Page 7 of Massacre
He snarled.
Taking a deep breath, I added, “I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to kill him. Okay, that’s a lie. I wanted to kill him. But I have a very good explanation.”
Pulling out a chair, he sat, never taking his eyes off me. “This better be damn good, Massacre, because if I can’t get you out of this mess, I’m going to kill you myself. What part of STAY DEAD didn’t you understand?”
“Well, you see, it all started the night you called me at the motel.”
Six weeks ago...
Disconnecting the call, I placed my phone back into my cut and let out the breath I’d been holding.
I hated pretending.
When Reaper asked me to leave the clubhouse and do this damn road trip, I knew what he was doing. I knew he saw the dark circles under my eyes from the countless sleepless nights I tried to hide. The tension in my shoulders that I failed to shrug off. The fact was, the nightmares of my past weighed me down heavily, and he saw right through my mask. He saw I was no longer the man he remembered all those years ago. My timeaway from my family, my club, and my brothers took its toll, and now all that remained was a shell of a man that once was.
A man barely hanging on to a reality I knew didn’t exist.
I understood his intentions, but I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. I owed Reaper too much. Besides, maybe he was right. Maybe some time away from the daily grind of club life would help me find myself again. So, I packed a bag, grabbed my keys, and headed out.
The weight of every decision I made was heavy on my mind.
As I traveled, my mind drifted back to the events that had led me here. The choices I’d made, the people I’d hurt along the way, and the slow decay of my spirit.
I knew Reaper was right. I wasn’t the same.
This fucked-up world had chewed me up and spit me out, and now I was searching for the pieces to put myself back together.
I just didn’t know if I cared to.
As the road stretched out before me, the lonely path mirrored my journey. As I rode, the miles became a blur, each one taking me further from my old life and the man I used to be. I thought of Reaper and his unspoken offer of redemption.
Could I find my way back to myself? Back to a time when my eyes didn’t carry the weight of a thousand regrets and my shoulders weren’t bowed by the burden of my choices. The road was my only companion now, and it offered no answers, only a silent judgment that seemed to echo my self-doubt. I knew that the life I once had was gone, chewed up and spit out by my own decisions and the unforgiving world I lived in. The question now was whether I had the strength to build something new from the shattered pieces of my past.
The weight of my decision to leave felt like a physical burden as I rode. Each mile took me further from the only life I’d known. I thought of Reggie and the rest of my brothers I’d leftbehind, the club that had been my family, and the man I’d been when I was with them. That man, once full of hope and naïve to the brutal cruelty of the world, seemed like a stranger now. I wondered if he would even recognize the person I had become.
As the sun set, casting long shadows across the road, my thoughts turned to the future. What awaited me at the end of this journey? Could I ever truly leave my past behind and start anew? Or would the ghosts of my choices forever haunt me, no matter how far I ran?
The open road became my sanctuary, a place where I could finally be alone with my thoughts. As the miles passed, I felt a sense of peace, a respite from the constant turmoil that had plagued me. Out here, away from the expectations and demands of my old life, I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Reaper was right, and this journey would be my salvation. I knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of purpose. I was no longer running from my past but rather embracing the unknown future, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
The sky was a deep, velvety blue sprinkled with stars. Each one twinkled with a promise of adventure. The gentle hum of my motorcycle was the only sound accompanying me as I navigated the long, never-ending roads of Nebraska. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming wildflowers filled the air, adding to the tranquil charm of this rural landscape.
The vast fields stretched out on either side of me, dotted occasionally with barns and farmhouses, their lights glowing like beacons in the night. The cool breeze brushed against my face, carrying with it the whispers of the plains. It was a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of California, where time seemed to slip through my fingers like sand. Here, time stood still, allowing moments to linger and to be savored or, in my case, letting my nightmares linger and take root.
I thought about the people I had met along the way—hardworking, genuine souls who valued simplicity and honesty. Conversations were unhurried, laughter was heartfelt, and hospitality was a given. It was a lifestyle that felt almost foreign, yet it resonated deeply within a part of me that yearned for such uncomplicated beauty.
As I rode further into the night, I felt a sense of liberation. The worries of the world seemed like distant murmurs, overshadowed by the grandeur of the open plains and the endless sky. Every field of corn I passed brought me deeper into the heart of Nebraska, a place where my spirit felt truly free.
The rough and warn road beneath my tires led me to the outskirts of a quaint little town called Diamond Creek, its charm magnified by the soft glow of streetlamps and the occasional flicker of a porch light.
I decided to stop for a while and allow myself to be enveloped by the serenity of this place. Sitting on my bike, I gazed at the stars and listened to the symphony of crickets and distant owl calls.
The warmth of the night and the peaceful surroundings reminded me why Reaper had chosen me for this trip. It wasn’t just about reaching a destination; it was about experiencing the journey, to find solace in the simplicity of life, and to reconnect with the essence of who I was. Nebraska had a way of nurturing the soul and offering solace without asking for anything in return.
As I turned onto Main Street, the sight of a charming diner greeted me. Its neon sign flickered warmly. The inviting scent of freshly baked pies wafted through the air, tempting me to step inside. The diner’s rustic exterior promised a homely, comforting experience, and I found myself drawn to it.
I parked my motorcycle and entered the diner, the bell above the door chiming softly. The interior was a delightful mix ofvintage decor and cozy seating. The patrons, a mix of locals and travelers, exchanged friendly nods and smiles as I took a seat at the counter. The waitress, a cheerful woman with a warm smile, handed me a menu and welcomed me with genuine hospitality.
Over a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee, I struck up a conversation with the elderly man sitting next to me. He spoke of his life in Diamond Creek, sharing stories of community gatherings, seasons of harvest, and the simple joys that marked his days. His tales painted a vivid picture of a life intertwined with nature and the rhythms of the land, a life that seemed to hold a deeper, more profound connection to the world around me.
