Page 80 of True Bastard
“Story of my fucking life,” I muttered.
“What’s your name?”
Staring at the man, my gut clenched. He was old enough to have seen me grow, to have known my mother. He had to see the resemblance, the ghost of her in my jawline, the spark of her in my eyes. But his gaze was unfocused, clouded. “You don’t know my name?” The question ripped from my throat, a raw accusation. “You don’t know who I am?” A wave of nausea hit me, a sickening blend of disbelief and a deeply buried flicker of something akin to pity.
He groaned, a pathetic sound, and tried to shift. His face contorted, a stark mask of pain.
Yeah, asshole. You’ve been shot.A dark, venomous satisfaction bloomed in my chest. Couldn’t have happened to a more worthless piece of scum. I hoped it fucking hurt. I wanted him to writhe, to understand the agony he’d inflicted on so many. But as the thought solidified, an icy dread seeped in.
This wasn’t justice.
This was just... more violence. And it felt hollow, the victory tarnished by the very ruthlessness I’d sworn to escape.
Then, through the grimace, a faint smile touched his lips.
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” My words were a lash, fueled by a sudden, unexpected surge of unease. Was he mocking me? “You think your president is going to save you?” I sneered, the venom I’d aimed at him now a bitter taste in my mouth. Cold logic, born of years of survival, kicked in. “Then again,” I added, the words laced with a cruel cynicism I despisedin myself, “you’re a patched member. You rank higher than his fucking daughter.” The jab landed, but the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by a prickle of self-loathing.
Why was I dredging up that old pain?
It served no purpose.
I didn’t even know why I bothered. The asshole was probably just like him. Just another pawn in a game I’d fought so hard to get out of.
“What? King doesn’t have a daughter.”
Confused, I asked, “Who the fuck is King?”
“My president.”
“No, he isn’t,” I argued, a desperate need to impose order, to make sense of his fractured reality, overriding my growing disorientation. Geez, Skinner must have hit him harder than I thought. The asshole was making shit up. Or... was he? A chilling possibility crept into the edges of my mind. What if I were the one who was mistaken? What if everything I thought I knew, everything I’d built, was based on a foundation of lies? The thought was terrifying, a betrayal of my own quest for truth. I wanted to believe he was delirious, that I could dismiss his words as the ravings of a dying man. But a small, insistent voice whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, I was the one who had been blind all along. And that realization was a betrayal far worse than any he could inflict.
“I think I know who my fucking president is, little girl,” the asshole clipped, his eyes, darting around the room as if assessing threats that weren’t there, or perhaps, the ones he expected to be. He was clearly wired, jumpy, and there was something in his gaze... a flicker of something beneath the bluster, a forced aggression.
“Steele is your president.”
The asshole’s head snapped toward me so fast he grimaced, his face draining of color. It wasn’t just surprise; it was araw, gut-level fear, a jolt that made his carefully constructed composure crack. “Steele is the president of the Mother Chapter. How do you know Steele?” His question was a demand, laced with a suspicion that felt both personal and professional.
He was weighing my answer, cataloging the implications.
“He’s my father.”
He blinked several times, a strange blankness settling over his features before the anger returned, a more volatile, desperate kind. “How many fucking daughters does the bastard have?” His voice cracked, the question a desperate plea for clarity, for control. He was staring at me now, not as a‘little girl’, but as a piece of information he couldn’t process, something that fundamentally threatened his understanding of his world.
“There were two of us,” I muttered, my words painful on my tongue.
The truth was a betrayal, not just of a carefully guarded privacy, but of the fragile peace I’d fought to maintain. I hated this. I hated talking about it, aboutthem. My stomach twisted with a familiar nausea. I didn’t want to be known by this man, this extension of my father’s darkness. I didn’t want to be defined by the fractured family he’d left behind. But the words were out, and the knowledge was a weight I couldn’t shrug off. Should I have lied? Denied it? The thought felt like another betrayal, another piece of myself I’d have to excavate.
“You and Grace.”
His words hung in the air, a sudden, sharp accusation.
Grace.
The name landed like a physical blow, a phantom limb aching with absence. An icy dread, far more potent than the fear of this man, washed over me. I felt a sickening lurch, a visceral rejection of the implication. “Who the hell is Grace?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended, laced with genuine terror that I couldn’t quite suppress. The anger, thecarefully constructed indifference, shattered. Because I knew a Grace, actually a Kaitlyn Grace. Or... I used to. And that he knew her, that he was connecting her name to mine, to him... it was a violation I hadn’t anticipated, a darkness I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. I wanted to run, to deny everything, to pretend this conversation never happened. But the trap was sprung, and I was caught, forced to confront a past I’d tried so desperately to bury.
“Your sister.”
My breath hitched. “My sister’s name was Kinsley.”
