The stark ring of my cell pulls me for my thoughts. Without looking at the caller ID, I slide my thumb across the screen and bring the phone to my ear. "You got Grady."
"Mr. Grady, this is Principal Beck. I need you to come down to the school. There has been an incident between Cheyenne and her counselor, Ms. Mercer."
“What did Mercer do to my kid?” I snap. This bitch is barking up the wrong fucking tree.
“Actually, Sir. Cheyenne lashed out and, should Ms. Mercer choose to do so, she can be suspended for her behavior.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a few,” I say and hang up. Just as I shove my phone back into my pocket, I blow out a frustrated breath and scrub my face with my hands.
“Have a kid, you said,” I say as I stare intently at the Forsaken logo that rests above “CHIEF” in bold lettering. “It’s the best feeling in the world, you said. Look, I ain’t blaming you because I didn’t wrap my shit, brother. Alls I’m saying is that you could have given me a head’s up.”
The ride to the school is short, but it gives me time to think shit over. My mother doesn’t say too much, but she’s obviously worried that I’m not snapping out of this funk. Mourning, she says, is one thing, “but this place you’re in is dangerous.”
As I park my bike and head into the office, I take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand. Chey’s been struggling the last few months, and I don’t know why. She won’t talk to me, and she swears nothing’s wrong. If she tells me she’s “fine” one more time, I’m sending her ass to Ruby. She’s probably the one person on the planet who hates that word more than I do.
“I’m here for Cheyenne Grady,” I say.
It’s no use, but I try to keep my bad fucking mood from getting even worse. Shit is not good anywhere these days, and now I have to deal with straightening Ms. Mercer’s stupid ass out. Fucking perfect. For some reason, this bitch has it out for my kid, and I’ve had enough of it. I got no doubt that Chey earned herself some trouble, but why now? I bet Mercer’s got an ax to grind with the club—just like her cock-sucking boss—and she’s taking it out on Chey. While most people in Fort Bragg are cool with the club, there are a few who turn their noses up at us, and apparently this glorified paper pusher is one of them. We’re too loud, too wild, and too dangerous.
If only they knew.
“Yes, Mr. Grady,” the woman behind the desk says in a faux polite tone. The name plate on her desk reads MARGOT FLORES. She hits the ancient buzzer beside her computer and announces to the principal, Mr. Beck that I have arrived. It’s but a few moments before I see him striding down the hallway with a scowl on his face.
“Mr. Grady,” he says, “Thank you for coming down so quickly.”
He leads me down the hall to his office—a place I’ve never been before. Until recently, Chey’s never had trouble at school. The only trouble I’ve heard about has been from this Mercer bitch, which leads me to believe she’s full of shit. My daughter is a good kid—she just occasionally has to deal with a rough patch, almost always after she sees her mom.
“Yeah,” I say and follow him into his office. It’s small, and every bit of furniture appears to be an aged wood and olive mix. In one corner, near a bookcase filled with awards, is Chey. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her eyes are wet with freshly fallen tears. In the other corner is Ms. Mercer. Her light brown hair is falling in her face as her head is tilted toward her lap. Mr. Beck gestures to a chair between the two, and I sit as he rounds his desk and takes his place.
“We had an incident during a counseling session that needs your attention,” he says.
“What happened?” I ask, looking at Chey. She pulls her lip in and diverts her eyes, a sure sign that she did something she knows damn well she shouldn’t have. When she doesn’t meet my eyes, I wrap my hands around the wooden arm rests of my chair and take a deep breath. “Cheyenne, look at me.”
Still, her eyes don’t lift to mine.
“During a counseling session where Ms. Mercer expressed concern for Cheyenne, your daughter made a comment which was inappropriate and requires immediate attention. She used a curse word to describe Ms. Mercer,” Mr. Beck says.
“You curse at this lady?” I ask Chey, who is determined to be unresponsive. When I finally tire of staring at the top of her fucking head, I turn my attention the other direction toward the bitch who’s started all this shit. I don’t know what went down, and to be honest, I only kind of care. Mercer’s had it out for Chey for months now, and I wouldn’t put it past her to push my kid’s buttons to see what happens.
“What did she say?” I ask Ms. Mercer, who is now looking me in the eye. For such a bitch, she’s pretty fuckable. Her complexion is nice and smooth, and she has light brown eyes that are complemented by her light brown hair and pale skin.