Page 42 of True Bastard
Frankie waved a dismissive hand as he chatted up one of the bikers.
Sitting, I said nothing as the biker motioned to a waitress who quickly brought over clean utensils and a fresh coffee cup before placing them before me.
“What can I get ya, honey?”
“Give her the lunch special and put on a fresh pot of coffee, Mary.”
“Right away, James.”
The second the waitress scurried off, the biker leaned forward and clearly said, “You’re not safe here, Kyllian.”
A chill unrelated to the diner’s warm ambiance snaked down my spine. “What do you mean?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. My eyes darted to Frankie, then back to the biker, a silent plea for an explanation. The mundane scent of coffee and bacon now seemed laced with an unspoken threat. The casual ease of the bikers around me felt like a carefully constructed façade, and the kind eyes of the man before me held a depth that suggested he knew the darkness lurking beneath.
He leaned in, lowering his voice, his gaze sweeping over me with a mixture of concern and something I couldn’t quite decipher. “This is a Brotherhood hangout, honey. This place ain’t safe for a sweet girl like you, and considering who you really are, you’d be better off somewhere else until you figure things out.”
The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air.
Looking down at my hands, I whispered, “How do you know who I am?”
“Been around a long time, Kyllian. I was really sorry to hear what happened to your mom. If it makes you feel any better, that son of a bitch got what he deserved in the end.”
“I can’t leave. I don’t have any money. That’s why I’m working here.”
“Kyllian, look at me,” the biker commanded gently. Doing as he asked, he continued, “I know you haven’t had it easy, sweetheart, and I’m sorry for that, but if you stay here, your pain is only going to get worse. Word has already spread. The Death Dogs know that Pinch is dead.”
“I had nothing to do with Jessup’s death,” I stated. My words felt like a weak shield against the rising tide of his concern as the memory of Firestride still clung to me, a persistent phantom in the back of my mind. He was tangled in a mess of clubs and grudges, a legacy of violence that stretched back generations. And here I was, inadvertently caught in the crossfire, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand.
The biker’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding in his weathered eyes. “I know, sweetheart. And I ain’t blaming you. But word spreads fast in our world. You know that better than anyone. The Death Dogs are going to come looking for answers, and you might be the only one left with any.” He paused, a grim shadow crossing his face. “The Death Dogs don’t take kindly to their dealers getting taken out, especially by someone from theBrotherhood. And you, Kyllian, you’re connected to them now, whether you like it or not. Until this blows over, you’re not safe here.”
He reached out, his hand calloused and warm, resting gently on mine. The gesture was surprisingly reassuring, a small act of kindness in a world that had offered me none. “Frankie’s a good man. He’ll keep you safe as long as he can. But this place... it’s too public. Too exposed. You need a place that’s safe. Somewhere protected where they won’t find you. And I know just the place.”
Something was wrong.
With the address the biker gave me securely in my hands, the Uber he paid for pulled to a secluded farmhouse, about twenty minutes west of Rapid City, slowing to a crawl before coming to a complete stop, parking behind the RCPD squad cars. Cautiously getting out of the vehicle, I kept my head down and made my way up the front steps when a familiar, beautiful older woman stepped out on the porch to greet me, her eyes rimmed red with tears.
“Aunt Karen?” I gasped.
“Kyllian?” She stopped dead in her tracks before pulling me close, her arms engulfing me in a warm, motherly hug. “Oh, thank God. I’m so happy you are safe.”
Looking around, I asked, “What’s going on?”
Aunt Karen pulled back, her hands settling on my shoulders as she looked me over, searching for any sign of injury. “There’s been trouble,” she whispered, casting a worried glance at the squad cars parked in the drive. “The police are here becausesomeone tried to break in last night. They think it’s connected to Kaycee and Keely’s deaths.”
My eyes widened. “Keely’s dead?” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. I already knew about Kaycee, my sweet, fragile cousin, who died horrifically along with her husband a few days before Firestride kidnapped me and took me to Deadwood. But Keely, my closest friend, my stepsister from my mother’s second marriage—I refused to believe it.
Not Keely. She was strong, a fighter; Aunt Karen had to be wrong.
Aunt Karen pulled me further into the house, the scent of wood-smoke and old memories a stark contrast to the fear that had become my constant companion. “They found Keely the other morning. It seems... it seems he’s escalating.” Her voice trembled, her grip tightening on my arm. “The police are convinced the break-in last night is connected to the murders. They’re searching the area, looking for anything, any clue.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, each one a nail in the coffin of my dwindling hope for peace.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I asked, “I don’t understand, Aunt Karen. What is going on?”
Sitting next to me, she took my hands and said, “This nightmare began the night Kaycee asked me to watch Karter for the night.”
“Karter?”
“My granddaughter. Kaycee married a nice young man named Jake Edwards. He was good to my girl and grandbaby. A good man who loved my girls to pieces. Someone broke into their home that night and killed Jake, then my baby girl. The RCPD tried to keep a lid on the murders due to the graphic way Kaycee died, but a local newspaper got wind of it and ran the story. It was in all the papers.”
