Page 6 of Equilibrium
I know what people thought about me. This armor of mine, it was both good and bad. It was both protection and damnation, but I didn’t know how to get rid of it. I feared that once I did, everything bad that was waiting for me would come rushing in, and the sanity I clung to would disappear.
“Come on.” He started walking toward the door. “I wanna show you something.”
Or he wanted to kill you.
I glared at my inner self because she was a real untrusting bitch sometimes. Okay, she was a real bitch right now.
“Where are we going?”
I was still in basketball shorts and an oversized shirt. No bra in place, no weapons—I was practically bare.
“You’ll see.” He opened the door and strolled into the hallway leaving me behind.
The urge to mock hisyou’ll seerode me hard, but I had to be an adult about this. He fed me, okay, he also threatened me for about five minutes, but I was unharmed. What could possibly go wrong?
Wait, don’t answer that. Everything could go wrong, but maybe I should start trusting people. Maybe, and this is one ginormous maybe, they weren’t that bad. Right?
* * *
Wrong. I was so fucking wrong, because not only did he bring me where I didn’t want to be, he made me see things I also didn’t want to see. I didn’t know if it was intentional or not, but I couldn’t exactly hate him for it.
Throughout the years, motorcycle clubs have been frowned upon by our families. They called them lowlifes, outcasts, dirty underdogs, you name it. My father hated them with a passion, and I never really understood why.
He often said they were disorganized, impulsive, and dangerous. Maybe I would’ve believed him if I didn’t hear stories myself. MCs were not just outlaws riding motorcycles and causing unnecessary mayhem. They were outlaws, that was true, but unlike our families, they weren’t hiding under the carefully crafted masks. They embraced who they were with no regrets.
Atlas waited for me when I got out of the room, and I couldn’t miss the small smirk playing on his mouth. I was curious, alright? Besides, I couldn’t exactly stay in that room. He told me I could roam around if I played nicely, and what a better way to see the place I was being held at then to accept his invitation.
The hallway was dimly lit, and while it wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, it felt like... it felt like home. Some houses were always so cold, some places lacked soul, like my childhood home. But this one, at least what I’ve seen of it so far, it felt vibrant. The warmth hugged me, touched my skin, played with my hair, and evoked something in my soul. There were pictures on the walls, and as we passed next to them, I couldn’t help but stare.
Smiling faces greeted me. Children and adults stood around bikes and all of them seemed so comfortable with each other. Now that I think about it, all the pictures my family ever took looked staged. None of our smiles were genuine, not like these people.
Some pictures were touched by the hand of time, faded in places, but beautiful, nonetheless. Some had years scribbled in the corner, spanning from 1971 to 2003.
I itched to touch them, to feel them, to take this beautiful energy they were giving this place. I wanted to feel warm, to bask in its beauty. I have never felt like this and it choked me. It choked me because I never had it. Even before they threw me into this sick world, my family lacked warmth and understanding.
I was afraid of my father before I even knew that he could kill a person with his bare hands. My mother was not exactly mother of the year, and Maya and I were often left to our own devices. I didn’t know where these thoughts came from, but I started wondering how would it feel to have a functional family? A family that loved you no matter what and supported your choices.
Atlas kept quiet as I perused the pictures, going from one to the other, drinking in the happiness that was evident on them.
“Are these members of the club?” I asked him with a trembling voice.
“They were. Some of those are more than twenty years old.”
“They look so...” I trailed off.
“Happy?”
He wasn’t teasing me when he asked. A serious expression flickered over his face, and another piece of the puzzle unraveled right in front of my eyes. They were a family. Not by blood but by honor. The substance that connected me with mine was just that, a substance. A red, trickling liquid that didn’t really mean anything if there was no respect.
But them, these people in these pictures, they obviously loved each other. Children wore dirty overalls, adults were in all kinds of clothing, but they didn’t seem to care—wild hair, wild eyes, and palpable happiness.
“That picture.” He pointed toward the one with five different guys, all dressed similarly to what Atlas wore now—leather jacket, dark pants and military boots. “That’s when they had just founded the club. The Santa Monica chapter became the main chapter after they opened multiple other locations on the West Coast.”
The five men he was pointing at looked thrilled. Their proud smiles felt eternal, and I could feel it in my bones. These people were proud to be part of this world. Unlike me, they wanted to be here. They wanted to be part of this family. They belonged here.
I never belonged with mine.
I cleared my throat and turned to him, trying to stop the burning in my eyes and the heavy pressure on my chest. “What did you want to show me?”
