Page 125 of Kings Have No Mercy

It’s only my third time on the back of a bike. First time after the near-crash and injury I sustained thanks to the Road Reapers. Clutching Mason, I find myself letting go without any fear or hesitation.

I welcome the feeling of freedom that takes over me. The sensation that I’m flying on the back of a steel beast that seems to travel at the speed of light. We hit the highway and I’m laughing in delight, sticking my arms in the air to feel the summer breeze.

Mason’s grinning up front. I don’t need to see him to know. I can feel how amused and happy it makes him to know I’m enjoying myself on his bike.

He revs the engine, and we blast off even faster. I’m not sure I ever want the moment to end as I stretch my fingers as high as they’ll go and feel like I’m painting the sky the opalescent colors that make up dusk. Pinks, purples, blues that spread for miles to see.

I wrap my arms back around Mason and marvel at the open road and terrain surrounding us. It’s like we’re the last two people on earth. The Steel King and his Queen exploring the land that belongs to us and only us.

I rest my head against his back, nuzzling him as it sinks in.

This is my life now.

It’s another forty minutes before we stop. Mason pulls over on the side of the highway and pulls his helmet off. I mirror him, climbing off his Road King bike. There’s no gas station or diner around. The sign says another five miles. The only thing within walking distance is what appears to be some kind of old, abandoned house in the middle of a field.

He grabs my hand. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”

“An abandoned shack?”

“Believe it or not, it was once a pretty nice house.”

We walk through the wild grass that’s grown so tall it’s past my knees. Fireflies and other insects buzz and click the purpler the sky becomes. The farther across the field we make it, the less sure I become. The slower I walk and the more Mason has to pull me along at his side.

“Mace… is this safe?” I ask.

“You’re with me, Syd. I’ve got you.”

My heart warms at the words of reassurance. It’s true—Mason wouldn’t let anything bad happen. He’d fight tooth and nail the second it did.

We stop in front of a worn-down, rickety picnic table. Mason digs around in the pocket of his vest and pulls out a polaroid that he hands over to me.

I hesitate taking it, unsure where this is going. Lowering my eyes to the photo, I understand why it’s being handed to me, a small gasp traveling up my throat and past my lips.

I stare at the picnic table and cozy home in the photo, then look up at what’s become of it today. The table’s wood has worn down and borderline collapsed while boards are nailed to the home’s windows. Any past warmth is long gone.

What’s before my eyes couldn’t be more different than the photo.

It must’ve been taken sometime in the early ’90s, though the quality has faded with time. In the picture, the home is a charming powder blue with a huge, thriving lawn and garden. There’s a garage on the side of the house with a car and a Harley-Davidson parked next to it.

Sitting at the picnic table is none other than Pop. He’s in his Hellrazor gear, almost thirty years younger. He grins at whoever’s taken the photo. Seated at the table across from him is a man with dark brown skin and a woman with a bright smile that probably lit up rooms.

And then I spot her—in the grass is a small little girl with braided pigtails, picking wildflowers. She can’t be older than three or four-years-old, but she looks as happy and carefree as can be.

Tears water my eyes. “This can’t be…”

“Jacob Singer was best friends with your birth parents. It’s why he adopted you the moment he got outta prison,” Mason explains. “This was your home. The night your parents were murdered, they were coming home and then were followed by some Road Reapers on the highway we were just on.”

“I… I used to live here?” I sputter out. My lashes are so wet they’re sticking together. “These were my birth parents? I’m the little girl in the photo?”

These are all spoken as questions, though deep in my heart, I know it’s true. From the moment I set eyes on the photo, I’ve realized it’s real. I’m staring at a vital part of my past that has always been a mystery.

“Pop never told me he was best friends with my birth father.”

“They were very close. Your birth father was one of the first Black members in any of the local clubs. Back then, they had just started opening it up. He made it far. Vice prez.”

“I’m the daughter of a biker,” I laugh almost sadly. “Two bikers.”

“Both fathers. It’s in your blood. In every part of you.”

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