Authors: Casey Elliot
Secrets of an MC Bear
*****
The table was long, and built from solid oak that had been painted black and engraved with the family crest. At the head of the table sat Derren Prince. His hair was long and matted at the ends with braids that interlocked the auburn strands. His hands were meaty and scarred and, as they sat upon the table, the other members of the gang could see they'd been in the wars.
"So, let us vote," Derren Prince raised a hand and cheered before picking up his tankard of beer. "It's about time these young fellas joined our ranks."
He nodded his head down to the bottom of the table at the three teenagers who were half the size of everyone else. It wouldn't be long; however, until they were real men and, just like their older brothers’ fathers and uncles, they'd fit right in as part of the motorcycle gang, The Sons of Pestilence.
“It would be an honor to have you guys with us,” the oldest at the table, Jerry, twiddled with the end of his gray beard.
"I agree," spoke the second oldest, with his face wise and crinkled by the sun.
"So then," Derren slammed his tankard down with a thud, wiping the foam off his moustache. "Let's get to it. All those who agree to these three young gentlemen joining the MC, raise your hand."
As he looked around the table, he saw everyone had raised a hand. Well.... everyone except his own father, Samson.
"Paps," he nudged him in the arm. "What's wrong with you?"
"I dunno," the old man shrugged. "It just seems that we're allowing anyone in these days."
"Don't be ridiculous," Jerry chuckled. "We're all the same bloodline. We're all one family, so what the hell you talking about?"
"I know they're family," grumbled Derren's father. "But, they still seem a little wet behind the ears, don't they? Look." He flung a crumpled up cigarette paper at the youngest one. "He hasn't even started to grow any whiskers yet, and that one," he threw another paper. "How old are you, kid? About twelve?"
"I'm twenty one, sir," the poor kid blushed and looked to his lap where he was fiddling nervously with a bandana.
"Twenty one, my ass," Samson grew angry. "You look like you should still be hanging off your mother's teat."
"For Christ’s sake, Dad," Derren resumed drinking his beer. "Give the guys a chance. We were just like them once, remember? Young kids who needed to prove themselves."
"I sure wasn't some smooth-jawed kindergarten like that little nugget down there," Samson pointed a cigarette before lighting it.
"Whatever," Derren clapped a hand to his brow. "We all vote yes, you voted no, so it still stands. They join the MC. Congratulations kids. You'll do us proud, I know you will."
Derren walked over to the back of the room to pick up the patches that were the official uniform of the gang. Handing them over to the young men, they beamed with pride while their leader patted them on the back and shook their hands. He felt as though he was their father and he was proud to see them grow up.
He had, after all, known them their whole lives. The community was a small one, but it was one that was tight and close. Everyone was related to each other in some way or another and that was what made them so special; that and one other thing. They were all shifters. It was a clandestine existence; one that had isolated the sacred bloodline and the motorcycle gang in the middle of the woody mountains on the cusp of civilization. However, after generations of living this way, they didn't know much else. None of them at this point had ever been in a large city and had only travelled to nearby towns for business.
Now, as Derren looked down at his new recruits, he smiled and his blue eyes shimmered in the strong sunlight. He remembered them all when they were just babies and when he was their age. They were all cute as a button and he had loved them as if they were his own little brothers. But, that was the way of their life. Everyone was your brother or your sister and you loved everyone equally, unless you were Samson, and then your grumpy principles would keep you tethered to your own lonely, little hut with nothing but your pipe to keep you company.
"I'm real sorry about my Pa," Derren sheepishly looked at the boys. "You know what he's like, just gets real.... I dunno, grouchy I guess."
"We know," they all said in unison. "Thank you Mr. Prince.”
"Oh please, kids, it's Derren."
They nodded respectfully before making their way out of the club-house to put on their patches and climb on top of their motorcycles.
"Probably going to have to get their Mommies to sew their patches," a voice came from behind Derren.
It was his closest friend, Max, a guy that matched him in both age and size, and had been his best friend since they were both old enough to toddle about. Their parents had fond memories of seeing the two boys climb onto their tricycles and race each other.
"Yeah.... I remember not being able to do mine either," Derren laughed at the memory of getting his club patch for the first time.
"Ha! Those were the days. Fancy something stronger?" Max pointed to Derren's empty tankard. "Scotch?"
"Sure."
As they walked through the club-house to the bar area, Derren felt a surge of pride and comfort within his body. He'd never felt more at home anywhere in his life, and it was times like this that he imagined there was nowhere else that existed apart from this little area known to the locals as Prince Country. He was the leader as far as his eye could see and the feeling of accomplishment was second to none.
"You've got that weird look in your eye again," Max sat down at the bar and ordered two drinks.
"Really?"
"Yeah, like that one you get when you get all philosophical and start talking about life, and the universe, and all that stuff."
"Nah nah. It's nothing like that. I'm just real happy being here with you guys."
"And soon, you'll be even happier, am I right?"
