How About No (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 3)

Prologue

No goats, no glory.

-T-shirt from Tractor Supply

Landry

5 years old

The needle hurt. The nice nurse said that it would, but she didn’t have to tell me that it would. I already knew.

“When you wake up, you’ll feel a little sore,” the nice nurse lied.

I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.

My mommy and daddy didn’t like it when I cried.

***

7 years old

“Hi there, Landry. Are you in any pain?” the nurse asked.

I nodded as I thought that I didn’t know her name.

What was the point?

“Okay, I’ll get you something.” The nurse bustled out, and I took a quick glance around the room. My mommy and daddy weren’t there.

They were likely two floors away with Lina.

They were always with Lina.

I shifted before I thought about it, and pain shot through my hips and a short gasp fell free of my lips.

I didn’t cry, though. Crying never got me anywhere.

***

12 years old

“But, Mom! I don’t want to do another one!” I cried out.

I didn’t know why I was arguing. Hell, it never got me anywhere.

But God, I was just so tired.

I couldn’t be a kid. I couldn’t have fun. I couldn’t go anywhere. Couldn’t do anything.

I wanted cake! I wanted to go outside and play. I wanted to go to a bookstore and chance getting sick! I wanted a life!

“You don’t get a choice in this, Landry Marine. You get to do what you’re told because I’m the one who puts a roof over your head and food in your mouth,” my father practically snarled.

I felt the anger burn in my throat, but what he said was true. He did pay for those things.

Though, I would gladly give up those two things if I was able to live the life I wanted to live.

My life—from the moment I was conceived in a test tube and implanted into the body of a woman who wasn’t even my mother—had been for someone else’s benefit.

It sure the heck wasn’t mine.

I was created for the sole purpose of offering their daughter—the wonderful Lina—a chance at life.

Me? Well, the only reason they wanted me healthy was because if I wasn’t healthy, I couldn’t donate bone marrow to Lina when it was needed.

And it had been needed—many times.

But, lucky for everyone but me, Lina got better every time.

The only problem was that she would only get sick again six to twelve months later.

I was, of course, the last resort.

But, that didn’t mean that I got to live my life in between those times when my sister wasn’t considered sick.

Nope, not me.

I got to eat broccoli and asparagus. I only got fruits that weren’t high in carbs.

White bread was a no-go, and I only ate the healthiest meals—lean chicken, whole grain rice.

I had my first and only bite of cake at a birthday party I was invited to, but my mother had slapped it out of my hand before I could get a second bite in.

That one had gotten me grounded for two months.

Not that it mattered.

I didn’t have a life outside of my home anyway.

I was the most boring, in shape twelve-year-old on the planet.

My parents made sure of it.

***

15 years old

Everything hurt.

But there would be no pain medicine for me, though, on the off chance that I became addicted to it.

Those were my mother’s words, not mine.

She watched over me like a hawk, and there was no way in hell that I’d ever get addicted to anything when she chose each and every thing that went into my mouth.

“Landry,” my mother chided when I walked into the living room and immediately put my ass on the couch. “Go to your room. We don’t want to listen to the television right now.”

I looked around the room at my parents who’d walked in behind me.

Not that they’d be staying.

My mother would go to her solarium while my father went to his office.

There they’d spend the next couple hours working and or entertaining.

“Would you mind dropping this off in Lina’s room on your way? She called and asked for a Happy Meal from McDonald’s when you were in surgery.”

I swallowed my anger and stood up, even though it hurt so bad that I could barely breathe.

Each time I donated, it only seemed to get worse and the recovery stretched out longer.

The pain lasted for weeks on top of weeks instead of the short intervals that I’d had in the beginning.

I was so young the first time that I underwent this procedure that I don’t remember the recovery—I just remembered pain.

And that didn’t even begin to factor in the depression that took me down for even longer.

“Sure,” I croaked, grabbing the Happy Meal off the counter. “Are you sure I won’t get germs on it?”

“Would you mind spraying the box down with Lysol, washing your hands, and then putting it out on a clean plate?” my father asked as he passed on his way to his office.