Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)
Madeline Sheehan
PROLOGUE
There will always be a reason why you meet people. Either you need them to change your life or you’re the one that will change theirs.
—Angel Flonis Harefa
Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”
I don’t remember the day I was born, but I remember the day I found out why.
His name was Deuce.
He was my “why.”
And this is our story.
It is not a pretty one.
Some parts of it are downright ugly.
But it’s ours.
And because I believe everything happens for a reason, I wouldn’t change a thing.
CHAPTER ONE
I was five years old when I met Deuce. He was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Rikers Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”—the president of the infamous Silver Demons motorcycle club (mother chapter) in East Village, New York City—was doing a five-year stint for aggravated assault and battery with a deadly weapon. It was not the first time my father had been in prison, and it wouldn’t be the last. The Silver Demons MC was a notorious group of criminals who lived by the code of the road and gave modern society and all it entailed a great big f*ck-you.
My father was a powerful and dangerous man who ruled over all Silver Demons worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MCs. He had government connections and ties to the mafia, but what made him the most dangerous and most feared was his many connections to average, everyday people. People who didn’t run in his circle. People who were off the grid. People who could get things done quietly.
His way with words and his killer smile made him friends everywhere he went—and considering he’d been riding since he was in my grandmother’s womb, when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.
My father’s shortcomings, the constant crime, and the club lifestyle weren’t strange to me; it was all I knew.
I was holding my uncle “One-Eyed” Joe’s hand as we walked through Rikers’ family visiting room. Since my father was my only parent, my uncle Joe and aunt Sylvia had been given temporary custody of me. My mother, Deborah “Darling” Reynolds, had split a few weeks after I was born. Many men would have crumpled under the responsibility of a newborn baby, especially a biker who couldn’t handle more than a few weeks without needing the open road.
But not Preacher.
Aside from going to prison every once in a while, my father was a good dad, and I’d never wanted for a thing.
Dressed in an orange jumpsuit with his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, Preacher spotted us immediately and jumped up. He was hindered slightly by the handcuffs around his wrists, ankles looped together by a chain, and the prison guard standing behind him who shoved him back down.
“Eva,” he said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor, and my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.
“Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”
My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the time, but my big, strong, rough-and-tough father was trying not to cry.
Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” he said gruffly, “tell Daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”
Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee, Daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Fredericks, says even though I’m only in kindergarten, I can spell as good as a third grader!”
My father grinned.
Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.
“Do you know how old third graders are, Daddy?”
“How old, baby?” my father asked, laughing.
“They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”
“Proud of you, baby girl,” my father said, his eyes shining.
I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world. My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.
Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva, honey, why don’t you go get somethin’ from the snack machines so Daddy and I can have a word.”
This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a word”—words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since all the boys loved me, gave me lots of hugs, let me ride on their shoulders, and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being able to celebrate Christmas every day.
I took my uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack machines. Two people were in line ahead of me, so I did what I always did when I was bored—I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening to New Kids on the Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played around the club. A particular favorite of mine was “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. So there I was, shaking my butt and singing “Summertime” way, way out of tune, waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Rikers Island family visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”