The Broken Pieces of Us(3)

By: M.N. Forgy



“You are going to fucking pay for my hair; I just had those extensions put in!” she shrieks, looking at the strands of hair falling from her head.

“Yeah, don’t hold your breath, doll,” I spit angrily.

“Wait until my mother hears of this,” she threatens. I curl my lip, looking at her in confusion. Why the fuck would I care what her mother thinks?

I shut and lock the doors, scowling at the slut littering my courtyard.



I jump in my truck and fly out of the courtyard of the club, my eyes leaking uncontrollable tears as my mouth makes this horrible sobbing sound.

“Fucking asshole!” I scream as my foot pushes down on the gas pedal.

“I knew he was cheating, I knew it, and he didn’t have one ounce of guilt!” I yell, my voice echoing through the truck. It started several months ago; he started staying at the club overnight. As the weeks carried on, he began to stay at the club for days on end. He tried to blame Bull, but I knew better, especially when I came across a pink lacey thong, which wouldn’t even fit my left tit, in Locks’ jean pocket. When he didn’t come home last night, equaling a week total he hasn’t been home, I came to the club pissed, and find out exactly what I had expected the whole time. He’s been sleeping around on me.

Another sob escapes my mouth. He hit me. He actually fucking hit me, and I did nothing in return. Why? How could I not stand up for myself?

Locks and I met several years ago at the Dirty Barrels. My dad split when I was twelve, and when my mother died of cancer a few years ago, I came to California to be with my sister. I’m starting to think it was a big mistake. I should have stayed in Texas.

“You are way too gorgeous to be working at a place like this.” I looked over from making a rum and coke and saw a guy my mother would have killed if I had brought him home. He had his long blond hair pulled back, tattoos up and down his arms, a leather vest that had patches on it, and the most ruthless grin I’d ever seen.

“Flattery don’t pay my bills, babe,” I sassed, making him laugh.

He stayed until closing time. Every time I glanced up, he was staring at me with smiling eyes. I literally felt my skin burning from his intrusive stare.

“Last call,” I warned him, wiping up the bar where he sat alone.

“What’s your name?” he asked, sipping what’s left of his jack and coke. I bit my lip, debating if I wanted to tell him what I told all the drunk men hitting on me, or really tell him my name. I looked back at him, thinking. He tilted his head to the side and smiled, making me melt on the spot. Why not? I wasn’t getting any younger and I could use some excitement.

“My name is Delilah,” I finally answered, my skin tingling from the excitement sweeping through me.

“Delilah,” he said, my name playing on his lips. “Well, Delilah, I’m Locks,” he said, putting his hand over the bar for me to shake.

“Locks?” I asked, confused. What kind of name was that?

“Yeah, it’s my road name,” he said, tugging on his cut, which hugged his shoulders perfectly.

“What is a road name?” I questioned, laughing. “Why do they call you that?” I continued to interrogate.

He smirked, his finger playing with the rim of his glass.

“What?” I inquired, curious what was so funny.

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He smiled, his brown eyes meeting mine again.

I shrugged. I’d been told I talked a lot; when in reality, I just asked and said what was on my mind. A lot of people didn’t do that, too afraid of pissing someone off. I couldn’t care less; take me as I am.

“I’m a part of a motorcycle club called the Devil’s Dust,” he informed. I had seen the group of bikes flying back and forth through town. They were rugged, tattooed, and sexy.

“So how did you get your road name?” I questioned. He smirked and eyed his glass.

“I’ll tell you what, you go for a ride with me, I’ll tell you why they call me Locks,” he suggested, his hand slapping the bar’s counter.

I grinned. “On a motorcycle?” I asked, my face feeling like it was going to split from smiling so wide.

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