Page 4 of Total Carnage
I remembered the first time I'd seen her, striding into the club like she owned the place. The way she'd looked at me, a mix of disgust and challenge, was completely out of my league.
"You okay, mister?" The kid's voice jarred me back to reality.
I blinked, realizing I'd been standing there like a statue. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
But I wasn't. Not even close. Because now all I could think about was Raven. The way her body had felt against mine, all soft curves and hidden steel. The sound of her laughter was rare and precious. The fierce intelligence behind those eyes, always three steps ahead of everyone else. We'd been like fire and gasoline, explosive and dangerous, and so fucking alive. And now... now I didn't even know where she was fucking buried. I needed Stansfield’s head on a stick.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. "Thanks, kid," I said, tossing him some cash. "Keep the change."
As I stood next to my bike, I knew one thing for certain. I was going to find out what the hell had happened while I was gone. And God help anyone who got in my way, including my own fucking government—bunch of pricks.
"Fuck."
I remembered a night in Phoenix, the air thick with desert heat and desire. Raven's skin had glistened in the moonlight as we tore through the city on my bike, her arms wrapped tight around my waist. We'd ended up in some seedy-ass motel, tearing at each other's clothes before the door had even closed. We fucked all night, waking in the morning only to fuck again. We talked along fucking time the following day and made plans that death later interrupted.
"You're thinking about her again, aren't you?" The kid's voice cut through my thoughts.
I shot him a glare. "Mind your own fucking business."
He shrugged, unfazed. "Just sayin', you got that look. Like you've lost something you can't live without."
"Yeah, well," I growled, "I'm gonna get it back."
As I straddled my bike, I felt a surge of determination. Every rev of the engine was a promise. To Raven. To myself. I'd find her, find the truth, even if I had to burn the whole fucking world down to do it.
The kid watched me, eyes wide. "Good luck, mister," he called as I peeled out of the station.
I didn't look back. I couldn't. The road ahead was all that mattered now.
I pulled over at the crest of a hill, the engine's rumble fading to a low purr. The Arizona landscape sprawled out behind me, a sea of red and gold stretching to the horizon. It was beautiful in its own harsh way, unforgiving and wild—just like my chosen life. Just like Raven.
"Fuck me," I said, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. Tears—fucking tears I didn’t even know I could produce—pushed at the corners of my eyes. The magnitude of what I was about to do caught up, clinging to me. I closed my eyes, letting the hot wind whip across my face. Raven's laugh echoed in my mind, a bittersweet reminder of everything I'd lost. When I opened them again, my resolve had hardened to steel.
"Alright, darlin'," I said, speaking to the memory of her, "I'm comin' for you. Your father’s going to pay the reaper."
I swung my leg back over the bike, feeling its familiar weight beneath me. The engine roared to life, a battle cry against the silence of the desert. As I gripped the handlebars, I feltthe conflicting emotions warring inside me: love, rage, hope, vengeance—all of it tangled up and pushing me forward.
"Time to raise some hell." The bike lurched forward, eating up the asphalt as I accelerated. Each mile that disappeared behind me was another step closer to the truth, to Raven, to reclaim the life that had been stolen from me.
An hour later, I spotted a decrepit motel sign flickering in the distance; its neon glows a beacon in the twilight. Part of me wanted to keep riding until I collapsed, but I knew better. You don't survive long in this life by being stupid. As I pulled into the gravel lot, a fleabag mutt started barking, announcing my arrival to anyone who gave a damn. I killed the engine; the dog's bark filled the night.
"Easy, boy," I said to the dog as I dismounted. "I ain't here to cause trouble."
Not yet, anyway.
The night air hit me like a slap to the face, carrying the scent of dust and creosote. I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. In the fading light, my shadow stretched long across the parking lot, a solitary figure against the vastness of the desert. As I walked toward the motel office, each footfall felt heavy with purpose. This was just the beginning, the first chapter in a story that was going to be written in blood and gasoline.
The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting an eerie red glow. I paused at the office door, my hand on the handle. Alive. Dead. Now, Aive again. What the fuck?
Raven
Isat on the edge of the sagging mattress, my fingers absently tracing the worn fabric of the blanket I’d used to dry my tears for way too long. Moonlight streamed through the barred window, casting stripes of silver-blue on the dingy floor. Four years. Four damn years of this shit show. My gaze drifted to the small rectangular window, the only connection I had with the world outside my hellish cage, a prisoner to my own father.
As always, my thoughts wandered back to him—Vin Reed. The biker with the caring eyes and the fuck-all swagger. The last time I saw him, we were hiding out in some run-down motel, miles away from the life I was trying to escape. His hands, rough yet strong, had felt like fire against my skin, warming me from the inside out. A shiver ran down my spine, and the tears began their nightly cadence.
If I tried hard enough, I could feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine, his arms enveloping me like a raginginferno. He’d introduced me to the darkest of sins, and in each other's arms, we’d found a brief reprieve from the world outside. A world that had ultimately ripped us apart.
The coldness of my surroundings seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. I hated my father for taking away Vin and the lifestyle I’d fallen in love with—designer dresses for leather and denim. The freedom of the open road, the wind in my hair, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins. A life where I’d been in control, at least for a little while. Back then, I wasn’t my father’s—former President of the United States Charles Stansfield—pawn, not a trophy to be bartered and bargained for by men in power suits, their hands just as dirty as the club members I’d left behind.
