this body was just one of many I have seen. The difference this time was the body that now lay at my feet was that of my mother. The man that shot her now stood with his gun to my head in one hand while he continued to fix his pants with the other. My eyes closed on their own as his finger pulled the trigger. Nothing but a handful of clicking noises. The whole time, I kept my eyes closed. I was sure this was it. I would end up on the floor like my mom. Left to be eaten by the bugs that infested the building until the smell of our bodies messed with one of the neighbor's highs. Or, if we were lucky, my father would finally decide to show back up to crash on the couch for a few days until he left us again. After a dozen clicks and nothing from the gun, my mother's last and final client slammed the butt of his gun down into the side of my head. It wasn't the blow I expected, but it was enough to send me to the floor with my mother. Everything went black as I landed in the ever-growing pool of blood. I was sure I was dead. That was it. My escape from this life was finally here. No more finding reasons to stay at school for hours. I know it was lame, and most kids hate school. But for me, it was the one place I could be a kid. I didn't have to worry about when I would get food next. There was always breakfast, lunch, and snacks available. It wasn't like when I was home, where I had to stay in my closet and wait for my mom to finish with her clients for the day. Then when she was done, I was lucky if she had enough energy to make a sandwich. Normally I just went to bed, blocking out the sounds, and waited until the next morning when I could get breakfast at school. The exception was when my dad was home. Then mom didn't see her clients. Instead, she spent her time fussing over my dad and gushing to him about how wonderful I am when he is away. The small apartment we live in is always spotless when my dad is home, and full meals are always cooked and on the table by the time he arrives home. We are, in all essence, a happy and normal family. At least for a time, but that always seems to change after a week or two. Then mom seems to lose interest in doing all those things. Or maybe she is distracted by dad testing out his new product on her before he sends it to the streets to be sold. It doesn't matter because it never fails. Not long after that starts, dad always seems to disappear. Not before he takes me on a couple of trips with him. Sometimes to drop off whatever he is selling to his dealers. Sometimes, to pick up his money, his dealers owe him. Sometimes, to teach someone a lesson about not paying. But in the end, he always leaves. And we are right back to mom seeing her clients again. When I woke up again, the guy was long gone. I was left alone in the small apartment covered in my mother's blood. It stuck to my skin and my clothes. Going to the bathroom, I tried rinsing it off, but it just wouldn't come off. No matter how long I stood in the bathroom with my hands under the water, I couldn't make my hands look clean again. Giving up on getting the blood off my skin, I decided to change my clothes. Maybe if I find someone to help me, I will have better luck. It was late in the day, and I wasn't sure who I would find to help me, but I had to try. We didn't have a phone, so I couldn't call anyone, not that I knew who I would call anyway. Wandering outside, I went in the only direction I knew well, towards the school. Moving, I paid attention to who was out on the street. The area wasn't exactly the best of places, especially at night. And especially for a kid my age. It wasn't the best of places during the day as it was. Being small for my age, I was easy pickings for those wanting to use me for their own gain. And I am not talking, just selling s**t for them. No kids my age were known for going missing in my neighborhood, and not all of them were ever found again, either. Not that the cops really searched for the kids in my neighborhood. They knew that finding a kid that had gone missing from my neighborhood would mean either finding a dead body or a living corpse of a kid that wished they were dead. A block away from the apartment, the sound of gunshots filled the night. Stopping, I listened carefully. They weren't close, a couple of blocks down in the opposite direction than where I was headed. That was good. Maybe all the activity tonight will stay down that way. With that said, I started moving again. No time to sit and wait around to find out. I still wasn't sure what my plan was, only that I would figure it out once I got to the school. The closer I got, the quicker I moved until I was outright running. I was running so fast I didn't see the cop, who had a couple of guys cuffed and standing on the sidewalk. At least not until I ran smack into him and fell on my ass. Fear instantly overtook me. Most kids grow up being told cops are the good guys. If something was ever wrong, you go to them for help. Or maybe that is what I am told. I, on the other hand, was raised to fear the police. I was always told cops didn't give a s**t about kids like me, and if they ever got their hands on me, I would never see my family again. They would send me away and lock me up like they did my dad. And from the stories my dad tells about being locked up, that was something I never wanted. Just the thought alone of being placed in a cold cell with bars as the door was enough to have me scrambling to my feet and trying to run away. The only problem was the cop was faster, and he had noticed the blood on my hands. The two guys he had cuffed on the side of the road were the least of his worries now. As the cop grabbed hold of me, I did my best to try and fight him off. Nothing worked. He was so much bigger and stronger than me. That didn't stop me from trying. The whole time I tried fighting him off and getting away, I could hear my mother's voice. "Charlie, my stupid little rat, gone and got yourself grabbed up by the po-po. Stupid little retard. I know I taught you better than that boy. Yet here you are, getting taken away by the pigs. Should have stayed in your closet, you stupid little i***t. End up just like your father, locked away to play some other guy's little b***h. Hope you enjoy sucking c**k, you stupid little runt." My fight with the cop didn't work in my favor. I ended up being taken away. I wasn't, however, taken and locked away like I was always told I would be. After explaining how I had blood on my hands and what had happened, my mother's body was found. The guy that shot her was never located, not that the police really did much searching for him. My mother was just another w***e that lost her life to some John she tried to screw over. If she cared about her life and mine, she should have had a real job. I, on the other hand, was taken to my grandparent's house to live with them until my father got done serving his most current sentence for selling drugs. I suppose the place was nice. I had a corner in the basement instead of a closet. If I did all the chores on my daily list, I was allowed to have dinner. If I got them done early enough, I got to eat my dinner before it grew cold. A task that was easier said than done. Ending with me eating most meals cold, or should I say the meals I got to eat. Grandma Hellen was a stickler for the chores being done just right before allowing me to sit down and eat. And if they weren't done by bedtime, I wasn't allowed to sleep until they were done. On those nights, I didn't get dinner, so I relied on my meals at school for those days. I learned quickly that Grandpa Al wasn't afraid to use his belt if Grandma Hellen decided she didn't like my attitude. It didn't matter if I didn't actually have an attitude, more that I wasn't happy to be "allowed" to do the chores she came up with for me. She felt I should be grateful that the two even cared enough to take me in. I mean, after all, it was my mother's fault she got killed in the first place. And my father's for not being available to take care of me himself. By the time I was twelve, I was pretty good at getting through Grandma Hellen's lists and making sure everything was done to her liking. So much so that she seemed happy until my dad showed back up in my life. He rewarded me for my good behavior by leaving me with them. He spent all of two days in the house with us before taking off. He would show back up at the house once in a blue moon to check in on me and see if I was still alive. Otherwise, I was left to Grandma Hellen's new and improved ever-growing chore list and Grandpa Al's beatings that no longer involved just the use of his belt. All of this lasted until around my sixteenth birthday when I decided I had enough and hit Grandpa Al back. That was the last time he laid a hand on me. The last time I looked at one of Grandma Hellen's insane chore lists. And the last time either of them told me I was a piece of s**t loser who would end up like my father, spending time in prison as someone's b***h like the fag I was. Which let's be honest, that last part was laughable. I may have only been sixteen, but I was willing to bet if I counted all the girls my age and the older woman I had slept with, I would come out better than the old man. But I kept that to myself. I mean, I couldn't have them going and yapping their traps about the older women I had slept with. Not saying anything about them was part of the agreement with me sleeping with them. Then, of course, all the girls my age who couldn't resist the opportunity to sleep with the "bad boy" in school. Especially when I didn't go around listing off all the names to everyone else like some of the other guys did. The girls knew their secrets and desires were safe with me.