Thumper (Cerberus MC)

Chapter 1

Cara

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a princess. I wanted the sparkly crown and the pretty shoes. I wanted the doting parents and for my prince to come along and vow to protect me. He would hold my hand and look at me with love in his eyes.

My prince would slay dragons.

At eight years old, when my absentee father walked out for the last time, I realized I needed to amend my dreams.

At fifteen, when my mother joined a religious sect, I was told I shouldn’t have dreams at all. Mind you, I had never set foot in a church before this point.

At sixteen, I was informed that my life was already planned for me. I was to marry Charles McKnight, leader of Knight Salvation. This union, I was told, was the only way to get into heaven, to find real redemption for the sins everyone is inherently born with.

Charles was not my prince. Even if the fast-talking evangelist wasn’t married to my mother and over a dozen other women, even if he was riding on the back of a gorgeous white horse, clad in armor ready to fight to the death in my honor, he couldn’t be my prince.

Noble men don’t leer at girls too young to vote. They don’t make comments referencing their sword and how joining him in their marital bed will enable them to rule in the kingdom of heaven.

My only saving grace is that even though Charles McKnight is a pervert, his rules about marriage and obligations didn’t happen until his future bride was eighteen. After overhearing a conversation on the phone, I learned quickly that had more to do with flying under the radar and not being arrested for sexual assault of a minor than his true beliefs. His eyes didn’t lie when he gawked at us. The man was a creep.

So, at seventeen, I left the compound. I’d be a fool to stick around for a ceremony to a disgusting man who was so far from a prince even the toads on the riverbank would be disgusted looking at him.

I quickly realized princes don’t exist. Men with fluffy blond hair and white smiles were also the devil in disguise. Their crowns were as crooked as their souls, and their only intent was to use, abuse, and throw away.

By twenty, I had to come to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be rescued; I had to do it myself.

Now, at twenty-four, I know I’m the only one I can depend on. I no longer wear rose-colored glasses or let the fantasy of being the only woman a man sees take up real estate in my head.

It took years of hard work and mistakes to come to the only conclusion I can stomach.

Men aren’t shit.

They aren’t saviors.

They aren’t misunderstood.

They. Aren’t. Shit.

Well, they aren’t anything good.

They’re predators, seeing women as their prey.

We’re the inferior sex, the ones who can be mistreated and taken advantage of, and if a woman is too strong-willed to be mentally manipulated, they can easily use brute force to get what they want.

There are a lot of factors that have led up to my current situation, and as I try to drown out the sound of sniffling to my right, I try to figure out where I went wrong.

Leaving home at seventeen wasn’t a hard decision. I knew I had to do it. It didn’t mean that it was easy. None of the last seven years has been easy, but I had determination.

I got my GED and was lucky enough to find a roommate after only three months on the street. I managed to stay away from the men who saw me as a paycheck because there was no shortage of men willing to let me earn some money on my back. It seems Charles isn’t the only deviant who is into young girls. The world is full of them, and at seventeen, I stepped out of the frying pan and jumped headfirst into the fire.

I worked at a diner until I was old enough to take college classes but was turned away because I couldn’t get financial aid. Did you know that you have to be legally emancipated to not have to include your mother’s income? It doesn’t matter that you escaped from a cult. The government doesn’t care.

I shake my head, trying to rid it of the bitterness I still haven’t been able to let go of even after all these years.

Instead of college, I ended up taking classes at a skilled nursing facility for geriatric residents—a nursing home. I couldn’t be picky with work. The classes were paid for, and a job after passing the state test was guaranteed. The pay was more than minimum wage, and I didn’t have to worry about handsy truckers grabbing my ass at the diner. Some of the men at the nursing home were just as grabby, but they’re much slower, old age having increased their response time.