Page 2 of The Vows We Keep

Some of the OG old ladies stayed away from the group in solidarity with Tessa and Track, after Track went inside for six months because of Saint.

Everyone else starts dashing around. Saint hurries the caterer along. Switch, our studious medic, is setting up a fancy champagne station with glasses that came out of the club budget. And Prez told us all to get Rae gifts because she’d never been given anything but a beating on her birthday or some shit. Like the rest of us haven’t had hard lives.

I want my cut of our income in cash, not in crystal glasses that our earnings bought for Rae’s party.

So, I carry on. Six puffs of air, tie it up, throw it by Halo’s feet.

Six puffs of air, tie it up, throw it by Halo’s feet.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

“That’s enough balloons,” Halo shouts from up the ladder, and I let the last balloon go, watching it whizz through the air and land in Switch’s pint of beer.

I leave it there, just for fun.

I head back to my room, wash my face, and take a breath. Ironic timing for me to have had enough of people, just before the party begins. I take my cut off and throw it down on the bed.

The slamming of Clutch’s truck doors is the sign I’m needed in the bar.

When the girls walk in, there’s more cutesy PDA than I can stomach.

Clutch, our long-haired vice president, kisses Gwen, King’s twin sister, like he’s trying to impregnate her right here in front of us.

Then Rae steps in, her eyes wide. “What did you do?” she asks, glancing around the room.

Prez grabs her. “The words you are looking for arethank you. Happy birthday, Duchess.”

There’s gushing and champagne and more kisses.

King leads Rae to the table of gifts, and she acts like she can’t see the motorbike at the end of the table. “Oh my God. I’ve never had so many presents. Dad always said money was required for ministry.”

It’s so sweet my teeth hurt. In my experience, people’s pasts are never as bad as they make out. It’s simply that they’ve found benefit in their lives from playing the victim. I run a finger down my scar, feeling the jagged lines and uneven surface. It’s the reason I never explain what happened. I’m no victim. And I’m no glory seeker, either.

“Yeah, well, I’m always going to spoil you,” my prez says, as if it’s of no concern he’s lost his balls for this girl.

When they get to the bike, King fails to mention that I did all the artwork. That was my gift to her. He doesn’t say a word about how I came up with a concept. Because Rae is a psychologist, I researched Rorschach tests, picked the patterns I found most interesting, and colorized them before decorating her bike with the design.

Now I look like the loser who didn’t get her anything.

And she doesn’t say anything about recognizing the Rorschach.

What a waste of my fucking time.

“You going to keep her serviced, Prez?” Bates, our model-faced enforcer asks, and I realize I’ve gapped out.

Everyone else laughs, and I try to figure out what was just said.

“Yeah,” Prez says. “You bet your ass I’m going to keep her serviced. Forever.”

Got it. Innuendos.

Rae slaps Prez on the arm.

“What?” he says. “It’s the truth. I’ll take care of your bike same way I take care of mine.”

“Forever?” she asks.

“About that.”