Page 26 of True Bastard
Someone was riding his bike, someone who didn’t flinch from its dangerous allure.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, knuckles white. Every fiber of my being screamed to turn and run, to put as much distance as possible between myself and this unwelcome echo. But another part, a darker, more conflicted part, felt a dangerous pull. A morbid curiosity mingled with a desperate, almost shameful sense of belonging. Could I turn away from this potential confrontation, this undeniable connection to my past, and still call myself strong? Or would ignoring it be the ultimate act of cowardice, proving my father right after all? The choice felt like a betrayal, no matter which way I turned. Run and betray the man I’d tried to forget, or face him and risk succumbing to the darkness I’d fought so hard to outrun.
The rumble of the engine was a predatory purr that snaked through the parking lot. My breath hitched as the rider slowly dismounted, the gleam of chrome catching the sparse light. He moved with a dangerous fluidity, a man who knew the weight of his presence. He was dressed head to toe in black leather, his face shadowed by the brim of his helmet. He was a walking embodiment of the life I’d sworn I’d left behind, a life I’d watched consume my father and spit him out.
As the rider turned, and the dim light caught the hard planes of his face, a jolt of recognition, sharp and unwelcome, shot through me.
It wasn’t my father.
It was someone else. Someone who carried the same dangerous aura, the same grim determination in his eyes. He was a stranger, yet he felt terrifyingly familiar—a dark echo from a past I couldn’t quite place. He was here at the Prancing Pussycat at this godforsaken hour, and my gut screamed that this was no coincidence. My father’s ghost might be long dead, but the life he lived, the people he ran with—they were still very much alive, and they were here.
A cold dread washed over me. My father, a man who’d reveled in the biker life, had left behind a legacy of danger and secrets. And now, here was another one of them, appearing out of nowhere like a specter from a life I thought I’d escaped.
I clutched the doorknob tighter, my knuckles aching. The rumble of the engine, the glint of chrome—it all spoke of a world I wanted no part of. He was a walking embodiment of the life I’d sworn I’d left behind, a life I’d watched kill my father.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over me, and I felt an unnerving fear prickle my skin. There was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes, the cold assessment that promised nothing good.
He wasn’t just a rider; he was a hunter. And somehow, I felt like I was the prey. My mother told me once that those who forgot the past were doomed to repeat it. I guessed she was right, for the past, it seemed, found a way of catching up with me, no matter how hard I tried to outrun it.
I didn’t think. I bolted.
“Keely, you fucking cunt!” I heard the rider shout, and adrenaline surged through me as my feet pounded against the asphalt of the alleyway behind the club. The roar of his approaching bike was a terrifying crescendo, a physical manifestation of the danger closing in. My lungs burned, my legs screamed with exertion, but the instinct to flee was a stronger master than any pain. I didn’t dare look back, but I could feel hispresence like a physical weight, a predatory shadow stalking my every move.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Stopping meant giving up. It meant returning to a life that would surely kill me, like it did my father. But a part of me, a small, stubborn ember of defiance, whispered that I should turn. That I should face whoever this was, rather than live forever looking over my shoulder. This constant running, this gnawing fear—was it truly living? Was I any better than the people I was running from, or just a coward fleeing a fight?
The thought soured in my mouth, a bitter taste of shame.
Still, I didn’t stop. I would never stop running. Not until I could be sure. Not until I knew I could stand my ground. But the image of my father’s bike, the cold glint of chrome in the fading light, was a stark reminder of my own weakness. I knew with crushing certainty that I wasn’t ready. Not yet. And the knowledge that I was choosing cowardice over courage, safety over integrity, was a betrayal of the person I desperately wanted to be.
The roar of the engine grew louder, a familiar, guttural snarl that clawed at my gut. I risked a glance back, my breath catching in my throat as I saw him, his dark silhouette against the dying light, astride my father’s gleaming black Triumph. The rider was closing in, his presence a tangible threat that amplified the terror already coiled in my stomach.
