Wilde

Wilde: The Ridge MC, #1 © 2023 Susan Stradiotto All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are either a part of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. Published by: Bronzewood Books 14920 Ironwood Ct. Eden Prairie, MN 55346 Cover & Interior Design: Bronzewood Books Edited by: Enchanted Quill Press Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-949357-69-1 eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-949357-57-8 To my strong sisters, the ones who handle things in their own unique ways. Love to you all! Susan Author’s Note This book contains situations that may be tough to read, including violence, death of family, abuse of family, language, and non-consentual situations. Your mental health is important, so please consider any triggers this may cause prior to reading. Prologue Eighteen Years Ago Wilde For years, eleven to be exact, I watched Ma smoke or shoot up and bring home one man after another. Not one qualified as a male role model, but what did she care? Her concern was her next high, not what it meant to her preteen son to learn to be a man. Ma was twitchy every time, and she’d eye me with a warning to stay quiet. Together, she and her man of the hour would slink through our tiny, filthy home to the room behind the kitchen. I couldn’t count the times I’d fallen asleep to the whole trailer rocking and her screaming, moaning, and calling some new name long into the night. Most mornings, after the man was gone, I couldn’t shake Ma awake. My old man—though I wouldn’t be certain of that fact until much, much later—came and went. Sometimes he brought home the men that kept Ma company. I never spoke to him, but he was the only person who came back again and again, and he was the only one who had the same dark hair as mine and eyes so light blue they were nearly clear. Eyes that always made people stop and stare. Eyes that made the women get all soft without even a touch. Eyes that would haunt me. Eyes like mine. But that man, he’d been the worst of them. Ma told me, “Stay in the bedroom when the light-eyed man comes, no matter what you hear. Got me?” I nodded at her with wide, scared eyes. But I had a stubborn streak from either her side or his. So did I listen? Or obey? Nah. Her screaming that night was different and ended in a shit-ton of yelling, something about her keeping his money. I didn’t understand, but I really didn’t want to, either. I tiptoed out of my room to see him clock her across the face with the butt of his gun, aim at where she had fallen behind the chair, and pull the trigger. I jumped. He looked at me with a smirk and put a finger over his lips, signaling for me to keep my trap shut. I couldn’t make myself move, and he read that loud and clear. He wrapped his hands in Ma’s greasy hair and dragged her to the truck. There was no fight left in her. She was limp, and her heels left grooves between the weeds outside our trailer. I never saw Ma again. Next day, I simply continued the routine. Cold, maybe. But Ma had never participated in my life anyway. I had walked to school every day since I’d started at five. It was the only place I could get a decent meal, so I ate two when possible. Then, when no one was looking, I stuffed extras in my pockets for dinner. The path to school took me down by the river, past rundown warehouses. Bearded men with tats, wearing leather jackets or vests, hung around outside the roll-up door with “Diablo” spray-painted across it. I couldn’t help but stare. Their clothes weren’t dirty like mine; the jackets were nicer than anything I’d ever owned; and they were always laughing. Damn, I wanted to laugh like that. The men were strong, but they weren’t the ones who came to our trailer. One man—an older one with a lined face, blond hair, and a short beard—pulled a cigarette from his mouth and waved each time I passed. Most days, women were also coming or going dressed in short, tight dresses. Their faces were painted, hair teased several inches from their heads. Except for the blond man, none of the others ever gave me a second glance. But each time I walked by in that week after Ma disappeared, I grew more and more curious. Maybe ten days after, I came home to a wide-open trailer door, a black and white parked on the road. I should have turned around then and there, but I hadn’t learned enough about life’s lessons yet. Flashback alert! Uniforms never listened. Twice, I’d tried to tell them about what went down in the trailer. The one at school had patted me on the head like a puppy. He glanced down at my arms below the sleeves of the two-sizes too-large T-shirt—searching for bruises, I assumed—and said, “You look well enough.” That may have been my first real lesson in how all adults lied to kids like me. Cops wouldn’t protect anyone from my hood. We were the ones they saved other people from. Inside my trailer, a policeman looked too comfortable. He sat in a folding chair at the old wire spool we called a dining room table. The cop leaned back so that his watermelon-sized gut stuck out like a pregnant woman’s belly. I worried about