HARDCORE: Storm MC(61)

But Missy knew it was more than that, too. The truth was, Hunter had simply become used to having her around to cook, clean, handle the club's money, and do all the other things their mother had done for him when she was alive. Hunter was a strong leader to the Eagles and a quick thinker, but in some ways, he was still a big kid who wanted someone to take care of him. Their father, the former president of the Eagles, had been the same way.



And now Hunter had inherited their father's job and Missy had somehow inherited their mother's, despite the fact that she could ride and shoot and fight as well as most of the club's members. There were days when that didn't seem fair to her, but there it was.



Women simply weren't allowed to become full members of the MC—they never had been, and Missy knew they never would be. There were other MCs that were exclusively female and Missy sometimes daydreamed about joining one, but her loyalty to the Eagles ran too deep for her to seriously consider leaving them behind.



Missy walked downstairs, and the moment she stepped into the kitchen, she felt something warm and wet soak through her sock. She looked down and saw that a lake of coffee had spread across the floor. The coffee maker on the counter was overflowing.



She closed her eyes and sighed. “What the fuck, Hunter?” she called out angrily. “When I said to put the coffee on, I didn't mean put it on the fucking floor!”



Hunter was a short, stocky man with a shaved head and a red beard. He walked in from the living room and stared at the coffee maker, bewildered. “Well, Jesus, I didn't know how much stuff I was supposed to put in,” he said. “You always make it, so...”



“It's a coffee maker, not a neutron microscope,” Missy replied, going to the closet for the mop. “You put the coffee in the filter, you pour in the water, and you push the button to set it. That's it. A four-year-old could do it. Now get out of the kitchen before you step in it and track it all over the house.”



“Fine, fine,” Hunter said, returning to the living room. A moment later, she heard the TV switch on as Hunter watched a program about the history of firearms.



Once Missy finished mopping the floor and sponging off the coffee maker, she brewed a fresh pot, scrambled some eggs, and heated up maple sausages in the oven. By the time Hunter's show was over, breakfast was ready. He peered into the kitchen to make sure the floor was dry, then sat down at the table and took a sip of his coffee, savoring it.



“Sorry 'bout the mess,” Hunter said through a mouthful of eggs. “I swear, I dunno what I'd do without you.”



“You'd better hope you never find out,” Missy answered, “or you'll need a canoe to navigate the river of coffee you'd spill in here each day.”



Hunter chuckled, taking a bite of sausage. “So, you ready to pour some drinks an' count some cash tonight, sis?”



“Speaking of jobs toddlers could do, yeah, I guess so,” Missy said. She could hear the bitterness in her own voice again, but couldn't seem to soften it.



“Damn, what's going on with you this morning?” Hunter asked, sounding genuinely hurt.



“You mean other than having damp socks that smell like Folger's?”



“Well, they do say it's the best part of waking up,” Hunter said, chortling again. “No, seriously, you sounded like you had a weed up your ass even before I spilled the coffee. What gives?”



“Spilled it, hell, you practically painted the kitchen with it,” Missy replied. “You really want to know what's bothering me? I've got at least as much brains and guts as any Eagle you can name, and instead of putting them to good use, I'm sloshing out whiskey and counting out crumpled-up ones and fives from potheads and dopers. When I'm not, y'know, playing Suzie Homemaker for my grown-ass brother. It just gets fucking tedious sometimes, is all.”



Hunter stared down at his plate. “It was good enough for Mom,” he grunted, taking another bite of sausage.



Missy wanted to tell Hunter that no, it hadn't been good enough for their mother—that while Hunter and their father were out riding around and popping off shotguns, Missy had caught plenty of sighs, exasperated looks, and muttered comments from their mother to know exactly how tiresome she had found these duties too.



But Missy knew that wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with Hunter now, or maybe ever. Better to let him hold onto his idea of how things had been rather than throwing this information at him during an argument and inflicting needless pain on him. She loved him too much for that, even if he drove her bugshit every now and then.



Still, she had no intention of letting this go.