Page 3 of Tyrant

Loading up, I nod to Zero, the prospect who just shined the shit out of my bike on my way out of the parking area and then hit the road. I never thought I’d belong to a motorcycle club, but now, I can’t imagine not being in the life. Things are far from perfect, but for a quiet, grumpy fucker like myself, it suits me just fine. I grew up in Alabama, lived here my whole life. Not in this town, but not too far away either, so this place is my home.

I have a sister, Trisha, but we don’t talk. She had a kid that got taken away and did fuck all to change so she could get it back. Hard to respect a woman who doesn’t at least try to get her shit together for the sake of a child. Anyhow, I told her how I felt and she decided she hated me. Not much more to the story, aside from the fact she ran off and married one of my enemies. I hated that fucker for as long as I knew him, not a decent bone in his body. She did the shit on purpose, and that was all the proof I needed to cut any final ties to her ass. I still don’t know if I have a niece or a nephew; the bitch wouldn’t ever tell me. I tried contacting child services, but they weren’t about to help out a young, single male who had nothing to his name but belonging to a motorcycle club. At least if the day ever comes when a niece or a nephew shows up on my doorstep looking for their family history, I can say I tried and be telling the honest-to-God truth on the matter. A lot more than Trisha can ever claim.

I stop through town, pump some gas and grab a few things for later. Beef jerky (obviously). Cajun boiled peanuts (made locally). A couple Moon Pie’s (one is never enough). Last but certainly not least, a bottle of sweet tea. I’ll miss it in Vegas, where the drinks are either watered down shit or beer. I have a bottled water in my saddlebag already, so aside from customary junk road snacks, I’m all set.

“You headin’ on a trip?” nosy ass Wyatt asks as he rings my items up. Not that it’s any of his fucking business, but I nod anyway. “Going anywhere good?”

I shrug, toss a twenty on the counter, and wait for my change. He gives me a dollar bill and seven pennies in return. When did this shit get so fucking expensive? I don’t know how families out there are surviving any of it. I glare, shove the meager change in my front pocket, and take my bag with a disgruntled huff.

“Safe travels!” he hollers, and I hold up my bag in a silent thanks on my way out the door.

Stuffing one of the Moon Pie’s in my gullet as I walk, I quickly chew and swallow it down. I load the other snacks in the saddlebag with my clean pair of jeans so they don’t get squished. I take a couple swigs of the tea, then stick it in my other saddlebag with my bottled water. I place the dollar bill in the front section of my wallet so I don’t get confused if I’m paying for something later and am distracted or overwhelmed. It helps keeping myself organized.

Once I’m situated, I climb on my chopper. It’s much newer compared to my hog and not as comfortable for long rides, but my other bike needs some serious TLC. It’s been too long since I parked her and did some routine work along with a few upgrades. This baby is one hell of an attention seeker with its shiny, sleek exterior. It’s all black chrome and black paint, with matte black airbrushing and a black leather seat. It has a bitch seat attached right now too, so I could’ve brought another bagwith me and used the spot, but fuck it. I need to replace it soon enough. The last-minute tickets on the resale site didn’t exactly give me any extra time to swap it out or plan further and get to Vegas for the show. I guess norms would fly up and have plenty of time in advance, whereas me… my ass is hitting the road to ride up. I’ll have to stop somewhere later, but it’ll be fine. My arms and back will be sore, but it’ll all be worth it when I see my favorite band up on stage, screaming into the microphone with painted faces and ripped clothes. I can’t fucking wait.

I start the bike, the sound rumbling through the tiny gas station’s lot, drawing more attention from the nosy fucks sitting outside the businesses downtown. By downtown, it’s all of one main street with a whole lot of nothing. A small café, the gas station, a Piggly Wiggly that’s half the size of regular shopping marts, hell, it doesn’t even have more than twenty shopping buggies. We have an ice cream shop, a coffee stand, and a bar my brother plans to renovate. Everything else is basically out of someone’s house or garage, and there’s also a bait and tackle shop down the road, that place stays busier than the grocery store on most days. I turn the radio on, get it linked to my playlist, and crank the volume up. With a heavy exhale, my body relaxes as I pull onto the main street. I was made for this life; nothing feels more comfortable to me than being on a motorcycle.

I start to leave town, casting a glance at the buildings just past the park as I ride by. There’s the school for kids in kindergarten through twelfth grade tucked a decent ways away from the road, the shack of a Sheriff’s office, which is really a double-wide trailer with a few window units to keep it cool, and then the library. There’s a big orange poster in the window of the library, distracting me. I slow down to what feels like a crawl and manage to make out the word ‘close.’ I know it said a lot more than that, but I couldn’t read it in time. I’m guessing they’vefinally shut the building down for good. Can’t say I blame them; there just aren’t enough people here to keep the place busy. At least, I figure it’s the reason; hell, with online reading, it kind of defeats the purpose to spend money on a building. Everyone’s got one of those Kindle things they get on Prime Day. I’m not a reader and even I know that much.

Or, if you’re like me, I listen to everything I can through audio.

I’m riding for about ten minutes before I notice someone on the side of the road. It’s a woman. She’s got on jeans and a T-shirt and has long, dark hair flying in the breeze from a ponytail. I start to slow down before I even realize I’m doing it.

Just keep riding. Don’t you dare look in her direction, pretend like you don’t see her.

Her hand shoots out, thumb sticking up, and I cut the gas.What the fuck am I doing?Rather than respond to myself, I veer to the shoulder, slowing to a stop. I turn to glance back at her, while still sitting on my bike and lower my music. She has two bags with her—backpacks it looks like. She puts one on, while carrying the other as she makes her way to me.

“Hello,” she calls, with a relieved smile on her face. She’s fucking gorgeous. And stupid to be out here hitchhiking, looking like that. Someone would rape her little ass in a heartbeat and they’d never find her curvy body.

“Sup,” I murmur, sounding like a gigantic dipshit. Don’t know where my vocabulary came from, but apparently, it’s lacking more than usual today.

“Mind if I catch a ride?”

“Where you goin’?”

“I think the more important question is, where are you heading?”

“Concert in Vegas. Got an extra ticket, wanna come?”

“Depends.”

“On?” This chick has some balls, and she’s not cowering at my size like most folks who don’t know me tend to do.

“If it’s anyone good.”

“Fucking right, they are.”

“Okay then, it’s settled. I’m game.”

“Only one bag,” I state and for the first time since I pulled onto the shoulder, she casts a worried gaze.

She stares at the backpack in her hand for a few beats, almost as if she’s debating on whether the ride is worth it or not. Eventually, she nods to herself, coming to a decision. She reaches inside the front pocket to remove a brush and rubber band; she uses it to tie up her hair into a tighter bun. “Got a spot for my brush?” she asks, her lips curving into a sweet smile. She chunks her bag and a gallon jug full of water off into the bushes, and I point to the saddlebag with my tea in it.

“In there.”

“Thanks.” She stuffs her brush in the bag, then looks at me expectantly.

“Whatcha’ waiting for…? Climb on.” I keep the bike steady as she manages to get her tiny ass on the bitch seat.

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