Page 2 of Knuckles

The fucker should have remembered why they call me Knuckles. I fucking lost track of how many times my father was called into school because I hit someone or something.

I’m always angry and I can’t control it.

“Fuck,” I hear just as someone tries to pull me back, but I shove them away and continue to rain my fists on the fucker beneath me, who's barely moving.

“Knuckles!” I hear my mom screech as several hands grab my arms and shoulders, yanking me back, holding me firmly when I try to shove them away.

“What the fuck was that?” my father demands, and I scoff, “How about the fucker goading me while fucking my mother!”

“You could lose your patch, son!” he snaps, and I chuckle darkly.

Ah, so the worry wasn’t for me, he doesn’t give a shit that I’ve been traumatized my whole fucking life watching my mother get fucked, from the early age of fucking two by men she brought to the apartment he bought, he’s worried his legacy will fail.

What a shocker.

I get in his face, and I sneer, “Then fucking take it, Splinter!”

He freezes while the room is dead silent as Chain states, “You’ve just got your patch, we’re not taking it. Striker knows just like everyone in this room not to fuck Barbie while you’re present, the fucker had it coming. Barbie, you’re on probation for that shit.”

I hold in my snort while half the brotherhood looks down, knowing they’ve all fucked my mom in front of me. They all see me as the unwanted child that could have been theirs, and want to punish me for it, just like my mother punished me every single fucking day of my life.

“Knuckles?” my mom says quietly, and I glare at her, causing her to take a step back and cover her tits with her arms before I eye everyone looking at me, some with shock, some with disgust. I curl my lip as I look back at my father, whose brows are furrowed.

The image of the small cabinet at the end of the corridor in the apartment comes back to me—a small bucket inside it and I lock my jaw as Striker groans. I spit, “Fuck this shit!” then shove my father aside before shoulder-checking Cage on my way to the door.

“Knuckles!” Cage calls, but I shake my head and continue my trek.

I’d rather sleep on a park bench than stay here.

Kodi – Sixteen Years old

I pull up behind my mom’s white Mercedes that Daddy surprised her with last week, my music blaring from my speakers. I grin, looking at the paint still staining my hands. I bob my head to the music, then side-eye the picture I painted in art class last week of the Paris skyline. That painting just won me four thousand dollars—four freaking thousand dollars—and my grin broadens.

I thought that when I managed to save up for my bright red jeep, which I bought last week after cleaning the local motel every night, it would make me happy, but this… gah…

And to think Dad claimed painting and drawing won’t get me far.

Ha!

I switch off the ignition and go to grab my things, including the check I received, but pause when my phone rings, and I grin even wider knowing exactly who it is.

“Hey, Daddy,” I answer as I sit back in my seat with a smirk.

“You called, sweetheart?” he sighs, and I giggle, I can’t help it.

My dad is a big ass mean police chief, he’s made of stone and likes things his way, and now I get to give him a big fat ‘I told you so’.

“I did,” I confirm, “I wanted to tell you that I came first in that art competition you told me was a waste of time last month.”

He groans, “Kodi, please don’t tell me you called when you know I’m busy with that waste of time competition?”

I can’t even be upset, I mean, when I first told him about it, and that is how he explained it, I was hurt. I didn’t feel like I had his backing as I do with Mom.

“Waste of time, Daddy?” I ask innocently.

“Kodi!” he snaps, and I chuckle.

“So winning four thousand dollars is a waste of time?” I confirm, and he goes quiet for a moment.