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“You’re too young for her, Mac.”
“Not me. The Sergeant in Arms of the Vancouver chapter. He’s a bad-ass motherfucker, too. Smith better get his shit together.”
“I think I’m done with men from the MC. I hope Luce is too.”
“Ah, come on Dev. What in the hell could Rog have done? That man’s twisted over you.”
“Was.”
“Dev?” He warns.
“I’m Dee Dee Stanton and John Masters’ biological child.”
His beer spews all over my couch and floor, “WHAT!?”
“Tell me about it,” I sink into the arm chair, “… that’s why I came to Springdale. I was looking for answers about me. About my past. I never thought I’d find all of you; that Creed would become family—that Rog would rip my heart out when he found out.”
“How did you tell him?”
“That’s the thing… I didn’t,” I reply looking down, picking at the fuzz from the worn plaid recliner.
“Dev,” he breathes, “that’s… damn, that’s some bomb you just dropped. I can only imagine Rog was pissed he found out second-hand.”
“I don’t know how he knows. I just know that he does, and it wrecked everything. He barely looked at me… barely spoke to me. It’s like I’m some sort of she-devil.”
“Look. It’s fine if you can’t tutor me today. We’ll do this some other time.” He moves standing up.
“Don’t go. Actually, maybe helping you study for the GED will take my mind off things… that’s if you don’t think I’ll put a curse on you with my mad voodoo skills that I inherited from my whack mother?”
“Shut up, Dev. I wasn’t even born when that shit happened. I think that’s why Rog might be taking this hard. He was here, he lived it.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Fine. I’ll stay but I will state on the record, that I think it’s fucked-up that you didn’t tell him who you were.”
“I was scared. Every time I wanted to; I chickened out. I’m not a big, bad-ass biker with tats in a gang.”
“No. But maybe we can take a break after and get you some ink? How’d you like that? Nothing like a fresh tat to cheer you up.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
I shake my head, “Luce would stuff me with ice cream and wine.”
“No. Trust me. My way is better. Think about what you might want to get, and we’ll do it this week.”
“Okay.” Hopping up I grab the heavy texts and my laptop from the other room. I’m glad he’s here. It beats wallowing alone in the dark.
“Hey Dev?” He shouts.
“What?”
“Wipe your face. The streaked mascara all over your cheeks is damn distracting.”
Pausing in the hallway, I flip on the bathroom switch and peek in. “Gah,” I mutter in disgust.
My hair hangs, limp and greasy. Days old make-up is caked on my face. I really do look like a zombie in The Walking Dead.