Page 17 of The Biker's Last Rodeo
Duke
I barely slept last night.
How is it that one little girl rolls into my life, runs her mouth, and I’m left thinking and feeling shit I haven’t felt in ages?
It’s fucked.
There’s no reason for me to think about her trauma, her pain, or the coy little smile that creeps onto her face when she thinks she’s getting one over on me. There’s no reason for me to want to weave together a new life for her. A life where she feels safe and loved. A life where she has a family.
That’s not my fucking job. In fact, that would be an ever-loving nightmare.
I don’t have the capacity for drama that I used to. Hell, I probably never did.
Dawn has barely cracked but I’m already on the job. I need to get this over with once and for all. Maybe now, the little bunny that was following me will be busy with something else.
I stare at my phone, the location of the man I’ve been hunting clear as day.
Twelve hundred Peach Tree Ave. Doesn’t sound like the address of a killer, but I suppose mine doesn’t either.
The evidence is there. The car he drove, in storage. The night he was at the scene, confirmed. He doesn’t even know I’mhere. Doesn’t know I’m after him. Doesn’t know he’s currently breathing his final breaths in that perfect little farmhouse on the hill.
I probably should’ve let my emotions settle before making the drive, but the hunt was inevitable, and truthfully, I’ve been angry.
Angry at everything all at once. Angry at this asshole for ruining the last few years of my life. Angry at him for driving my parents off the road and pulling away like a weak fucking bug. Angry that I had my bunny in a snare and I let her go.
I climb off my bike and lean against the seat. The house in question is off a quiet dirt road, the kind where traffic is nonexistent and the only sounds for miles are crickets and the creak of the porch swing swaying in the breeze.
A woman passes in front of the window, her hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she’s bent forward like she’s chasing something. A second later, she picks up a child.
Three years old, maybe four.
I let out a breath and try not to think about Maci, but it’s impossible. All I see are those big brown eyes. All I feel is the way she must have felt that day at the diner when everything she knew got left behind, when she was staring up at strangers wondering what happens next.
Fuck.
I swallow down the thoughts, and check the gun is ready to go. Family or not, this guy fucked up, and he has to pay for what he did. He doesn’t get to live this perfectly peaceful existence while mine was torn to fucking shreds.
The front door swings open and the little girl runs out onto the front porch, checking back to make sure her parents follow. It’s then that I finally see the man I’ve been tracking. Not in some blurry photograph, but in the flesh. Real life.
He’s a tall guy, lanky, with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. He wears a backwards hat, and his jeans are dirty from work, probably the farm. He kind of looks like a dude I’d throw a beer or two back with.
I watch the man laugh a soft, tired chuckle at whatever his daughter’s saying. She’s tugging at his hand, trying to pull him toward the swing on the porch. He follows. Of course he does. He’s not thinking about the night my parents didn’t make it home. He’s not thinking about anything but himself.
I watch as his daughter jumps into his arms. I need to stay focused, but I’d pictured him with sharper lines, cruel eyes, careless hands, something that matched the ache I’ve been dragging around.
My breath stutters as I hold the gun in my hand. I could end it right now. That’s what I came for. He should pay for leaving the people I loved most to die alone on that long stretch of highway. But how do you put a bullet in someone who’s tying shoelaces and brushing dirt off tiny knees? How do I put a bullet in someone who’s holding a girl that reminds me so much of Maci?
I’d be leaving that kid with the same scars, the same stories. Hell, maybe worse. She’d hear the bang of my gun. She’d see the carnage.
Jesus Christ!
Maci wouldn’t want this. She’d want me to turn away.
She’d want me to see this man for what he is. Human, imperfect, trying to survive like the rest of us.
For a second, I try to picture myself being the man who lets this go. I try to find a rationale for why he did what he did.
Maybe he was scared too. Maybe he never meant to become the villain in someone else’s story. Maybe he was just trying to outrun the guilt before it claimed him completely.
