Ice (Regulators MC 1)

Walking away, I don’t bother to look back, even when I hear the whimpering of her crying behind me. We sell pussy, but the girls we have for that don’t earn that place with their bodies. It is an agreement they have, and it is not one earned by freely giving out the merchandise. Yeah, I am one fucking cold-hearted bastard. Tell me something I don’t already know.

Morgan

Pulling up to my parent’s house, I take a deep breath. One day, I will learn to say no. One day, I will not answer their summons. One day, I will be free of their hold.

Too bad my parents spent so much time drilling their rules into me and not my younger sisters. Madyson is untamed and reckless. She thinks she is invincible, that nothing will touch her. Whereas Mallory is more reserved, emotional, dark, and brooding. I think my youngest sister faces a serious need for attention, or she is dealing with teen depression. She wears all black, all the time. Her eyebrow piercing, her nose piercing, and the one she has above her lip she calls a Monroe piercing were all done by her friend in her bedroom. She is only fourteen; why put holes in your body while so young?

Getting out of my car, I walk up the curved sidewalk lined with a variety of flowers and Hosta plants. I know, without looking, that the brightly colored garden extends to across the front of the house and around to the back where my mother keeps a large, pristine garden to entertain guests in. The sight of the well-maintained flowers only serves to make me angry since I know she pays the gardener a fortune to keep up the numerous plants. It is money they don’t really have since they are drowning in debt, due to gratuitous spending on an almost lavish lifestyle they can’t afford yet feel like they need. Heck, they can’t afford this gaudy, over-sized house. Will they sell it and move into something more affordable, though? No.

I pause as I open the six thousand dollar mahogany door with a decorative window. Staring at the Victorian design in the glass, I think about making a run for it. I don’t want to be here, but if I defy their summons, I know my parents will take it out on my sisters. They have it hard enough; I don’t need to make it worse for them.

Walking in, the nostalgia one should feel when coming home fails to wash over me. While I take my shoes off at the front door, as I have been trained to do, I pause to take in my childhood home.

Mahogany wood flooring runs throughout the house and is covered here and there in lavish Turkish rugs. To my right is the formal sitting room where an antique settee, chaise, and wingback chair sit facing each other in front of an ornate fireplace. Seeing that stupid chaise brings back bad memories of my mother teaching me how a ‘lady’ lounges on one.

Ignoring the staircase to my left that would lead me to my sister’s bedrooms, as well as my old room, I move down the front hall. The walls are not covered in family photos or anything else that would showcase a parent’s love for their children. No, instead, there are large oil paintings of foxhunts and carriage rides through old English cities. The few family pictures that are present are staged for one to grab a quick look and move on to something else.

The hallway leads me to the living room, which looks much the same as the formal sitting room. Over on the side of the room, I see a new, opulent, antique console table with a white marble top. I don’t want to know how many thousands of dollars that cost my father. What is apparent is that my mother is still living well beyond her means, as if she were married to a cardiac surgeon instead of the family dentist my father is.

Blowing out a deep breath, I plaster on a fake smile and get ready to face the lion’s den. It is all about appearances. Fake it until you make it back out the door.

Walking into the formal dining room, I see my father is already seated at the head of the table, reading a newspaper, as my mother sets a large pot roast down. Noticeably absent are both of my sisters, meaning I will be facing my parents alone. Great.

I politely greet both of them before my father waves me to the chair next to him. Do either of my parents bother to get up and give me a hug or kiss on the cheek? No. God forbid they actually show their children any affection. What would the neighbors think? We wouldn’t want old Mrs. Ackerman telling everyone they coddled their girls.