Page 13 of True Bastard
My breath hitched as my mind screamed...Deny. Run. Survive.
Shaking my head, I solemnly whispered, “I’m so sorry. No, I’ve never met them before in my life.”
The officer’s gaze was steady, searching mine for any sign of deception. My lie felt like a lead weight in my gut, a betrayalof the very instincts that had driven me to ask. But my fear was a cold, sharp thing, demanding self-preservation above all else. These people, whoever they were, were already dead. I felt bad for their families, but I was still alive, and that biker and Jessup were a real tangible threat, a dark cloud I was already caught beneath. My survival depended on staying invisible, on becoming a ghost in this town. If I told the officer what I knew, then he wouldn’t let me leave. I’d be stuck in this city, and that was something I couldn’t chance.
My silence was my shield. My desperate, ugly shield.
A faint smile touched the officer’s lips, not of understanding, but of polite dismissal. He moved on, continuing his inquiries with the next person in line, and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my hands still trembling. The image of that tattoo, however, refused to leave my mind. It was a brand, a mark of connection to a world that felt both terrifying and oddly... significant. A world I’d left and refused to return to. A world that had only meant death when I had chosen life.
Turning away from the departing officer, I focused on the ticket counter, the mundane transaction a juxtaposition to the turmoil churning within me. I needed to get out of this city, to put distance between myself and my increasingly dangerous situation.
Ticket secured, I found a seat knowing it would be at least an hour before the conductor called for my bus to board. As my gaze swept over the depot, my eyes looked for any sign of the biker, the one looking for Jessup, when I felt hot breath on the back of my neck. “Going somewhere, Kitten?”
My blood ran cold, my heart leaping into my throat as the voice, low and resonant, sent a shiver of pure terror down my spine.
It was him.
The biker.
The Devil in leather.
My carefully constructed façade of calm shattered, revealing the raw panic beneath. I didn’t turn; I couldn’t bring myself to face him, but the heat radiating from him, the sheer force of his presence, filled the small space behind me.
“I asked you a question, Kitten,” he pressed, his voice a silken trap, his words laced with an unreadable amusement that did nothing to quell the icy dread gripping me.
My mind raced, a frantic scramble for an escape.
The bus.
My only lifeline.
I could bolt, try to lose him in the crowd, disappear before he could truly claim me. But the officer’s words, the image of those murdered people and the familiar tattoo, flashed through my mind, a stark reminder of the danger I was already entangled in. To run now, to further evade him, would only confirm my guilt in his eyes, solidify my status as the collateral he was here to collect.
“Please let me go. I know nothing,” I managed, my voice a shaky whisper.
His low chuckle was a guttural growl that vibrated through my very bones. “Don’t you, Kitten? I think you do. And the Brotherhood of Bastards want answers. Answers you might just have.”
He stepped closer, his hand lightly brushing the fabric of my shirt, his touch both unnerving and electrifying. “Besides, you owe me, remember? And right now, you’re all I’ve got.”
The weight of his words settled upon me, heavy and suffocating.
I was caught, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand, with a player who clearly didn’t play by any rules I knew.
“LET ME GO!” The raw, ragged scream tore from my throat, a desperate, animalistic sound. My fists, red and stinging, hammered against his unyielding back, each blow fueled by a primal terror and a simmering rage that threatened to consume me. Then, the jarring thud as he unceremoniously slammed me onto the unforgiving floor. The impact stole my breath; the grit bit into my skin as the smell of stale beer and leather filled my nostrils. Ripping off the cloth bag he had over my head, I stumbled to my feet and furiously marched toward the smug, entitled son of a bitch.
I was done. If he wanted to play hardball, then so be it.
From the moment his hulking shadow fell across my doorstep, eclipsing any sliver of hope for my escape, my world had imploded. He hadn’t just thwarted my plans; he’d shattered them.
The days—or was it just hours—that followed were a blur of terror.
His chilling whisper of threats against my ear, the rough bite of rope against my wrists and ankles as he hog-tied me, laughing, and the suffocating gag that he shoved into my mouth that stole my screams, leaving only my muffled desperation, and then the cloying darkness, the stench of oil and damp earth, as he unceremoniously shoved me into the trunk of some random car.
Now that I was free from that suffocating metal tomb, my instinct for survival warred with an almost unbearable surge of defiance. My mind, still reeling from the disorientation, latched onto my injustice with a ferocity born of sheer, unadulterated fury.
I didn’t care about his debts or his twisted sense of entitlement. If he thought he was owed, that was his problem, his delusion, and I refused to indulge him any longer.
“I don’t owe you jack shit, asshole!” I spat, my words a guttural promise of retribution as I poked my finger into his chest, giving him my best intimidating glare. “If you want compensation, then you go find Jessup, and good luck getting it from him. Because I’m done. Done with you, done with Jessup, done with this craziness, just DONE!”
