Page 4 of Massacre
The field seemed endless, a labyrinth of corn that twisted and turned, offering no clear path to safety. My mind, clouded by pain and exhaustion, struggled to maintain focus. I fought against the darkness that threatened to pull me under, my gaze fixed on the distant horizon, where a faint glimmer of hope beckoned. It was a single solitary light, its glow a hope in the oppressive night. With a surge of newfound determination, I steered my battered body toward that light, my last refuge from the terror that pursued.
Chapter One
Massacre
Present day...
“Where the fuck are you?”
Yeah, that was a fan-fucking-tastic question.
There was just one minor problem.
I couldn’t remember where the fuck I was.
Looking around the room I was in, I rubbed my hand down my face and cautiously replied, “Um... looks like... maybe some dingy motel somewhere in bumfuck-I-don’t-know-ikstan?”
“So help me God, Massacre. If you are off fucking around.”
“Uh,” I muttered, looking around the barren hovel I was currently shacked up in.God, I hope I didn’t pay full price for this nasty place.“Help me out here, boss, ’cause I really don’t know the right answer.”
The second I heard him growl, I knew my ass was toast.
What else was new?
For as long as I could remember, I’d found myself in one precarious predicament or another. Hell, I was a magnet for fucking trouble. I chalked it up to my stellar personality. I was that damn cool. However, my brothers, especially my Prez, would probably think differently.
You see, I was what my mom would call a free spirit. I went where the road took me. Generally, that meant straight to the nearest police station, where they would proceed to take pictures of me, fingerprint me and, occasionally, they would strip search me before they threw my ass behind a set of well-crafted steelbars. I couldn’t tell you how many police establishments I’d visited over the years, but I knew it was a lot.
But that was the thing about being a free spirit: I never knew where the hell I’d end up. Sometimes, it was a neon-lit dive bar on the edge of nowhere. Sometimes, it was a nameless stretch of highway at 2 a.m. with nothing but the hum of the engine and the promise of trouble on the horizon. And sometimes—well, sometimes it was a room like this, where peeling wallpaper clung to the walls like a faulty memory and the air smelled of stale cigarettes and regret.
I blew out a breath, letting it rattle in the dead silence, and forced myself upright on the thin, sunken mattress. My head throbbed—either from last night’s whiskey or the stress of waking up in a strange place, I couldn’t say. Didn’t matter. I was used to it by now. The price of living loose, my mom used to say, was always being prepared to run.
I dragged on my boots, every muscle aching like I’d gone a dozen rounds with a grizzly, as I tried to remember where I was exactly. Prez’s words still echoed, sharp and unforgiving, and I could practically feel his glare even across the miles. The thing about the club was, I never really left my brothers behind. They followed me, in memory, in guilt, in expectation. Even when I wanted to forget.
I fished around for my keys, found them half-buried under a crumpled packet of cigarettes, and tried to piece together how the hell I’d landed here, or where here was. The memories came in jagged flashes—laughing voices, the glint of chrome, a bar fight I might’ve started, or maybe just finished. The rest was a blur. Typical.
With a groan, I pushed myself to my feet and surveyed the dim room one last time, like maybe it would offer up some clue as to why it felt so damn heavy tonight. But all I got for my trouble was a distant siren, a flicker of red and blue at the edgeof the grime-coated window, and the sudden, unshakable sense that—like always—trouble wasn’t done with me yet.
But I was done with this place.
I grabbed my jacket, slung it over my shoulder, and stepped into the night, the cool air biting at my skin, carrying with it the scent of something wild and dangerous waiting just beyond the next bend.
“Where the fuck is Babyface?”
Throwing my leg over my motorcycle, I smiled. “Ooh, I know the answer to that one, boss.”
“And I would really love to fucking hear the answer.”
“He’s in Montana. I mean, he’s not doing that fucker, Montana. That’s just yuck. Seriously, Prez, that fucker is scary. I would never let Babyface near him. Kid could do way better. Besides, why the fucking name Montana? It’s confusing. I never know if it’s the asshole or the state half the time. Not that the state is any better. Did you know they have cows in Montana? The state, not the fucker. I hate cows, boss. They creep me out, but I love steak. Man, I could really use a good flame-grilled porterhouse right about now,” I said, rubbing my stomach as it grumbled.
My Prez growled again.
“Sorry. What were you asking again?”
“Why the fuck is Babyface in the State of Montana?”
“We stopped by to say hi to Doolittle and, well, the little shit got caught with a rancher’s daughter. It wasn’t pretty, boss. The rancher, not the daughter. The girl was smokin’ hot. Too good for Babyface. Anyway, I thought poor Babyface was gonna cry when the rancher pointed a shotgun at the kid. Not a good cry either. I’m talking full-on ugly cry.”
