Page 52 of Massacre
The night air hit me like a slap in the face as I stepped outside. I filled my lungs with it, feeling a sense of liberation. I was on my own now, and the road ahead was uncertain. But I had a purpose, and I knew where to start. With a final glance at the clubhouse, I set off into the darkness, my boots hitting the pavement with determination as Massacre’s words filtered into my head...run, baby, run as fast as you can and never look back.
I was fucking dog tired, but I made it to Mitchell, Nebraska. Of course, looking around the small town, I had the fleeting thought that maybe I should just keep moving. There wasn’t anything here. Hell, Diamond Creek was bigger.
I think.
As much as I wanted to keep going, I was hungry, and I desperately needed a shower. Spotting a greasy little diner off Main, its neon sign buzzing against the prairie silence, I ducked inside, hoping for coffee and maybe some decent food. Of course, the second I got a good look at the place, I knew I was going to get neither. The woman behind the counter didn’t ask questions; she just poured me some coffee as she yelled to the fry cook for a breakfast plate, her eyes fixed on the muted televisionbolted to the wall. I sat there nursing that bitter cup, tracing the cracks in the Formica as I tried to convince my stomach that the food was edible. Which it wasn’t. But I ate it anyway, then thanked the woman for the food and quickly left.
The sun was clawing its way up, pale and bruised, when I stepped back into the street. By the looks of it, the day was gearing up to be a typical sunny Nebraska day. A dog barked in the distance as I started walking, boots crunching over gravel, across the street to the motel.
The motel was a squat, peeling box with faded blue trim and a vacancy sign that flickered like it couldn’t quite decide whether it belonged in this world or the next. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions—my kind of place. I handed the clerk a crumpled bill, signed a made-up name on the clipboard, and took the key without meeting anyone’s gaze.
Inside, the room was everything I expected: threadbare carpet, a faded landscape of the Tetons on the wall, and a bathroom where the shower nozzle was more rust than chrome. But when I twisted the tap, blessedly hot water thundered down, steaming the tiny space until it felt almost like a sanctuary. I stood there, letting the water scald away the grime, the exhaustion, and maybe some of the fear clinging to my skin.
Afterwards, wrapped in a scratchy towel, I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the air conditioner rattle to life. For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe—to just exist, safe behind a locked door. I reached for my coat, feeling for Massacre’s patch. I kept it close, the fabric rough against my palm every time I slid my hand into my pocket. In that moment, it felt heavier than anything I’d carried—heavier than fear, heavier than regret. I didn’t know if I was running toward something or just away from everything that ever tried to own me.
I could’ve stayed there forever, suspended in that liminal hush between exhaustion and hope. But the world didn’t pause for me.
My phone vibrated, a lone pulse on the battered nightstand. For a split second, I half-expected to see a message from one of the brothers, or the girls, or possibly my dad. Instead, it was just the silent blink of a low battery, a reminder that time kept moving, no matter how much I wanted it to stop.
I stretched out on the stiff mattress, letting the motel lull me into an uneasy rest. Sleep came in fits—a blur of headlights across the curtains, distant highway sounds, and the echo of Massacre’s words. Somewhere in that haze, promises and regrets tangled with the first threads of fading sunlight. When I finally woke, the world was quieter, emptier. I dressed, tucking Massacre’s patch into my pocket, then checked my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. I hardly recognized the person staring back, but there was a new steadiness in my gaze.
I didn’t have a plan—not really. But I had momentum, and maybe that was enough. I shrugged on my coat, stepped out into the early Nebraska evening, and started walking.
The streets of Mitchell felt half-deserted, alive only in the way lonely places were—echoes in empty lots, the hum of power lines, the distant cough of an old pickup. I kept my head down, hands jammed in my coat pockets, my boots carrying me past shuttered storefronts painted with the ghosts of better days. I tried not to think about the miles behind me or the even longer stretch that might lie ahead. The horizon in Nebraska always seemed to promise something: an escape, a reckoning, or just more sky.
I stopped at the edge of town and looked out at the endless fields dusted gold by the lowering sun. For a second, I almost turned back—almost let myself believe I could find a softer place to land. But I knew better. I’d learned to trust motion, to keepmoving even when the destination was nothing more than a rumor. That’s how I’d survived this long.
My footsteps found their rhythm again, a slow, stubborn insistence against the silence. The evening wind tugged at my hair and carried the scent of cut grass and distant fires. Somewhere, a freight train moaned. Its call lingered long after the steel wheels were gone. I pressed on, the motel fading behind me, each step unspooling the knot in my chest.
If there was hope, it was buried somewhere out here, somewhere in the blank spaces between towns, beneath a sky so big it could swallow sorrow whole. I walked into it—alone, unsteady, but moving—leaving behind the shell of safety for the raw ache of motion. I walked because the sun still set and the world kept turning, and because sometimes, moving forward was the only thing left that felt real.
Chapter Twenty
Reaper
“Where the fuck is she?” King roared as he paced the clubhouse.
I, on the other hand, glared at one person in particular, while the fucking geek squad clicked away on their computers, knowing damn well the one person who had the fucking answers refused to look at me. It was bad enough that Massacre did his fucking famous Houdini trick before I could get him back to Purgatory, but knowing Amber was out there alone, doing God only knows what, was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
The second we all learned that Amber was gone, Valhalla left. Not even Kytten knew where she went. Then again, even if she did, I was fucking positive the woman wouldn’t out her president.
And that right there was the problem.
Too many presidents in one motherfucking clubhouse.
As guests, this was technically King’s show. But factor in Massacre, a Golden Skull, and Amber, the daughter of a Night Nymph and a Soulless Sinner. Then the shit show before me was understandable.
“I want her found. NOW!” King shouted right before he punched a hole in the wall.
“Pippen,” Bane said, using his son’s club name. “What do you know?”
The kid looked up and paled. “Nothing. I swear.”
“Nav, don’t all these fucking cameras you installed work? Or are they for show?” Cash questioned, looking at his club brother. But I just stood there, watching, waiting for his tell. I knew the fucker had something to do with this. It didn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out. Massacre never did anything stupid without his trusty sidekick covering his ass.
“I know that look,” my best friend Ghost whispered, walking over to me. “You kill him before he talks and we’ll never get answers.”
“Oh, he will fucking talk,” I sneered, crossing my arms over my chest as the fucker fidgeted in his seat. The second his eyes darted toward mine, I grinned. “Gotcha, motherfucker.”
