Page 85 of Kings Have No Mercy

First things first, I need to get the hell away from here.

Wheaton’s not safe. Though Pop was a Hellrazor, it’d be stupid and risky of me to try to use that as social currency in their circles. I obviously burned irreparable bridges in Pulsboro and nothing’s left for me in Boulder.

My only choice left is to leave Texas altogether.

Start over somewhere completely different.

I venture outside the motel to the general store a couple blocks down. It’s not that I’m in search of anything in particular—outside of a few basic grooming necessities—but that getting out feels like a basic human requirement.

I leave the general store with a single plastic bag dangling off my wrist.

So late into the evening, dusk hits and cools down the town. It brings the summer bugs to chirp and click their wings and encourages residents to spend time outdoors.

None of it matters to me as I wander down a street and head in the general direction of my motel.

…until I realize there could be consequences to my wandering. As I’m closing in on my motel, I spy a familiar face from a distance that conjures a flurry of panic inside me.

Velmastands outside a local bar blowing smoke from a cigarette.

I double back and pray she hasn’t seen me—does this mean the Steel Kings are searching for me?

Mason did tell me to run far or they’d make me pay for real…

Panic sets my heart into a crazed frenzy. It beats painfully hard from inside my ribcage. I escape the public street I see Velma on and pray she hasn’t seen me. If she has, may god have mercy on my soul.

Mason was clear about making myself disappear.

Velma looks up from the man she’s speaking to, the cigarette smoldering from her lips, and glances around as if she senses something off.

I’m long gone, far out of sight by the time she does.

“Crap,” I mutter, hurrying down a side street. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

It’s true. There’s no hiding from the Kings in a place like Wheaton. I’ve got to go far away from my life in Texas. I’ve got to go somewhere where none of them can ever find me…

24

MASON

“We need to talk,”Cash says with a somberness to his expression.

I’m in the club office, reclined with my legs up on the desk, as I read through the latest club financial report. Bush and Mick turned it in to me after factoring in the profits from the fundraiser we held a few weeks ago.

My eyes scan over the same line several times. I read the words without really digesting what they mean. An hour has gone by and I’m barely reaching the second page. I don’t look up from the chart and text I’m staring absentmindedly at, no matter how important Cash makes himself sound.

“Spit it out,” I say.

He strides over to the desk and rips the financial report from my grip. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about yourself. Snatch something out of my hand like that again and I’ll have you on the ground with your teeth knocked out.” I steal the report back with an aggressive yank at the paper. Reclining into the chair once more, I flip to the third page like I intend on understanding the information typed up.

Cash remains unconvinced. His hands rest at his waist and he peers at me like I’m some scumbag that’s stolen candy from a fucking baby.

At first, I ignore him. I continue pretending like I give a fuck about the financial report. The graph on the third page is some kind of pie chart with different percentages I don’t even understand. The colors Bush decided to use begin to piss me off—oranges and yellows and reds that all mean something different, like I’ve got time to figure it out.

I toss the report onto the desk and reach for the glass of whiskey I’ve been sipping on.

“Mace,” Cash growls.

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