"Maybe," Derren winked and took a sip of his drink. "I mean sure! It'll be the best day of my life," and he raised his glass.
Derren and the whole gang were pleased because it was going to be the biggest day to take place in the area in years. Derren, after all, was going to be married to the most beautiful girl Prince Country had to offer; the gorgeous and sensual Ciara. Like everyone else, he had grown up with the girl and he'd liked her since he was five years old. So, when his father sat him down with the elders of the community and explained he was to be wed to her in an arranged marriage, he was ecstatic. Not that he said that though, he bowed his head and feigned being humble.
"Thank you, father." He looked to the ground and bit a lip to stop himself from smiling too obviously. "I will do my very best to honor and obey this union."
And, he meant it too. He couldn’t think of a better way to live his life than in his community, forever with his gorgeous wife by his side.
"I hope you have dozens of babies, old pal," Max elbowed him in the ribs and snapped him from his reverie.
"Me too," Derren grinned with a cheeky look on his face.
Samson came striding out of the back room with a stern expression on his face.
"It's time to stop celebrating and get back to work," he announced with his usual aloofness. "You boys have got errands to run."
"Are you telling me what to do, Pa? Cos the last time I checked, you weren't the leader of the MC anymore?" Derren joked, although mentally, he was still irked that his father bossed him around.
"Don't talk back to your old man," Samson barked. "I need you to go down to the town and see a friend of mine. We've got business to do with him, but I need you to see him first."
"What kinda business?" Max asked skeptically with a raised eyebrow.
"Never your mind, young man. Just head out over to the Wilson house and ask for Clayton."
"Fine," Derren moaned.
*****
Phaedra had been working in the Wilson house for just over six months and she absolutely hated it. Not that she had much choice though because the family had taken her in from the wilderness and she owed them her life. That's why she toiled away night and day in their place as a way to say thank you. But, she couldn't help but think the only reason they rescued her was to get free labor.
The Wilson house was an old tavern that had been on the brink of collapse for nearly a hundred years. Somehow though, it stayed together and Phaedra always joked it was the blood and dirt that kept it held together.
"This place is a craphole," she mumbled under her breath as she straightened up the rickety sign on the front porch. These days, after a long and bloody history, it was being used as an inn for the local drunks. They'd pay for their stay in any way they could and, in return, they'd get a floor, a mattress, a loaf of bread, and some coffee in the morning. Phaedra always wondered where these guys came from, as they always seemed to emerge from the woods like vermin. Yet still, week after week, another one would show up and he'd soon pass out upstairs when the Wilson kids would rob him blind. That was, if he ever had something to steal.
Phaedra; however, could identify with them a little bit because just like them, she had climbed out of the woods and into the Wilson house; except she came via a different route…
She'd always had a difficult time, but on the outside, it seemed as though she had a very charmed existence. She lived in the center of one of the nearby towns and her parents weren't wealthy, but had a decent income, which meant she and her sister could have a good life. She had all the toys she wanted, and could eat any candy her heart desired. Her mother was known all over town for being one of the most beautiful women anyone had ever seen with long legs and a curvy body that perfectly complimented her petite and doll-like face.
"You've got your mother's looks," everyone would tell her from when she was old enough to stand up.
She was always so proud to hear she was just like her precious Mommy; the woman with the golden curls and the satin bronzed skin.
Her mother though, was hiding a very dark secret; her husband. He was often vacant from people's memories; a sort of invisible entity that was in hiding most of the time unless he wanted to come out and wash the car. Then, he was back inside for another week, gambling and drinking as he kept the house in a perpetual state of darkness. There was a time when Phaedra was certain she loved her father because that's just what little girls did. They wanted to grow up and be like their Mommy and marry someone like their Daddy. Except gradually, as she grew taller and became less of a child, she knew the surly man was unlovable.
He had a raging temper; one that would send the family scattering from the house like wild mice. He could stay silent for hours or even days, then lose all sense of sanity in an instant and throw the nearest thing at you just because you were there and he thought you were looking at him funny.
"The bastard," she thought of him now as she began to sweep the front of the porch, pushing dead leaves into the dusty gutter, wishing she was wiping dirt all over her father's face.
"Just as long as he's not hurting my Janey."
Jane, her younger sister, was everything to her, and through her father's mood swings, the girls, along with their mother, had stuck together. This close camaraderie; however, was not to last when her father set about slitting them up. It started off small; he'd make their mother sit with him at all times in the living room as he drank and watched TV, only letting her leave if it was to fetch him a sandwich or do the laundry. This went on for almost a year, as the two young girls sat halfway down the stairs, looking at their poor mother through the gaps in the bannister, wishing she was with them.
Their father then took this a step further when he decided that after spending their whole lives sharing a bedroom, the girls were now to get their own separate rooms.
"You're big girls now, not babies," he'd spat, as he dragged Janey's mattress across the landing.
