Page 3 of Storm

“You know Mitch was gonna call the cops on you. You can’t keep goin’ to the bars and startin’ shit.”

“I didn’t start it! She did. And Mitch is a pussy if he was going to call the cops on a little girl fight.”

“Girl fight?” I hear Patch and glance over, smiling.

“Yeah. Just a little girl fight.”

“She was beatin’ the shit out of that girl,” Uncle Jenson says.

“She deserved it.”

“Did she?” Patch asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You think I would just go out and cause trouble for no reason?” In unison, Patch and my uncle both say yes. I laugh when my uncle throws his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side.

“You’ve always been a fighter, Kenz.”

“I was taught by the best,” I remind him. He taught me to fight. He taught me to shoot. He taught me all the things that my dad would have wanted me to know but wasn’t around to show me. That part still hurts. Knowing that he should have been the one to teach me these things.

“You never were the girly girl.”

“And I don’t plan on being one either. I like who I am,” I tell him truthfully.

“That’s always a good thing, but let’s tone down the drama at the local bars, yeah?”

“Fine. I’ll stay out of there for a while.”

“Mitch said permanently.”

“Again, Mitch is a pussy,” I tell him.

“She’s not wrong. Mitch is a little bitch,” Patch adds as I nod my head.

“I don’t need you helpin’ her, Patch.” Now they both laugh as my uncle leads me inside. I know there’s a party tonight, and that’s kind of why I didn’t want to be here. Since my dad was killed, I’ve not felt like partying. There doesn’t seem to be anything to celebrate. But one of the guys came home from prison today, so I suppose that’s a good reason to celebrate.

We step inside, and everyone is chatting and drinking. I walk away from my uncle and head straight to the bar, grabbing the first bottle set down in front of me, but at the same time, someone else grabs it. A large tattooed hand wraps around the neck as I try to pull the bottle from his grip.

“Ever heard of ladies first?” I snap at him without looking over. His dark chuckle sends a chill down my spine. Now I pull my gaze over to meet his, and fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. His eyes are green with what seems like little golden flecks in them, his lips curled into a menacing smile.

“Is that how it is?” he asks. I nod my head and wait for him to pull his hand away but he doesn’t. “You don’t remember me do you?”

“Should I?”

“I’m Storm.”

“And that means what to me?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow.

“So you don’t remember me. You were little when I went to prison.”

“Oh shit, that’s you? This party is for you?” I don’t remember much from when I was younger. The doctors told me I blocked it out because of the trauma, but you would think I would have remembered him.

“That’s right. You were just a little brat when I went to jail.”

“You weren’t much older than me, were you?” I ask, having heard the stories.

“I was sixteen. Charged as an adult. Spent two years in juvie before they moved me to the state pen.” I nod my head now, remembering hearing that.

“What was it like?”