The Breakfast Club

Savannah

I hate him.

I do.

I ab-so-fucking-lutely hate Damon Henley.

“I hate you.”

“Just wipe! It’s not a big deal!”

I buckle down.

There is no right way to wipe my vagina with dignity.

Once he sees this, there is no going back.

How do the people in jail do it?

Fifteen girls, one toilet?

No privacy?

No thanks.

Hard pass.

HARD PASS.

“At least close your eyes! I can’t do this with you looking!”

I want to kick him in the face if I’m being honest.

What an utter assclown for making me go through this with him in the front row!

I will never forgive this as long as I live.

“Fucking fine! There, you happy?” He closes his eyes, and I make a mad scramble for the toilet paper and wipe myself before slamming the silver handle to flush.

I would not let him see my pee.

Nope.

I will hold on to the tiny sliver of self-respect I still have and banish my yellow liquid.

Picking me back up, Damon takes me to the bed, making sure to keep my bad leg out and straight on the mattress.

Turning away from me, he grabs my SpongeBob backpack and starts pulling clothes out left and right.

“What are you doing now?”

Braiding my fingers through my thick hair, I manage to comb it up a little bit.

“I’m getting you something to wear. Can’t have breakfast naked, baby,” he grumbles.

Yeah, I’m not happy about it either.

Picking out a yellow tank top and a brown pair of shorts, I nix his idea of what he pulled.

“Skirt or dress, Angel. Those shorts won’t fit over the brace.”

I’m actually surprised Percy didn’t think of that when he packed it.

He was the one that helped me dress for the better part of five months when I was in plaster casts and held stitches across my body.

With a nod, Damon heads back in the bag to pull out a baby blue pleated skirt, one I haven’t worn in over a year.

It was one of the things left forgotten about with the move from my house to Uncle Jonah’s.

“Two thumbs up. Now, I need panties and a bra. Can’t have my girls popping out with the morning coffee now, can we?”

I raise an eyebrow to see if I was going to be served my breakfast in bed.

Damon pulls out a black pair of panties and a red bra. I didn’t even care at this point.

Sure, the bra was going to show and that’s like the first step in white trashy fashion, but it’s not like I give a shit about what other people think.

Dressing me, Damon makes sure to fondle any bare skin he can find.

“Keep on and I’ll have you right back to undressing me, sir.”

I swat his ass before taking a handful and whooping.

My man has a nice ass.

“Bubble butt, bubble, bubble, bubble butt.”

I sing-song as I fist pump.

He ignores me and my musical skills as he strolls to his dresser and covers up his body.

His leather vest goes on last before he comes back to me and carries me out of the room like I am too precious to touch the floor of the bar.

My bare feet hang over his elbow, my brace keeping my knee safe on the cushion that looks like some kind of hurt locker trap I have stumbled into.

The place is pretty much empty. A few stragglers work around the tables and booths to clean up from the previous night’s excursions.

Taking me into the kitchen, I am surprised to find one of the men that hang around Luci at the stove.

Laying me out just like last time, buffet style. Damon ignores the cold glare of the dark-haired man to pull out eggs, bacon, and vegetables.

“Good morning, sir,” I offer up, trying to wade through the awkward tension that has sprung from our entrance into the restaurant-quality kitchen.

“He won’t talk to you, Vannah. Uncle Lawrence believes the same shit dad does.”

Uncle?

The man grunts.

“Oh, well. That will change soon enough. I only have three trials left.”

Damon pulls out bowls and a whisk. His uncle turns around to face me, crosses his arms at his chest, and leans against the metal cabinets behind him.

“Where did you learn to fight?”

He talks to me.

Damon pauses, looking over his shoulder to look at me and then at his uncle.

“My dad and Uncle Jonah. They got me some boxing lessons from the rec center when I was a kid.”

His uncle’s face is like a mask of blank expression, just like Luci and Damon whenever they want to pull it on.

“Only your knee is fucked?”

Again, he speaks.

“From the fight? Yes, sir. I don’t know how bad it is as of yet.”

A loud, obnoxious burp comes from behind me, following a ting of a bottle clinking off another in the trash can.

