Page 2 of The Bastard's Lily
We get through the rest of our morning and hop in my old truck. Beau buckles in the backseat as I head toward the main road.
The school is tucked behind a squat brick church, just far enough off the main road to make you think twice about whether you’ve got the right place. The playground fence is freshly painted, and there's a plastic slide glinting in the early sun. Beau’s nose smudges the car window as we pull in, his breath fogging the glass with excitement.
But my eyes scan the lot first. Every car. Every angle.
I spot a rusted-out truck with a dented fender and a bumper sticker from the high school. A minivan with a dreamcatcher dangling from the rearview. Nothing with a patch. No bikes. No matte-black Chevys with custom plates or chrome skull valve caps. Still, I don't let myself relax. Complacency gets you killed.
Beau hops out before I’ve even turned off the engine, clutching his lunchbox like it holds gold bricks. I follow slower, pulling my hoodie tighter around me like armor.
The director, Miss Jess, meets us on the steps. She’s barely twenty-two and chipper in that way that only people without trauma can be. “Beau! Hey, buddy! You ready to play?”
He beams at her and nods. I crouch down, brushing a crumb off his chin.
“Be good, okay?” I say quietly. “If anyone asks about our house, our names, anything—”
“I know, Mama,” he whispers back. “Stranger danger. No last names. Just Beau.”
“That’s my boy.”
He squeezes me tight and bolts through the door with a wave, disappearing into the hum of toys, cartoons, and kids who don’t yet know the weight of secrets. I linger, pretending to check my phone while my eyes keep scanning. No one follows me out.
But my stomach doesn't unclench until I’m back in the car with the door locked and the engine rumbling to life.
The drive to the prison takes thirty-two minutes exactly—unless traffic throws a tantrum, which it rarely does out here. Just endless pines and frost-nipped fields, long stretches of road with nowhere to run if someone were tailing you.
I check the mirror. Again. Then again. No bikes. No vans.
Still, I change lanes twice. Take a different route for the last five miles. It's an old habit now, burned into my bones like the club’s brand is burned into theirs.
The Berlin Correctional Facility looms into view like a scar carved into the mountain—ugly, gray, functional. My stomach churns, the familiar bile rising.
I pull into the staff lot, parking in the furthest corner. Out of sight. Less chance of someone recognizing me—or worse, remembering who I used to belong to. I kill the engine, take one last glance in the mirror, and force my hands to stop trembling.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “You already survived hell. This is just the after.”
But even as I swipe my badge and head toward the gates, I can’t help but feel it in the air. He’s here. Somewhere. And it’s only a matter of time before our paths collide again.
The staff entrance buzzes when I swipe my badge, metal and motor grinding like the place resents letting anyone in. Cold air clings to the corridor, even though it’s nearly September, and the fluorescent lights above flicker with a headache-colored hue.
First checkpoint: locker room.
The door slams shut behind me, echoing off cinderblock walls. It smells like industrial soap, damp canvas, and too many secrets. Rows of lockers line the wall, dented and tagged with stickers, magnetic mirrors, and the occasional faded prayer card.
I find mine—new, still marked with a sticky note that says “Hale.” I twist the flimsy lock open, stash my hoodie and keys, and pull on the navy scrub top I was issued yesterday. It smells like starch and is about as stiff as it too. My name badge clicks into place.
“You’re gonna want to tie that up higher,” says a voice behind me. Gravelly, older. No-nonsense.
I turn. A woman in her fifties stands at the sink, scrubbing her hands raw. Her gray-streaked bun is tight enough to pull her brows. She’s wearing cracked clogs, a tattered compression sleeve on one leg, and a face that tells me she’s not here to coddle rookies.
“Excuse me?”
She jerks her chin at me. “Your hair. Loose like that, it’s a handle. Infirmary’s got three inmates on restraint orders this week. If they grab it, you’re fucked. Literally or otherwise.”
I swallow, fingers reflexively tightening the braid.
“High and tight, honey. Think nineties cheerleader, not ‘soft single mom energy.’ You won’t survive five minutes in C-Block otherwise.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