I didn’t know who he was, or what he wanted, but the way he rode, the sheer menace that radiated from him, told me he was bad news. And in this town, bad news could mean anything. It could mean being caught, dragged back, and forced to witness something I’d never unsee. It could mean losing everything I’d managed to scrape together, not just material things, but the fragile peace I’d built within myself. And as I pumped my legs faster, pushing past the screaming protests of my muscles, Iknew this was it. This was the moment when I’d either truly break or find a strength I didn’t know I possessed. But the terror was winning, and the desperate plea in my own mind was not for strength, but for escape, an incessant impulse that drowned out any nobler aspirations.
I hated myself for it.
Seeing my apartment complex up ahead, a knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I didn’t stop. The instinct to flee, primal and raw, warred with the nagging voice that whispered I should face this, that running would only make it worse. But fear won, a coward’s triumph, as I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning, until I slammed into my front door.
My hands, slick with sweat, fumbled with my keys, a frantic dance of desperation. Each jingle of metal against metal felt like a siren’s call, a betrayal of the quiet I craved. Finally, the lock yielded. I rushed in and slammed the door shut, the sound a meager shield against the chaos I felt blooming inside me. Setting the locks, I gasped for air, the stale scent of my apartment a bitter comfort. I slowly backed up, every nerve screaming for me to disappear, refusing to make a sound, as I strained to hear anything, anything at all, that would tell me he was gone. A small part of me, a cruel whisper of self-loathing, knew this was futile, that whatever I’d done, whatever I’d let happen, was about to catch up to me. And then my front door crashed open with a jarring boom, shattering the fragile silence and confirming my deepest fear.
I had nowhere else left to hide, and the choice I’d been dreading, the one I’d desperately tried to outrun, was now upon me, forcing me to confront not just him, but the ruin I had made of myself.
“You dare fucking run from me!” he roared, kicking my front door shut before he lunged for me, punching me in the face. The force of his fist sent me reeling, my head snapping back as I fellto the floor. Stars exploded behind my eyes as blood filled my mouth. I scrambled to get up, but my legs gave out as he grabbed me by my hair and punched me in the face again.
The rage was a tempest in his veins, a ferocious storm of muscle and pure menace. His eyes, burning with a dangerous, consuming fire, locked onto mine. His assault continued, a brutal symphony of impact and agony, until I felt a strange, numb detachment descend. My mind, desperate to shield me from what it could no longer bear, simply... ceased to register the pain. But a sliver of consciousness, a defiant ember, still flickered.
It screamed at me to fight, to do something.
Anything.
And there it was, glinting on the floor beside me—a heavy ceramic mug I’d forgotten about. My first instinct—the one forged from years of trying to be the decent, kind person my mother would be proud of—recoiled. Violence was a last resort, a messy, ugly thing I’d always sworn I’d never sink to. Yet, the blinding pain, the sheer terror, warred with that ingrained morality. He was going to kill me. If I didn’t defend myself, if I let that ingrained aversion to violence paralyze me, I was as good as dead.
My fingers, clumsy and slick with blood, fumbled for the mug. It was a disgusting thought, using something so mundane, so innocent, as a weapon. But the alternative... the alternative was to surrender to this beating, to become another statistic, another story of someone who just... gave up. The shame of that potential failure was a bitter taste in my mouth, even worse than the blood. I’d always prided myself on resilience, on finding a way.
Now, resilience meant hitting back with a broken piece of crockery.
Yet, the moment I closed my fingers around the cool ceramic mug, a desperate, primal urge to survive surged through me, overriding all cognizant thoughts. I knew with a sickening certainty that even if I survived this, the memory of raising that mug, of the intention to kill, would stain me forever. It was a terrible choice, a bad choice, a choice that guaranteed I would lose something vital, something pure, no matter what the outcome. And as he raised his fist for another blow, I knew without any doubt I would kill him given the chance.
The ceramic was cold and surprisingly solid in my hand. My knuckles, bloodied and throbbing, tightened around it, the milky coffee sloshing against my palm. His fist, a brutal, meaty blur, was already descending, aimed for my temple. There was no time for deliberation, no space for moralizing. It was pure instinct, a desperate, guttural roar from the depths of my soul that fought against the encroaching darkness.