I lift slightly to see a battered and bruised Grave hanging in the doorway.

Purple and red streaks mar his face, black stitching crawls from his chin to the hook in his nose.

“Well, you look like shit. Want some breakfast?” I offer, like I’m the one cooking.

A twinge of a smirk twitches at the creases of his mouth before it fades away completely.

“Whatcha got?” His voice hoarse and straining like he was yelling all night.

“Uhh. Angel, what are you making me?”

Damon, not looking up from the string of cracking one egg after another, tells us the menu for our first meal of the day.

Omelets and bacon.

“Sure. I’ll eat.” Grave hangs out by the door, eyeballing my knee along with Lawrence.

“So do you not have a nickname, sir?”

I try to be respectful with Damon’s uncle.

Why? I give everyone the same chance.

“Why?” he grumbles gruffly, flipping his steak in the skillet while adding an entire bottle of beer.

~Guy, are you okay? It’s nine in the morning.~

“Lawrence is an unusual name for a...I don’t know, biker king’s brother? I apologize, I don’t know what to call you exactly.”

Grave stares.

Damon starts in on cutting the veggies he has brought out.

I’m a little shocked—I didn’t know Damon knew what vegetables were, seeing how he didn’t put anything but meat in his tacos.

Not even cheese.

~That’s not a taco!~

~That’s just a hamburger in a shell.~

“That’s because you don’t belong here, girl.”

Luci unfortunately joins this breakfast club.

Damon stops chopping to give a glare at the man in question.

“Nobody belongs here, Luci. This is misfit island with leather and liquor,” I fire back without missing a beat.

Luci stalks to the fridge, opening it with this cocky smirk on his face.

The sounds of Damon’s knife hitting the wooden chopping block is the only thing to be heard. Not even the sizzle of the steak frying in beer is able to reach my ears.

“Happy birthday, Savannah,” Luci showers me in his attention, with both fridge doors wide open and a smile on his face that shows his full set of white teeth.

It’s fake and he knows what he’s doing, but I can handle my own.

Smiling back with a hand on my heart, I give him an “Aw, thank you.”

As I sit up, keeping my damn leg straight and off of any pressure.

“Today’s your birthday?” Grave snatches the limelight.

Meeting his hazel eyes, much like my own I’m noticing, even under the black eye and swelling. A touch more brown than mine.

“No, yesterday was. But we were pretty occupied.” I brush it off.

I’m sure Lucien was just being a dick to me about getting into a cage match on my birthday. I won’t let anyone really know how I detest the day.

“Your birthday was yesterday? How old are you?” Grave’s position changes in the doorway, no longer slouching, instead he now looked interested.

“Yep. Thanks for the birthday present. I wish I could return it. I’m officially eighteen.”

I point to my knee and try to make a joke to lift the vibe going around us.

Damon mixes the eggs and red and green vegetables up in a bowl before pouring them out on a hot and waiting skillet.

Grave stares, looking at me with newfound intrigue that I don’t know why would cover his swollen features in such a way.

“Hear that, brother? Eighteen. Shit, it feels like just yesterday we were all out on the town, raising hell on our own eighteenth birthday. What did you do for yours again, Lucien?”

Lawrence plates his ~need for an AA meeting in meat~ on his plate.

“Shit, that was so long ago I don’t remember. What about you, Grave? What did you do on your eighteenth birthday?”

Luci shuts the doors and leans against it like the smug asshole that he is.

The white T-shirt seems all the brighter under the shiny black leather that hangs at his sides.

Grave stiffens.

The few spots of his face left unblemished by my attack yesterday now look harsh pink and growing brighter by the ticking of time.

“I was getting laid.”

He bit out.

Luci and Lawrence forced a laugh.

“Hey so was, Van.” Daxon stepped in right on cue, in nothing but a far too small pair of black boxers.

Far too small now that I am with Damon.

If I wasn’t with my chosen man, I would comment on how his—no!

I can’t even comment like that anymore.

~Can I?~

“I was indeed. Good morning, Ducky.”

Daxon’s smile dropped off his fresh face to land smack dab on the floor.