Page 58 of Massacre
I considered her question, Massacre’s patch burning a hole against my ribs. My words stuck in my throat, heavy with secrets and exhaustion that settled in my bones.
“No, ma’am,” I whispered.
“I saw the way you looked at the Brotherhood when they rode past. You’re here to see them, aren’t you?”
I nodded almost imperceptibly.
Alice let out a slow breath, as if she’d been holding onto it for years. Her gaze darted to the window, toward the road where moments ago the bikers were. She wiped her hands on her apron—a nervous, habitual motion—and slid into the booth across from me.
“They’re not like other clubs, you know,” she murmured. “They’re not all bad. Well, some are worse than the others. Folks around here don’t like them. Hate that they live here. Most townies steer clear of them. But there are a few of us who won’t let the leather on their backs come between us and a good thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“This town was dying. Long-standing residents moved, kids graduated and left, never to return. This town used to be a beautiful place to live. Now it’s a ghost town, or it was until the Brotherhood moved in. Since then, the town has started to wake up again. It’s beginning to thrive again. But with the good comes the bad, and that’s what most can’t handle.”
I glanced at Alice, at the tired hope flickering behind her worry. The silence between us stretched, broken only by the faint clatter from the kitchen and the distant hum of engines fading toward the horizon. Outside, a neon sign sputtered in the dusk, coloring her profile in bruised pink and blue.
“So you don’t mind them here?” I asked, watching her fingers twist in her lap.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I mind what they bring sometimes. Fights, noise, the odd pounding on the door in themiddle of the night. But I remember what it was like before. Dead storefronts, empty houses, kids’ laughter—nothing but a memory. The Brotherhood spends money. They keep the diner busy, sometimes too busy. They pay cash and tip well. Some of them help out—fixing up old homes, volunteering at the food bank. A handful are more trouble than they’re worth, but the rest... they’re just trying to belong somewhere too.”
She paused, her eyes landing on the patch beneath my jacket. “You’re not the first to come here looking for them. You won’t be the last. People are drawn to them, for better or worse.”
A freight train moaned in the distance, the sound carrying through the window, rattling napkin dispensers and nerves alike. I sipped my coffee, letting her words settle.
“I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” she said, her voice softer now, “but whatever it is, you better be sure you’re ready for it. The Brotherhood changes people. Changed this place. Not always in ways you can predict.”
I nodded, the weight of intention heavy in my chest. Alice stood, straightening her apron, and offered the ghost of a smile. “I’ll be around if you need more coffee. Or a place to talk.”
She drifted away, leaving me alone with the echoes of her confession, the last wisps of steam from my mug, and the road outside—still humming with the memory of engines.
The Brotherhood of Bastards’ clubhouse was five miles west of town, nestled deep in the Black Hills. The clubhouse was a large metal two-story building with rusted, blacked-out windows. Even from where I was standing, I could hear the music pounding loudly from inside. Several bikes lined up one right after the other, parked along the front as a scattering ofcars filled the parking lot. Women, club whores and hanger-ons milled about, laughing as they walked in and out of the clubhouse with club brothers. I could smell the stench of beer and whiskey from where I stood as I tried to get my feet to move.
I took a steadying breath, steeling myself, and stepped towards the clubhouse. With each step, the music grew louder, the bass thumping in time with my heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of liquor and cigarettes, and I felt eyes on me as I approached. As I stepped into the clubhouse, the music and chaos enveloped me. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. I felt a hundred eyes on me, but I held my head high and kept my hand on the knife hidden in my jacket. I knew I stood out like a sore thumb, but I refused to let it show.
Laughter and conversation filled the room, along with the occasional shout and cheer. Brothers fucked women openly, while others drank, or played pool. I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder and turned to see a woman with wild, dingy hair glare at me. “You’re new,” she stated, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down. “You’re not one of the regulars, that’s for damn sure. What brings you to the Brotherhood of Bastards?”
Her tone was challenging, as if she expected me to back down or cower.
“Well, thank fuck,” someone shouted. “Fresh pussy!”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Zephyr!” The roar ripped through the suffocating press of bodies. A wave of fear, thick and cloying like stale beer breath, parted the crowd. The mountain man wasn’t just pushing; he was cleaving a path, his momentum a physical force that sent shivers down my spine. The air itself crackled with the low hum of his anger. He loomed, a granite monolith sculpted by some brutal god, dwarfing everyone around him.
Seven feet? He felt closer to eight, a titan forged in shadow and fury. His hair, a raven’s wing slick with sweat and something darker, something primal, cascaded down his back, framing a face that could shatter stone. Those weren’t just eyes; they were glacial pools reflecting the cold, cruel light of a winter moon. He wasn’t a Viking; he was the storm that shattered longships on jagged reefs, a raw, untamed power that left a trail of terror in its wake. The scent of wood-smoke and something tangy, like freshly spilled blood, clung to him, a potent perfume of violence.
This wasn’t a man; he was a walking apocalypse.
The woman, her eyes now wide with fear, took a step back, and her mouth opened and closed as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it. The man, Zephyr, grinned as his eyes roamed over me like a wolf sizing up its prey.
I felt a hand on my arm and nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Easy there, darlin’. No need to get yourself all riled up. Zephyr here might have a mouth on him, but he’s all talk.” The man who had spoken was tall and broad-shouldered, with a beard that reached his chest. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, crinkled at the corners as he smiled at me. “Name’s Cerberus. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He held out a meaty hand, and I absently reached for it, only to stop dead in my tracks as the mountain man snarled.
Cerberus looked at me, then at the mountain man, before taking a tentative step back.
“What the fuck is your name?”
I took a deep breath, my eyes never leaving the man before me as I whispered, “Amber.”
