Chapter Two-Patch

Sweet, little Delaney … 

Patch placed his empty plate on the edge of the coffee table, and leaned back against the loveseat so he could look at her without drawing attention. Delaney wasn’t what he remembered of her, not even in the last few years when he stopped by for the holidays. There was an evident few pounds she’d gained, he was sure because she’d gotten too comfortable with what’s his name, but damn him to hell, if she didn’t wear it well.

She’d definitely matured since the last time he’d seen her … when was that again? The latest he could remember was around Christmas in 2019. 

She hadn’t brought her boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend with her that year--which, had been fine with him. He had no desire to meet the guy, especially since Lucas filled him in on his lack of knowing how to do anything but study. Entitlement came to mind from what Lucas told him. 

Patch never imagined Delaney being with a man that couldn’t take care of her. She’d always been smart as all get-out, but not with fixing the sink or changing her oil.

Delaney needed a strong man to take care of her and handle her right.

Not that Patch was that guy, but what’s his face was surely not.

Their family had been a second one to him growing up, a place to lay his head and eat when he didn’t know where to go. 

The age gap between Patch and Delaney had been too big for him to consider her anything other than an annoying little sister.  

Oh, how times had changed. 

Those knees and elbows weren’t what drew attention anymore, and he had to hide his desire to pick her up like he would someone that piqued his interest like that, but this situation was different. 

Delaney was his best-friend’s kid sister. 

The best friend that got him out of trouble growing up, and fought guys twice his size because Patch hadn’t learned how to keep his mouth shut yet. The guy that welcomed him in with opened arms.

He couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

But oh how he wanted to. 

“I’m gonna hit the hay.”

Patch watched Lucas stand up and stretch, catching Delaney’s side eye. He rubbed her the wrong way in the kitchen, but that flustered look on her young face made him want to do it more and more. 

Patch stood abruptly, knowing Lucas didn’t want him alone with Delaney, and frankly he knew it wasn’t a good idea. 






The red light turned green as soon as the sun slid over the horizon. Patch had been an early riser since before he could remember. It was a good thing while growing up because he would get up in plenty of time to get himself ready for school. There was no alarm clock or a mother to wake him up. He was the only alarm clock.

The only choice for him to survive was to be the adult in the household. It hardened his skin at an early age, which was good considering his home life … or lack thereof. 

He revved his engine on his Dyna-Glide Super Glide Sport and gripped the handles. The clubhouse would be quiet this early in the morning and that was the reason he wanted to stop by then. 

He’d joined The Fallen Kings a year ago after his mom got into some trouble that he couldn’t handle alone. His friend Gabriel joined straight out of high-school and offered him an in. It was a blessing for Patch at the time to get his mother out of the crap she’d dug up for herself but hadn’t been what he wanted. 

Patch grew up mostly a loner besides Lucas’ family and Gabriel. Even the thought of a group made Patch’s skin crawl. Being committed to them and the things the president made him do was … unorthodox. 

But it was the only thing keeping his mom safe. 

To cover up the business The Fallen Kings really supplied which varied from protecting townspeople from the gangsters that’d taken over, The South Side, and selling weapons, they owned a garage to cover their tracks. 

Patch didn’t mind working in the garage, because it kept him busy with it being the only one within forty-five miles of the small town. It was his days off that he hated, because those were his days to handle other business. 

Unfortunately, Patch was the knuckles of the group. He’d learned how to fight at an early age, and Daz, the president, knew it. He’d put him to good use over the last two years. 

The small cement building sat behind the garage, which was lifeless liked he figured. The front lights of the clubhouse were on, and Gabriel’s motorcycle was parked out front.

Most of his brother’s had families and houses, so it was easy to convince Daz that he had a place to stay, even though that place wasn’t his own. 

Patch parked his bike, pushed out his kickstand and walked toward the front door. 

He unlocked the door and the smell of alcohol hit him hard. Most of the guys were drinkers but Patch wasn't. Growing up with a drug addicted mother and a continual flow of abusive men that went through their lives; he promised himself a long time ago he’d never go down that path. 

Patch hadn’t realized when he moved away to go to trade school that his mother would get pulled into the things she had, and he was her only hero. 

The only person that cared. 

Patch grabbed his handcuffs that he’d left under the mattress of his bunk and made his way toward the front office. 

Gabriel was perched on the wide wooden desk, with a cigarette in his mouth and a notebook of what looked like the garage’s numbers in his hand. 

Gabriel grew up down the street from where Patch had, but his mother and father were both there. His dad drank but paid the bills, and at least made an appearance in his life. 

Gabriel’s mom was Hispanic, and gave him a nice tan that the girls loved in high-school. His black bandana was wrapped round his head, and he wore one of the jumpsuits from the garage, unbuttoned and dirty. 

“Early morning for you, isn’t it?” Patch asked. 

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders, took a drag and put it out in the ashtray. “Yeah, Daz has been on my ass about getting these numbers caught up. We’re working today, so I thought I’d save myself an ass chewing and do it before he gets here.”

Patch looked out of the front window at Daz rolling in toward the garage in the distance.

“Right on time,” Patch said. 

