On a Tuesday in June just before I finished fourth grade, I received a metaphorical life-altering gut punch. Until then, I’d been a happy kid, comfortable in my skin. My father ran the local motorcycle club along with a few legit—and not so legit—businesses. He was influential in our hometown of Ellsberg—well-liked by some, feared by others. My mom was a popular third-grade teacher. They met at the local small college and built their dream house on the same property as my grandparents.

As the youngest of four children, I felt cherished by my parents like most kids could only dream. Based on my good fortune growing up, I had confidence to spare. Though I wasn’t the smartest kid or the best looking, I was Audrey Johansson, and that meant something in my world.

Back in elementary school, a fifth grader named Josi Deacon hated me. I was the bane of her existence even though we never ran in the same circles. I don’t know why Josi noticed me at all, yet she always made clear when our paths crossed that she thought I was the worst.

Years later, I heard Josi hated me because she had a crush on my older brother, Colton. When he found out she liked him, he told everyone that she was a booger eater and he didn’t like the taste of snot. Plenty of girls had a thing for Colton, but only Josi took out his rejection on me.

Then that June, she and her friend followed me from school to the McDonald’s where I waited most days with my sisters and Colton until Mom could finish up at work. We’d share a soda and large fries while doing homework. Like usual, I arrived before my siblings. This time, I had two bitches on my tail.

Always a small kid, I couldn’t get past Josi and her friend when they cornered me near the restrooms. I braced myself for a fight, though up until then my only physical altercations involved roughhousing with my brother.

“You’re not special,” Josi hissed two inches from my face as her blue eyes raged. “Next time you think you’re important, just remember that without your last name that no one would care if you lived or died.”

Afraid she was about to hit me, I hadn’t cared about her words then. My mind was on a fight. Before she hurt me, Josi’s head was forced back until she toppled on the floor. I smiled at the sight of my sister Miranda still holding onto the other girl’s ponytail.

“Did they steal from you?” Miranda asked and stepped on Josi’s hand. “Do I need to check their backpacks for your belongings?”

I stared in awe of Miranda, ready to ask her to beat the shit out of them. Then Josi burst into sobs, and her friend started crying quickly afterward. Miranda laughed at their tears and stepped off the wailing girl’s hand. I watched Josi and her friend scramble away.

“Did you see them cry?” Miranda asked, still laughing as she adjusted the cap over her short, dark hair.

I couldn’t stop smiling at my sister. Soon, Lily showed up and babied me after hearing I’d been bullied. Arriving last, Colton asked if Josi wiped snot on me. When I said no, he gave me a hug.

Despite how the rest of my day turned out, I couldn’t shake Josi’s words. They taunted me long after school was out, and she moved on to middle school. The older I got, the more they nagged at me.

Would I matter if my father wasn’t Cooper Johansson? Every time a guy liked me, I wonder if he was interested in me or my name. Did people want to be my friends to get close to my family? Did I get a job because the manager wanted to make nice with my dad?

Josi went on to obsess over other people, and I did end up punching her in the face when we were both in high school. As a person, she remained unimportant in my life. Her words, though, still taunt me to this day, and I can’t imagine ever not worrying about my worth.

My pop does what he can to make me feel important—like inviting me to join him on his business trip to White Horse, Tennessee.

I’ve heard the name Angus Hayes for most of my life. The small-town crime lord does business with my father’s club from time to time. Hayes is apparently larger than average and likes to cuss. Considering I grew up around giant men who never heard a sentence that wasn’t improved with profanity, I’ve never been impressed by stories about the Tennessee big shot.

I ride down with my pop—Cooper Johansson to people that didn’t originate from his balls—on my sweet sixteen gift. I don’t ride the pink and black camouflage Harley much these days, having gotten a girl hard-on for the El Camino my pop and I fixed up together.

Before we leave, I pack clothes in the saddlebag of my Harley. Pop stands nearby, worried about possible rain.

“No showboating,” Pop says while petting one of our many dogs. “I’m trusting you to behave on this trip.”

“Okay, Daddy,” I say in a high-pitched dolly voice. “I’ll be, oh, so very good.”

My father scares many people with his ominous glares, but I’m not one of them. I think his mean looks are super sweet. If I ever meet a man with even half as scary a glare, I might fall in love.

“I love you, Pop,” I say and hug him. “I need you to remember my words later when I make no effort to show my affection for you.”

“Why wouldn’t you show it?”

“People are disloyal monsters, Father. They’re wicked!”

Pop flinches when I scream the final word, and I suspect he wishes I stomped away before yelling. His hearing wasn’t great to begin with, though age isn’t the problem as much as a lack of interest. When my sisters and I talk about our hair, he goes hard of hearing. Discussing our periods makes him completely deaf.

Once on the road, I find my thoughts returning to the disloyal monsters whose wickedness causes me—and those in the vicinity of my big mouth—so much misery.

