Page 2 of True Bastard
His grip tightened on my hair, a searing reminder of my captive state. The leather of his jacket felt rough against my cheek as he pulled me closer, his breath hot and foul. “Brat’s with your mommy and daddy, right?” he rasped, his voice slithering across my skin. My mind raced, a chaotic scramble of terror and strategy. He knew. He knew I was lying, that I just wanted a night to myself. That knowledge was a brand, searingme with the realization that my brief escape had only led me deeper into his trap.
A single, desperate thought clawed its way through the fog of fear:protect Karter. My daughter. She was the only thing that mattered, the only reason to fight, to endure. If she was with my parents, that was a lifeline, a chance. But it also meant they were potentially in danger. The thought of him hurting them, of him laying a hand on my innocent girl, sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.
“She’s not with them,” I lied again, no longer caring what he did to me as long as my daughter was safe. “She’s with a sitter. Someone you don’t know.”
His eyes, dark and devoid of any humanity, narrowed. He seemed to savor my fear, to feed on my desperation. The gun remained a cold, hard presence against my head, a constant, terrifying reminder of his absolute control. But in that moment, a flicker of defiance ignited within me. It was small, fragile even, but it was there. He wanted Karter. And if I had to endure this, if I had to break myself piece by piece, I would ensure my daughter remained safe. My identity, my pride, my very self—it was all on the bargaining table, and the price was my daughter’s life.
Steeling myself for the inevitable, I glared at the son of a bitch and seethed, “Fuck you.”
His fist came quickly as it collided with my stomach. Air was forced from my lungs in a strangled gasp. My vision blurred with pain and unshed tears, but I managed to meet his gaze. A silent defiance flashed in my eyes, one that I hoped would convey the power in my voice, that nothing, not even the threat of death itself would ever get me to reveal my daughter’s hiding place. Seeing the malevolence, the blind fury glaring back at me, I knew then that I would not survive this night.
The blow to my stomach was a brutal punctuation mark to my defiance, a visceral reminder of my utter helplessness.Darkness swam at the edges of my vision, and the taste of bile mixed with blood flooded my mouth. Yet, through the haze of agony, my gaze remained locked with his. It was a battle of wills, a silent testament to a mother’s fury that burned hotter than any fear. He saw it; I knew he did. The flicker of something he couldn’t break, something that transcended the leather, the gun, the brute force. It was the echo of the man who had taught me to fight, to never surrender.
He snarled, a guttural sound that promised more pain, more violation. His grip tightened again, the spindles of the banister digging deeper into my raw back. I braced myself, my mind a desperate canvas painting a thousand scenarios, each one ending in my demise, but never in Karter’s discovery.
He pressed the gun against my temple, a cold kiss of death.
“One more time,” he growled, his voice rough with impatience. “Where is the little bitch?”
But even as his question hung in the air, a new sound cut through the suffocating tension—a faint, rhythmic thudding, growing steadily louder, accompanied by the distant wail of sirens, and I smiled.
“Go to hell. I will never tell you where my daughter is,” I spat, then wanted to cry as the sirens faded off into the distance.
“Wrong answer, bitch,” he snarled, taking a step back as the sirens grew louder once more. Then, he pointed the gun at my face and sneered, “That little bastard is mine.”
My last thought was of my little girl’s smiling face.
Chapter One
Firestride
That same night, in Deadwood, South Dakota...
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet town of Deadwood, South Dakota, as the roar of our engines thundered through town, shattering the peaceful evening with the thick smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. Fear held everyone captive, preventing a single soul from daring to look in our direction.
We weren’t welcome in Deadwood, and every glance felt like a threat. The town of Deadwood served as the county seat of Lawrence County, South Dakota. Named by early settlers after the dead trees found in its gulch. As I understood, the city hit it big between 1876 and 1879, after some lucky son of a bitch discovered gold deposits nearby, leading to the Black Hills Gold Rush. At its height, the city of Deadwood grew to a population of 25,000 residents, attracting famous Old West figures such as Wyatt Earp, Calamity Jane, Seth Bullock, and Wild Bill Hickok.
Now, the town barely housed over a thousand residents, and not a single fucking one of them gave two fucking shits about anything but themselves and their precious dying town. Their sly looks, hushed whispers, and condemnatory stares did nothing to endear me to them.
They didn’t give a fuck about me, so why should I give a fuck about them? Their cowardice never ceased to amaze me. Their scared blatant gestures as they hurried to close their shops,refusing us service, or petrified pitiful glances as we passed—still brought a subtle smile to my lips.
Judgmental pussy motherfuckers.
Good thing they were safe from me tonight because I was in the mood for a little terror. Heading out of town, my destination was the Dead Stop, a bar known for its problematic clientele, nightly brawls, over-priced sex, and recreational drugs that did nothing to help Deadwood’s economy. All it did was keep the local sheriff in business and desperately in need of more deputies.
Pulling into the dirt parking lot, I dismounted my gleaming classic 1972 Triumph Bonneville, meticulously maintained and cherished. Its chrome gleamed under the moonlight as its engine purred with a deep, throaty growl that echoed through the empty streets. My bike was more than just a means of transportation; she was my trusted companion, my vessel of freedom—an extension of who I truly was.I didn’t ride her often, choosing to keep her safe most of the time, but occasionally I brought her out and rode her until the sun rose over the horizon. There was nothing better than a long midnight ride, and I planned to do just that after I took care of some club business.
My eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the bar’s exterior before pushing open the creaky wooden door. My other brothers followed, a wall of leather and steel, our presence commanding immediate attention as the bar fell silent. Patrons froze mid-drink, their conversations dying on their lips as they turned to face the hellfire that had just walked through the door. While some returned to their drinks, most fled as the bartender, a burly man named Jack, wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes narrowing as he slowly shook his head.
He fucking knew why I was here and who I was looking for.
Striding to the center of the room, my heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor, and the bartender lightly shifted hishead toward the corner of the bar, where a man tried to shrink into the shadows. But it was too late. I would spot that fucking scruffy figure with his nervous twitch anywhere. Advancing, I flipped a chair around and straddled it while my brothers surrounded the table, leaving him no room to escape.
“Pauley, Pauley, Pauley.” I sighed, leaning in close. “You lying piece of shit. Thought you could get away from me, did ya? You know what happens to people who don’t pay their debts.”
Pauley swallowed hard. His eyes darted around the room, seeking an ally, a way out, anything, but I fucking knew no one here would give him aid. The motherfucker made a deal with the Devil, and now it was time to pay up. “I... I just need a little more time,” he stammered. “I’ll get you the money, I swear.”
My face remained impassive. Just like all the others, it was the same old spiel.