After that, the girls hardly saw each other apart from dinner time. Their father would send them to their own bedrooms as soon as they were home from school. Then, they were ordered to do their homework, often over and over again, until they fell asleep.
All of this; however, was nothing compared to what he did on Phaedra's sixteenth birthday. There wasn't much of a celebration. The family wasn't allowed things like presents or parties, so the day consisted of everyone sitting in the garden. They watched the man of the house drink beer and swear at the neighbors, as they cowered beneath their cardigans and sweaters. When the festivities had ended and Phaedra made her way indoors, he'd walk in after her, stealthy and quick like a viper, and grab her from behind.
"No one will see us here," he pushed her against the wall and whispered in her ear. "They won't come in unless I tell them to."
Twisting her arms behind her back, she tried to scream, but he pushed her into the wall even more, so her lungs were crushed and no voice could escape her body.
"You're starting to look so much like your mother when I first met her, you know." Keeping a firm grip on her, he ran a hand through her hair. His hot, sour breath hit the back of her neck and she shivered.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
"What do you think?" came his terse reply.
It was then, in the hall, that she did something she didn't think she was capable of; she stood up to her father. Mustering all her strength, she pushed hard and managed to get her arms free. Her father was so drunk that, although he was a large and strong man, his reflexes were slow with his speech beginning to slurred. There was nothing greater than the look of shock that came over his face when she swung around and hit him square in the gut with her knee. He toppled backward, landing on one of the family portraits. The glass shattered and fell to the ground like crystal snow. Then, a rage came over his eyes and Phaedra's blood ran cold. She watched in horror, as his face burned crimson with anger. He stood up and moved to grab her. His hands were outstretched as though he wanted to strangle her, but she ducked and moved away just in time. Running upstairs, she grabbed her things while listening to the sound of her father's lumbering footsteps climb the stairs. She only had seconds before he'd most likely kill her. There was something about the look in his eyes; something that looked as though he wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted.
She was on the edge of the window ledge with her satchel hanging from her shoulder when she had a sudden thought.
"Shit, Janey!" she tumbled back into her bedroom despite hearing him on the landing. Ripping out a page from her diary, she grabbed the nearest thing, a red lip liner, and scrawled the words JANEY, I LOVE YOU before hiding it under the bed and swinging her legs back out the window again.
Just as her father opened the door, he saw a flash of blonde hair, as it tumbled down from the window. To save herself, the young girl jumped from the window and landed in the bed of roses that her mother had spent so long growing. She felt momentarily guilty until she saw her father's face pop out above her and yell:
"I'll fucking kill you, get back here," and he was back inside.
She imagined him staggering down the stairs. It wouldn't be long until he caught her or worse, her mom and sister found her and persuaded her to come back inside. There was no way in hell she would set foot in that house ever again. Despite the fact that she was sure she had a sprained ankle, she ran as fast as she could with the pain searing up her leg. She ran and ran until she reached the center of town where she jumped on the first bus that was going anywhere and got off when she ran out of fare.
The bus had stopped on the edge of the woods, and it was a cold night when she entered the dense forest. It was then, as the night settled around her, that the severity of the situation hit her. She cried great big sobs that tore through her body as she thought about never seeing her mom or sister again. She imagined them back home, worrying about where she was, and she thought of Janey crying herself to sleep at the thought of never seeing her big sister again.
"What have I done?" her voice trembled into the night. "This is a nightmare."
Yet, as she stepped one tentative toe into the darkness of the forest, she knew that this was a step into her new life. She wasn't going home. She was just going to have to make this work.
What she hadn't anticipated was the sheer hostility and coldness of the terrain that she would be faced with once she stepped over the threshold into the wilderness. The feeling of death was both immediate and imminent, as she stood amongst the trees listening to the sound of the foxes howling in the distance.
In the future, she might tell people that she lived as a feral child; one that was like a wild mountainous creature, such as a werewolf or a mighty panther. What she wouldn't tell them was that on that fateful night, she lay down on top of the damp muddy leaves and cried. She was lost, hopeless, and terrified. And; of course, she would never admit that she'd remained in her place for almost two days before the Wilson family had found her while out on a hunting trip. They brought her home without any question and loved her as if she was their own. She'd been a member of the family ever since and joined some of the other strays that enjoyed honorary Wilson status.
As she finished her chores for the day, she picked up her mop and bucket, and then headed inside. The heat had been hammering down on her head for hours, giving her a solid migraine that only moonshine could cure. However, as she stepped into the hallway and readied herself for a tall, cool glass of liquor, she heard the scuttling footsteps of Mama Wilson.
"You ain't done yet, girl," the old toothless hag scrunched up her face and pointed a bony finger into Phaedra's belly.
"But, I did all you told me to do," she protested.
"You ain't done shit," the old lady snarled.
It was then, when Phaedra felt as though she could slap the dentures out the old woman, that she heard it. It was the distant rumbling of motorcycles.