The twins! They were once my trusted friends. I would kill for them. Die for them! Hell, even shave off my beautiful hair for them! What did I get for my love and devotion? Savannah and Avery Majors ran off to Cocoa Beach, Florida, like some kind of common trailer trash! No begging for forgiveness from them—not that they’ve attempted any—will inspire me to overlook their betrayal.

We had plans! The twins and I talked about opening a bookstore hangout for the hipster dorks from the nearby Hampton College. That dream will never be realized because I’m not interested enough in our vision to do it alone.

“I’ll do it with you,” Lily offered one night while I whined about the twins’ betrayal.

“No, I’m good, but thanks.”

My sister rolled her big dark eyes, and I rolled mine. My siblings have great eyes for rolling, and we use our God-given talents as often as possible. In fact, I think I roll my eyes while remembering the memory of rolling my eyes.

Speeding down the I-65 into Tennessee, Pop wants to beat the rain forecasted for the afternoon. Our original plan was to leave in the morning, but Mom and Pop started talking about Lily’s failed engagement and how her lame-ass fiancé kept calling the house. Somehow, this earnest discussion about my sister’s super sad failure turned into my parents needing time alone in their bedroom to “watch a movie.” I swear they’re like fucking dogs. Is there anything that doesn’t give them crotch itch?

I struggle to keep up with Pop who claims he was born with a hog between his legs. I always claim the “hog” in that statement is his cornholer, but Colton swears Pop calls his dick “The Master of Ceremonies.” Lily pretends my parents really are watching movies in their bedroom rather than getting sweaty and gross.

“They’ve had sex four times,” she announced once. “Just four and they got lucky every time.”

I nodded at her comment and then added, “More like three times plus the clusterfuck they named Colton.”

Despite my brother being a squirt of diarrhea, I have no doubt Pop wanted to bring Colton along on this business trip. Mom said something about the boys heading south until she changed the plan and sent me instead.

“You need to get away,” Mom whispered, hugging me tightly. “We all need you to get away.”

Rolling my eyes, I couldn’t believe she found me more annoying than Colton. Was she nuts? My obnoxious behavior is because I’ve been wronged! What’s Colton’s excuse for smelling like a petting zoo?

I’m happy to hang out with Pop, though. He isn’t like most people’s dads. Cooper Johansson enjoys pigging out on barbecue, driving too fast, and drinking more booze than is safe. He likes classic rock, gory stupid movies, and laughing at fart jokes.

Today, his mind isn’t on partying. He leaves the highway at the first White Horse exit, barely slows at the stop sign, and speeds down a road filled with empty school buses returning from dropping off the town’s uppity kids. I hate rich towns. Despite Hampton College and the cash Pop’s club flushes into Ellsberg, most of our neighbors are butt-poor. I prefer penniless rednecks to pompous suburbanites.

Our journey ends in the parking lot of a grotesque building next to an ancient Waffle House. Pop is off his Harley within seconds. He’s no doubt ready to get done with the “hello and how you doing” part of our trip. We’ll check into a hotel room and return tomorrow so Pop can talk details with Hayes.

“Don’t say anything yet,” he tells me when I climb off my Harley. “Do you have something to cover your hair?”

“Why? Are these people like those mountain men who’ve never seen a woman and will go nuts once their eyes set upon my amazing hair?”

Pop doesn’t answer my question, even if he’s clearly dying to respond. “Put a hat on your head, keep your mouth shut, stay behind me, and don’t make any sudden movements.”

“I feel like we’re meeting bears.”

“Bears wouldn’t care about your damn hair, Audrey.”

“Wouldn’t they, though, Pop? Wouldn’t they?” I ask while digging through my saddlebag for the red cap I brought along in case of rain.

“As a kid, you wanted to run the club. If you still have any interest, you might want to pay attention.”

Shrugging, I cover my head even if my hair remains clearly visible. I don’t get the point of the hat except to make me less appealing to the mountain men, but I’m done bitching this early in the trip.

The door of the butt-ugly building opens and out steps two bear-sized men. I think my mouth flops open in surprise. Big men are a dime a dozen in my neck of the woods, but fucking shit motherfucker!

The term “brick shithouse” was created for these men. I mean, my pop’s a big guy—tall, wide-shouldered, and muscular. Mom sure nabbed a hottie back in the day, and Pop’s aged as fine as expensive wine. But fuck me with a hot poker if he doesn’t seem like a midget next to Hayes and his even bigger son.

“Johansson,” the older man says.

“Hayes. We got in safe.”

“I noticed.”

Pop doesn’t say a word, but I know his body language. Hayes’s comment sends my pop’s stance from relatively tense to violence-prone. I hope my dad doesn’t punch the bear man because I’m not sure he can take him in a fight. Fortunately, we brought weapons, and I’m ready to throw down.

