Page 41 of True Bastard
Morpheus’ grin, a predatory slash across his face, was a witness to my damnation. He’d wanted me to choose; said I’d chosen wrong—well, fuck him! The Brotherhood demanded loyalty, and I had just publicly cemented mine to their twisted ideals, sacrificing the one thing that had made me feel... human.
My gaze swept over the faces of my brothers, their leers and knowing smiles a testament to my transgression. They saw the power play, the assertion of dominance, but they didn’t see the battle raging within me. They didn’t see the ache in my chest, the hollowness that swallowed any fleeting pleasure. I was a Bastard to the core, a man carved from the harsh granite of this world, and Kyllian, my defiance, my hope, was a flaw in that foundation. She was the golden pussy, the complication Morpheus had warned me about, the one that threatened to unhinge the carefully constructed world I inhabited.
And I had just proven him right.
When I finally pulled out, the act felt empty, the sticky residue on my skin a grim reminder of my capitulation as I shoved Silkie away from me. Stuffing my dick back into mypants, I sat back down and grabbed my whiskey bottle; once a comforting presence, it now felt like a cruel joke, its amber liquid a mocking reflection of my own bitter regret.
Morpheus shook his head and stood, his flaccid dick slipping from Lollie’s mouth as he tucked himself back into his pants. Quietly pushing the chair back in, he looked once more at me and said, “You chose wrong again, brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kyllian
The sight of the motorcycles jolted me. Not just any motorcycles, but the kind that screamed danger and power, the kind I’d seen roaring through the city all damn day, and which had elicited a knot of dread that tightened in my stomach every time they sped by. Yet, the desperation for a job, for any semblance of normalcy, pushed me forward. Looking at the small sheet of paper in my hand, I sighed. Frankie’s Diner. It sounded mundane enough, a place where the biggest drama might be a burned batch of fries. But the bikes... they were a stark reminder of the world I’d barely escaped, a world that seemed determined to pull me back in.
Steeling myself, I pushed open the diner door.
The smell of coffee and frying bacon—a comforting aroma that usually signaled home—felt tainted by the silent menace of the bikes outside. The chatter of patrons, the clatter of plates—it all seemed muted, as if the entire establishment was holding its breath.
Then I saw them.
Scattered throughout the diner, not in a menacing way, but casually, bikers, men in leather, their arms adorned with tattoos that mirrored the ones on the bikes, laughed, joked, and ate as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice barely audible above the din. My gaze landed on a waitress, her apron stained with coffee, her eyes kind but weary. “Is this where I find Frankie?”
She pointed a thumb over her shoulder, toward a booth in the back, occupied by a burly man with a grizzled beard and an air of quiet authority. He was hunched over a plate of eggs, his movements slow and deliberate. He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as I approached. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“Frankie?” I repeated, my voice gaining a little strength. “My name is Kyllian. I heard you might have a job opening.” The words felt strangely hollow, a desperate attempt to cling to a semblance of normalcy in a world that had become anything but. The bikers in the diner watched me, their gazes lingering, a silent assessment that made my skin crawl. They were a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just outside, of the world I was trying so desperately to escape.
Frankie’s eyes softened, a flicker of something akin to sympathy in their depths. He pushed his plate aside, wiping his hands on a napkin, then he gestured to the empty seat across from him.
“Sit. Tell me about yourself.”
I slid into the booth, the worn vinyl cool against my skin, and took a deep breath, the scent of coffee and bacon a strange comfort amidst the growing unease. I had no idea what I was going to say, or how I was going to navigate this treacherous territory. All I knew was that I had to start somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t back in that opulent cage.
Frankie listened patiently, his gaze steady, unreadable. I spoke of my past, carefully omitting the darkest chapters, the ones that would paint me as too much trouble, too much baggage. I spoke of wanting a fresh start, of needing to prove my worth, of a desire for honest work. The bikers in the diner remained a silent, watchful presence, their eyes occasionallyflicking my way, but they offered no disruption, no overt threat. It was as if they too understood the unspoken rules of this fragile truce. Frankie eventually nodded, a slow, deliberate gesture. “I need a new waitress. Someone who can handle a busy shift and a few rough customers. Rapid City ain’t always friendly, Kyllian. You gotta be tough.” He gestured around the diner. “These fellas? They’re good people. Most of ‘em, anyway. But they’re still bikers. They got their own code.”
“I understand,” I replied, the words feeling like a well-worn lie. I understood the language of codes, of unspoken rules. I understood the necessity of toughness. I just wasn’t sure I had any left to give. Frankie seemed to see the flicker of doubt, the weariness etched on my face. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Alright. You’re hired. You start Friday, six AM sharp.”
“Can I start right now? I could really use the money.”
“Yo, Frankie!” a biker yelled from a booth across the diner, his voice booming over the clatter of dishes. “Let the girl start. I need a refill. And maybe a little something sweet to go with it.” A low rumble of laughter rippled through the other bikers.
I felt my cheeks flush, the familiar sting of exposure and the unspoken threat of their gazes pressing in. But Frankie, bless his gruff heart, just waved a dismissive hand. “Shut your face, Duke, and you,” he said, nodding at me, “you can start by bussing those tables. We’ll get you set up with a uniform.”
I didn’t waste a second.
The smell of stale coffee and grease that clung to the worn tablecloths was a welcome change from the sandalwood and mint of Firestride’s room. I moved with a newfound urgency, clearing plates, wiping down counters, desperate to prove myself, to carve out a space that was mine, that no one could touch. The bikers watched, their earlier amusement replaced by quiet observation. It wasn’t the leering attention I’dendured at the Prancing Pussycat, but something... different. More measured, less predatory. As I cleared the table nearest to Frankie’s booth, one of them, a biker with a weathered face and kind eyes, offered a gruff nod. “Rough night, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
The question, so simple, so unexpectedly human, cracked something within me.
I simply nodded, the words caught in my throat, unable to articulate the horror I’d escaped.
He kicked out a chair and said, “Take a load off, honey, and keep an old man company.”
“I can’t. I need to work.”
The biker grumbled, “Frankie! I’m feeding the new girl. She’s taking a break!”
