Page 57 of Harper's Song

And that’s the last thing I remember thinking as the thunderous roar of many Harleys came from behind and the front, with men coming at me on foot from amid the trees too.

I wished so much to see my dad’s face as I spun in a circle looking at every one of the bikers who had now stopped. But I didn’t know any of them.

The road was so silent that the birdsong seemed too loud to my ears as I locked eyes with my bearded psycho stalker.

“There, there, pretty Harper,” he cooed and this time the fake sweetness in his voice was enough to turn my stomach. “Are you hurt?”

I tried to run, I did. But my pounding head and jelly legs weren’t yet fully in sync, and everywhere I turned more bikers I didn’t know appeared.

I called for Jax, I know I did that. To come help me, to save himself, I didn’t even know.

Eventually the bearded man reached me and covered my face with a dirty, moist rag that smelled of chemicals.

The next thing I remember is waking up on a lumpy mattress of a metal, king-sized bed in a nearly dark room. My head was pounding and feeling like it’s filled with fuzzy cotton, while my nose and throat burned like I inhaled or swallowed something corrosive.

The window is open, the air bringing the scents of pine trees, stone and earth. The room itself smells like dust and soap, especially the rough, hard sheet I’m covered with.

Men are talking outside, I can hear their rough, hoarse voices but not what they’re saying.

I rise up, the room spinning around me, which I ignore as I continue the laborious process of climbing off the high mattress. What is this, someone’s marital bed?

But I doubt anyone actually lives in this room. Apart from the bed, there is no other furniture in this—no closet or table or chair of any kind—and no pictures on the walls. Just the bed. And that seems significant in a way my addled brain can’t process yet.

The voices outside get louder and this time I’m certain I heard my father’s name spoken. I stand up, my legs wobbly but strong enough to support me, and concentrated on nothing but taking the four or so steps I need to take to get to the window.

I take two before the sound of metal scraping against wood behind me is accompanied by the sensation of my left arm getting ripped out of the socket.

I’m tied to the damn bed. Not tied but chained. By about two feet of fat chain links ending in a metal shackle around my wrist which is stinging and aching. How did I not realize that?

The two men downstairs seem to have stopped talking.

And then a voice I will now recognize as the voice of nightmares says. “Sounds like the little bird is awake.”

It’s him. The stalker. What does he want with me?

But that’s a dumb question. He chained me to a marriage bed. My mind just refuses to put two and two together.

Thudding footsteps on wooden floorboard end in the bedroom door opening. Bright yellow light in the hallway shows me just an outline of a man, but I know who it is anyway. The stalker. I’d recognize him anywhere now. In any light. Any darkness.

“Let me go!” I yell at him, but it comes out as a croaky yet high-pitched whisper. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am?”

He chuckles and flicks on the light switch by the door, casting the room in yet more blindingly bright yellow light. The bulb on the ceiling is bare and hisses as it burns.

Then he kicks the door shut, rising a cloud of dust in the process. He’s every bit as nasty and scary as he seemed the first time I saw him smiling at me across the crowded bar. And nastier than he seemed in daylight by the side of the road. Now I can smell him too. Sour sweat mixed with the smell of something rotten.

My father never actually told me what he does for the MC, we never talk about it at home. But I know anyway. I’ve heard the glory days stories told by the older MC members, and from Hunter, Chance and even Jax who heard those stories in much more vivid detail than me. Scar tortures people for the club and I know his ruthlessness and mercilessness is legendary in the world of outlaw bikers. He’s the monster who kills in a monstrous way.

“My father is Scar and he will come for me. And kill you. He’ll cut you up and kill you slowly.”

This time the man barks a short laugh and starts approaching me slowly. “Oh, I’m counting on that. Me and him, we have unfinished business. And it’ll be nice to see my brother again. It’s been a while.”

His hand grips the hilt of the knife hanging on his belt and I back away. But the only place for me to go is into the corner and the chain on my wrist won’t even let me reach that.

“You’re Reggie? You’re his brother?”

That’s why he looks familiar. Not that I’ve ever seen so much as a photo of my father’s psycho brother. But now that I know, I can see a similarity in their features—they have the same nose and the same eyes. Only this guy’s are cold and dead. He’s the one who gave my father that horrible scar covering half his face. When they were children.

I heard the story from the old timers originally, though Scar confirmed it when I asked him about it. Didn’t go into any details, I got those from his MC brothers too and tried to forget them ever since. This guy, he was born evil.

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