Especially once Brick Shithouse Junior locks eyes on me and won’t let go. I try to look away. I’m no horny, fawning teenybopper hoping to hook up. No, I’m not interested at all in the very tall man with his broad shoulders and what looks like a rock-hard chest and a tight waist. Okay, so he’s hot. Yeah, whatever. I don’t care. He can be hot all he wants. That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with me. Yeah, whatever. Wait, I already said that.

“Can I get a cup of coffee?” Pop asks Hayes, and I’m surprised because I didn’t think we were hanging out here and I don’t want to spend time with BS Jr. over here with his perfectly trimmed beard and those coal-black eyes. What the hell, Pop?

Hayes gestures for my dad to come inside. I think to follow, but I don’t want to walk past the hunky bear asshole. Oh, and I know—for a fact—that he’s an asshole. Men always are. Even my beloved Pop is a huge jerk. He just happens to be awesome enough to overcome his jerkish ways. This guy doesn’t look as talented.

“I’ll be back,” Pop says, glancing back as if he’s telling me goodbye forever.

I shrug as if I’m barely paying attention. Remaining near my Harley, I pretend to check my phone, and then I look up at the cloudy sky. Yes, the sky is very, very interesting. I better keep looking at it and not the man walking toward me.

“You’re Johansson’s daughter?” he asks in a rough voice that seems to echo as if he’s standing in a damn cave.

“Well, duh.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ve heard things about your family. If I know which daughter you are, I’ll know what to watch out for.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I growl, giving him my bitchiest glare.

“I think you know.”

No way do I want to tell him my name, but I know if I DON’T tell him that he’ll take my silence as fear.

“Audrey. The youngest.”

“I’m the youngest too.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“You’re stupid. Do you know that?” I ask, hating him for looking so damn good and making me feel so damn bad.

“More importantly, do I care?”

“So my pop said Hayes gave his kids stupid names. Are you embarrassed to tell me yours?”

“I’m Casper Hayes. Nothing fucking embarrassing about that, but my family calls me ‘Cap.’”

“If you don’t know why being named after a ghost is embarrassing, I don’t know if there’s any help for you.”

The left side of his sexy mouth tugs up into a half smile. “Mom decided my name ought to start with the same letter as the twins’.”

Casper the Friendly Brick Shithouse’s good looks have me so much on edge that hearing that wicked word—TWINS—sends me into a snarling rage.

“Twins are the very worst people. They’re crimes against nature.”

The hunky bear taps me on the head with his giant finger. “You’re lucky I don’t hit girls because some of my favorite people are twins.”

“No, you’re lucky you don’t hit girls. If you hit me, I’d kill you so easy.”

“Doubtful. You’re too tiny to do more than beat on my legs and maybe get in a shot to my balls.”

“Smaller is better,” I grumble, never feeling shorter.

“Yes, because Chihuahuas are known for beating down Rottweilers.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to one of those purse dogs.”

“You smell good and are really pretty, but I don’t know if I ought to ask you out on a date. You might be mentally unwell. At the very least, you’re twitchy.”

“I wouldn’t date you if you were the last man on earth.”

“Yes, you would. You want to date me right now. It’s fucking obvious. You should work on hiding your tells. Your face is giving away the whole farm.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

“Okay, but you’ll miss my voice once I’m quiet.”

His casual arrogance only mocks my forced arrogance. “I hate everything about you.”

“Check your tells, sweetheart, and try that again.”

I punch him in the arm. He doesn’t flinch or react in pain. His dark gaze flickers to where I hit him, and then he looks back at me.

“You’re wearing brass knuckles.”

“Yeah, so what of it?”

“Is that why you wear those silly fingerless gloves?”

I frown at the pink mittens I bought at the Dollar Store two years ago. They’re pretty beat up, and the white snowflakes are mostly faded from too many washings. Despite these facts, I growl, “They’re not silly.”

“I know you think that.”

“You’re not cute. You think you are, but you’re not.”

“Tells,” he says, gesturing at my face. “Work on them. You can’t let me know your entire life story every time you open your mouth.”

I hit him again. This time my fist barrels into his broad, monster-sized chest. His response isn’t fear or pain. Instead, he burps.

“You knocked something loose. Maybe do it again since I downed a soda earlier.”

“I have never hated anyone more than I hate you,” I lie, having hated a bunch of people way more than I hate this sexy beast.

Stretching his arms into the air and looking ready to grab the gray clouds, he sighs. “Since our dads are comfy inside talking about old-man stuff, I’m going for a sandwich. Want to come along? I’ll pay.”

“Why would I want to eat with you?” I ask, instantly planning to ride away with this asshole. Of course, my pop will not be cool with that move.

“Why wouldn’t you want to eat with me?”

“You’re awful.”

“Maybe so, but I’m also a handsome sonovabitch. And I offered to pay. That ought to count for something.”

Cap stomps toward an impressively pimped-out black-as-night Harley. Choosing to ride off with him would be jaw-droppingly stupid. I told Pop I would behave. Of course, he ditched me with this super hot mountain of a man. If anything, Pop is the one at fault here.