“Where are you headed?” he asked, looking at the handcuffs in his hand. “Damn man,” he hissed, rubbing a palm over his face. “You need me to call one of the boys to go help you?They could hold her—,”

“Nah, man. This is my circus to tend to. I better get going though. Daz has some stuff he needs delivered afterwards.”

Gabriel nodded. “Call me if you need me.”

Patch hightailed it out of the clubhouse and onto his ride. Daz tossed a hand up from the doors of the garage when Patch passed. He didn’t need to stop and confirm anything with him because Daz knew Patch would do what he’d asked. 

He’d gotten Patch out of trouble and he owed him. 

He started down the road, past the railroad tracks, into the slums if you wanted to call it that. Home. 

His mother’s beat-up 1989 Pontiac sat underneath the only tree in the bare yard, with a dented in roof from a heavy limb that fell on it several years ago. It wasn’t like she could drive considering the situation she was in, because when you’re high on drugs, walking or running is just fine. 

You don’t feel the pain because of the adrenaline you have for your next fix.

The floorboard of the porch creaked along with the screened in door as he barreled through. The TV hummed from the other side, but the rattling of pans shook him. He pushed through the unlocked door to a disheveled house. His mother had never been clean, or a BettyHomemaker, but this looked more like someone ransacked the place. 

His mother’s piercing scream rattled against his ears from the kitchen and a pan followed, slamming against the hallway across from her. She stood in the middle of the room, hands tangled into her thin black hair. 

The clothes she wore fell off of her thin frame and showed the bag of bones that she’d become. 

Patch still envisioned the woman he’d remembered when he was five, before she fell into a soul sucking world of drugs. She’d been a pretty brunette with a kind smile and dimples that attracted all sorts of men—mostly the bad kind. 

Now she looked like walking death. 

“Where is it?” she screamed, her eyes feral. 


She stood up straight, her dilated gaze wondered over him like she hardly recognized her son. She hadn’t in some time. 

Her lip curled at the top, and a snarl he’d grown to expect, formed on her face. “I thought you were dead,” she spat. “What are you doing here? Did you take them you little punk? Did you take my drugs?”

The monster she grew into was a menacing one at most. The hateful things she tossed his way hardened Patch’s heart a long time ago. It’s one thing to know she’s just having withdrawals from lack of crack but a child doesn’t understand.

The damage had already been done. 

After being told that your mother wished you were dead so many times you start to believe her. 

“I flushed the drugs last night,” Patch said calmly. Because it never mattered who he beat up, she would find someone else to sell to her. They’d already had this fight, she just didn’t remember. 

“You son of a—,” she tossed a random dish at the wall but Patch didn’t flinch. Instead he tried to calm her down with his palm outward but she smacked him against the face. “I just need one hit and I won’t touch it again.”

The lucid smell of her breath hit his nose and a gag caught in his throat. “Mom, I think you need some breakfast. I’ll fix you so some eggs—,”

“I don’t want any damn eggs! I want my drugs!”

Here comes the storm. 

She swung wildly at him, missing, which gave him a chance to grab her arms and restrain her from moving. 

“You stupid prick!” she screamed, stomping her feet. In any other neighborhood he would have worried about what the neighbors would hear, but they’d stopped calling the police years ago. 

Patch easily maneuvered his mother into the next room, holding her arms against her sides and pulling her with outstretched feet toward the couch. Before she had a chance to claw his eyes like she had before, he chained her to a curved metal pole he’d had installed into the floorboard, with his handcuffs. 

Hisses and curses filtered from her throat in an assault that would have made the devil flinch. Patch had been through the ringer trying to get his mom to rehab over the years, and it never worked, because she could check herself out. 

The only way to keep his mother from overdosing was to keep her away from the drugs. 

Patch lit a cigarette, flipped over the overturned ottoman and took a seat. He knew it would only be a little while before her new dealer texted about buying another sack. 

“Please,” she begged, sitting up on her knees. “I’ll go straight to rehab if you let me go. I swear,” she said. 

Patch watched her from across the room, his eyes never leaving her small frame. “You’ve been saying that since I was in elementary,” he laughed. “It’s not gonna work. Where did you get any money to buy more, anyhow?”

He was scared to ask, but was sure he knew.

His mother curled her lip and kicked the coffee table over on its side. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her phone dinged from the bare mantel above a fireplace that hadn’t worked in years. 

“Let me have my phone,” she said, urgently. There was a plea in her tone that made Patch sad. He got up and opened the old flip-phone, seeing a new number that he didn’t recognize.

It read, got another sack for you when you’re ready.

“Who is it?” she screamed. 

Patch shoved her phone into his jeans’ pocket and walked toward the doorway. He’d learned to sit outside when she realized he wasn’t going to hand over the phone, because the amount of strength his mother had when she was tweaking astonished him more and more every day.

“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, but he let the door shut behind him. 

He sat on the concrete stairs in front of the worn house, and let his head hang between his shoulders. His tears ran out years before, to be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time he cried. 

But the feeling of guilt and shame never ran dry. 

It was all he could do to try and help his mother, but you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink. It’d worn him thin along the years, trying to stand up for her when no one else would. 

He just wondered when he’d get to stop wasting his life for hers. 

Comments (1)
goodnovel comment avatar
Patricia Oliver
I know exactly how patch is feeling about his mother because I felt the same about mine

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