Dynasty (Boys of Winter 1)

Before they have a chance to recover, my thigh-high boot kicks the stand, and I straighten my bike. Hitting the ignition, I feel the familiar rumble of its proud engine beneath me.

Get out of here, Winter. This isn’t the place you want to be caught hanging around longer than necessary.

I’ll never get enough of it. I won this bike in a bet last year, and it’s the best thing I ever did. My Ducati is my best friend. As long as I have it, it gives me the choice to always be free, and while I’m stuck in the system for another two months, that tiny bit of freedom I get from my bike is absolutely everything to me. Besides, it’s sleek and sexy as fuck, so what girl in her right mind wouldn’t love it?

As the men get to their feet, I flip down the visor of my helmet and lean forward to grip the handlebars. My hand twists on the throttle, and like lighting, my Ducati flies down the street, leaving nothing but a mess and one hell of a good lesson in my wake.

My Ducati roars through the streets of Ravenwood Heights, racing past the massive glass buildings of the city. I see my reflection as I fly past each building, distorted and edgy, making a smile play on my lips. Call me an egotistical asshole, but there’s nothing better than seeing myself on my bike. The curve of my ass in nothing but leather as I lean forward and grip the handlebars with my thigh-high boots that warn fuckers not to mess with me. The way my cropped tank flies around in the wind, showing off my toned stomach, and my black helmet with a crippling design of a skull across the side. I love it. I love everything about who I am, except for one big thing.

I’m one of the many foster kids wishing they were anywhere but where they are.

I’ve jumped around from home to home since I was born. It’s funny how easily you can be rehomed when you’re an innocent child with nothing but cute curls, big rosy cheeks, and a smile that could win the heart of any foster parent. But once you hit those dreaded teen years and find yourself in more trouble than anyone has the right to be, you’re pushed away over and over again, you’re forgotten, and hated. I can’t even count how many homes and schools I’ve been in. But what I do know is that this is my last.

I’ll be eighteen in two months, and then I’ll be free. I’ll be out of the system and able to build a life for myself. Though I don’t really know what’s going to happen because, in order to make something of myself, I need to graduate school, and I can guarantee these bastards I’m living with now will kick me out the second their checks stop. After that, it’s going to be nearly impossible to enroll in another school with my record.

This has to be my last school. I have to make it work … somehow.

I came to this shithole of a town three days ago, and tomorrow, I’ll be starting at Ravenwood Heights Academy. Years ago, the thought of starting at a new school was daunting as all hell, but now, it’s more like a normal Monday morning.

I don’t know how I managed to get enrolled in this place. Some serious strings must have been pulled. This school is for rich kids, and the last time I was enrolled at a place like this, they had some bullshit community service program where they took in less fortunate students. I’m sure this is going to be the same deal, which means that from the very beginning, I’m going to get their pitying stares and snide comments.

I can’t wait. It’s going to be a blast … not.

Though, I can’t say it’s any different from any other school I’ve been to. I’ve always been the ‘poor foster girl’ or the ‘troubled girl’ who needs to be kept away. Everywhere I go, it’s always the same. There’s no point trying to clear my name because, for the most part, it’s true. Other kids’ parents are scared of me. They don’t want me hanging out with their precious babies, they don’t want me getting cozy with their sons, they just want me away, but fuck them. I’m not here to impress other people; I’m here to make it through school and get the hell out.

It’s getting late and instead of heading straight back to my eighteenth home from hell, I make a detour. Taking the long way means I’ll avoid the inevitable bullshit from Irene and Kurt. They hate me, but I don’t care. I hate them too. They’re assholes. It’s as though we have a silent agreement between us. I stay out of their way, and they get to cash a check at the end of the month. It’s only two months anyway, which only goes to show how desperate they are for cash. If Kurt wasn’t so dependent on alcohol and Irene stepped away from the slot machines, they probably wouldn’t be in this position. In fact, I don’t even know how they got themselves in this position. Surely there must be a red flag against their names.