Before the infamous picture, I had forever been labeled a child of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club because my father was a member. I can’t decide if in the ticket taker’s eyes whore is better than Terror spawn. She probably assumes the two are related.

“Vi,” he starts again, but my muscles tense as my patience wears thin.

“It’s just a ticket.” This time the calm in my voice is forced and so is the smile. “I need you to be able to buy a ticket.”

Brandon’s shoulders slump forward, and I hate that I snapped, but if he can’t buy a ticket to a football game, how can he buy himself food when he grows older?

There are months remaining until I graduate from high school, and even if I figure out how to take him with me when I leave, I won’t be around to take care of him forever. He needs to learn to take care of himself. It’s what we all have to learn.

The people in front of us walk off with tickets. A mom, a dad, a brother, a sister. Middle class and grinning from ear to ear. I seriously hate each and every one of them for being happy. I know, that makes me bitter, but sometimes bitter happens.

“You can do this.” I take Brandon’s hand in mine and give a reassuring squeeze. “I know you can.”

Brandon swallows hard, but nods. A combination of nervous energy and pride rushes through my veins as he grasps my hand in return and fists the cash in his other hand. He’s going to face his fears. The lift of my lips is genuine now. My brother believes in himself, and I believe in him and maybe we’re both going to be okay.

Right as Brandon takes a courageous step forward, two black leather vests slip in front of us and staring back at me is a half skull with fire blazing out of its eye sockets.

The world surrounding me turns red, and my blood begins to boil. “There’s a line and you just cut.”

Eli, one of my father’s once best friends, glances over his shoulder and winks at us as he pulls out his wallet. Like always, he has dark hair cut close to his head, plugs in his ears and a huge grin like we should be glad to see him. “I got you covered.”

Fabulous. Here comes the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club riding in on their black Harleys determined to save the day of people who really need to learn how to save themselves.

“No, really, we got this,” I insist.

I try to muscle my way past to pay, but Eli’s right-hand man, Pigpen, plants himself in front of me like the towering sack of testosterone and annoyance that he is. Then he’s on the move and I somehow find myself away from the ticket booth.

“Surprised to see you here, Violet.” Pigpen is in his late twenties and thinks he’s all handsome with his blond hair and big muscles. Because he was a Navy SEAL or Army Ranger or something outrageous like that, he also thinks he’s awesome, but he doesn’t impress me. “Surprised you’re here, but happy to see you. You haven’t been at a game all year.”

“I’ve been busy,” I say.

“Is that what you call avoiding anyone from the Terror? Busy?”

“Works for me.”

“Hi, Pigpen!” Brandon is lit up like a firefly who was convinced the rest of his species was extinct. Eli, of course, enjoying the role of savior, has his arm around Brandon’s shoulders as they join us.

“Hey, Stone.” Pigpen calls my brother by the stupid nickname the club created for him. “How’s it going?”

“Good. They bought our tickets, Vi!”

“Yep, they sure did, because little ol’ me couldn’t handle the big ol’ ticket booth on my own.” Heavy on the sarcasm and then a hard glare at Eli. “Brandon was going to buy his own ticket.”

Eli rolls his neck like he’s the one who owns the right to be annoyed. “Most people say thank you.”

“You’re missing the point.”

Eli pats my brother’s back. “Why don’t you head in with Pigpen? I’d like to catch up with Violet.”

Brandon bounces like a damn puppy dog given a treat and then rushes off into the stadium, leaving me with Thing Two. And to think my brother called me Vi. The little traitor.

“Pigpen,” I call out. “Don’t leave him.”

I forced my brother to tattle today, and while the football game will make him smile, I’m also taking a calculated risk that the people he told on won’t be here. If they are here, I’m betting they won’t mess with Brandon as long as I’m around.

“You worry too much,” Pigpen answers without glancing back.

When it comes to my brother, they don’t worry enough about the right problems.

Eli watches as Brandon and Pigpen go into the stadium. Instead of taking a left for the bleachers, they go right for the concession stand, and I’m contemplating how to stab Pigpen in the jugular. Concession food brings my brother into a near state of euphoria, and because of the crappy day my brother and I had, I wanted to be the one who made him happy with a hot dog, nachos and a slushy.

Motorcycle men around the world, as far as I’m concerned, can just plain suck it.

Eli turns to me, and my heart aches. Good God, he reminds me of Chevy. An older version, but still the relation is clear. Like Chevy, Eli’s a McKinley. Chestnut hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders. I’ve often wondered if Chevy will be Eli’s clone when he grows older. Eli is Chevy’s uncle. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if Chevy resembled Eli as he aged, but it’s the fear of Chevy becoming the warrior and convict that Eli is that drove Chevy and me apart.