Page 11 of The Bastard's Lily
But if he steps wrong? I’m not gonna be the one to hold back.
I slip through the shadows, boots quiet now. Moonlight glints off the broken glass scattered in the old yard. I hear voices inside—two, maybe three. One’s laughing. One’s bragging. Something about moving weight through our territory without kicking up a dime to the Bastards.
Stupid fucks.
I move fast. Kick the door in. The laugh dies mid-syllable. “Who the—?”
I don’t let him finish. My fist meets his jaw with a crack that vibrates through my bones. The second one pulls a knife. I put a bullet in the wall next to his head before he can twitch.
“Try again,” I growl, voice low, deadly. “See what happens.”
He lunges anyway.Stupid.I slam his wrist against the edge of the counter, forcing the blade free with a grunt of pain from him. He swings with the other hand. I duck low, grab him by the front of his shirt, and drive him backwards into the fridge hard enough the door pops open and a beer bottle crashes to the floor.
The first one’s back up. Staggering. Blood on his chin. Rage in his eyes. I let him come. He throws a punch. Wide. Sloppy. I stepinto it, grab his arm mid-swing, and drive my elbow down across his forearm with a snap that makes him scream. His knees buckle.
“Sit the fuck down,” I snarl, grabbing him by the back of the neck and slamming him onto the couch.
The second one grabs a lamp. Swings it. It explodes against my shoulder. Doesn’t stop me. I twist his arm, shove him face-first into the wall, and cuff him behind the back with a zip tie I pull from my vest pocket.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” I mutter, tightening it until he whimpers.
The place smells like sweat and cheap weed. I step back, chest rising, blood pumping steady now. This is the kind of violence I can control. This kind of violence?It’s clean.
I drag the first one out by his collar, boots scraping against the floor. He spits blood onto the porch and tries to squirm. I make him regret it with a kick to the ribs. Something cracks. Good. The second one tries to run. I grab a broken chair leg from the yard and take out his knee. He howls and drops like a sack of shit.
“You move again,” I say, standing over him, “I break the other one.”
He doesn’t test me. I haul both of them through the overgrown yard like trash bags. Dump them at the base of the pine tree near the rusted-out grill and busted tire swing. There’s an oldclothesline hanging loose from a post. I rip it down, split it in half, and start tying wrists behind backs, rough and tight.
“Fuckin’ psycho,” one of them mutters.
I slam his head back against the tree. “What was that?”
“Nothin’—fuck—nothin’.”
When they’re tied to the trunk, backs bleeding from bark and rope, I step back, breathing hard, sweat running down my temple. They’re a mess. One’s nose is crooked now. The other’s shirt is soaked with blood and fear. I crouch low between them. Light a cigarette. Take a slow drag.
“You’re gonna stay here until someone comes lookin’. And when they do?” I tap the ash off the end. “You tell ’em who put you here. You tell ’em Rook came knockin’. And you tell ’em why.”
The one on the left trembles. “Why?”
I kick the first one in the ribs hard enough to hear something crack, then shove him up against the trunk of an old pine. His buddy tries to crawl away, but I grab his ankle and slam him down face-first into the dirt.
“You like making money off our rep?” I snarl, tying the rope around their chests. “You like slapping our name on your fuckin’ trash product like it’s a coupon code?”
They whimper, trying to speak through split lips and missing teeth. I don’t care. I double-knot the rope around their torsos, cinching it to the bark tight enough to grind skin. One of them cries.
“Here’s how this works,” I mutter, lighting another smoke. My knuckles are raw, boots dusted with blood. “You sit here. You think about what it means to fuck with the Bastards.”
I squat down in front of them. Blow smoke in their faces. “And when someone finds you? You tell themexactlywhy you’re like this.”
I jab my finger into his forehead. “You used our name.”
I jab the other. “You didn’t ask permission.”
Stand. Flick the cigarette to the ground. “Now you’re gonna bleed for it.”
I leave them tied and broken, weeping into the dirt, the tree trunk behind them stained with spit and blood. The trailer groans as I step back inside, floorboards cracked, piss and rot in the air. I light a match and toss it onto the thin trail of gas I poured earlier, right up to the busted couch and the pile of plastic baggies stamped withourlogo.
