Page 48 of Choices

“Grease, do your job and slap that asshole.”

“Enough. They’re waiting for us,” Callan snaps, pulling rank.

“Let’s do this then.” I grab my helmet and slip it on, sweeping my leg over my steel horse and bringing her to life with a gluttonous roar. Callan pulls out first with me behind. As we pass the others, I kick my leg out and knock Green and his bike over. Amusement fills my chest as his curses fade behind me.

The roads glisten from the light rain showering down from the sky, the cool breeze feeling much colder once the dampness sets into my clothes. We drive for a few miles before Callan pulls off down a country road. Darkness stretches for miles across the open fields, the rumbling of our bikes carrying like thunder through the endless night. When he slows and pulls off to the side, we all ease behind him, checking our surroundings. Nothing but trees and silence.

Once everyone dismounts, Callan leads us through an opening in the trees to a sliver of a dirt path.

“If a bear attacks, it’s every man for himself,” Monster announces, holding a gun in one hand and a knife in the other.

“Is that what the arsenal is for—a bear?” I ask, entertained. I’d pay to watch Monster take on a bear.

“No. My legs are for the bear.”

I snort. “Grease is fucked then. The chubby asshole nearly fainted the last time he had to run.”

“Fuck you. It was uphill. I’m not built for running.”

“What you built for?” Green inquires.

“Breaking things.”

“Are those in case there’s a serial killer in these woods?” Tim quirks a brow at Monster. The moon slivers through the trees, highlighting Tim’s features. He looks fresh-faced, too young, not yet carrying scars from this life. What lies beneath his shirttells a different story, though. We almost have matching knife wounds. Mine wasn’t from a fucking bitch, but an enemy of the club is an enemy of the club, bitch or not.

“You sound as brain damaged as your brother,” Grease scoffs. “It’s extremely unlikely there’s a killer in these woods.” A stick breaks under his foot, making Green jump.

“We’re in here, aren’t we?” Callan quips. That’s multiple killers.

“Grease is right. The odds of there being more than one serial killer in the same location is next to none,” Monster says, his face almost hidden by his beard and the condensed blackness.

“Well, that sounded creepy,” Tim pipes up from beside him. I could shove Monster into him, and that blade would cut through him like butter. Accidents happen all the time.

“I don’t think you count as a serial killer,” Callan informs Monster.

“You’re a hedonistic killer,” I say, my eyes darting to movement in my peripheral. A bird takes flight from a branch.

“If I Google that, am I going to kill you?” Monster stops walking and turns to look at me.

Holding up my hands, a chuckle carries through the trees. “Means you kill for the pleasure of killing.”

“Does anyone get pleasure from killing?” Tim asks, taking a couple steps away from Monster. I grin.

“Yes,” Callan, Monster, and I say in unison.

“How much farther?” Grease puffs out, kicking his boot against a tree to dislodge a clump of mud.

“We’re almost there.” Callan juts his hand out, pointing in a direction that looks like nothingness.

The squelching of damp leaves under our boots joins the chirping of insects filling the silence between conversations. Dodger’s silhouette comes into view next to a wooden fence. Getting closer, the sound of a shovel hitting the dirt and snifflingfills my ears. We reach a black metal gate adorned with a sign reading Pet Cemetery.

“I take it back. That’s the shit that’s creepy.” Tim blows into his palms and rubs them together for warmth. “You ever seen that movie about one of these places?”

“Pussy.” Monster snorts.

“Trust me, what’s buried here stays buried,” Callan informs him.

“Took your time.” Dodger lights a cigarette, the orange tip glowing against the dark backdrop. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he waves a hand toward a hole in the ground. Jennings is waist-deep in a six-by-three grave, a shovel in his hand. “Keep fucking going. We don’t want animals digging you up,” Dodger orders.

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