Scum (Wrong Side of the Tracks 1)

Two other young men had moved in with Frank while Shane had been out of the picture, and while one of them was the man’s nephew, the other—a perfect stranger—remained a nuisance to everyone. But who was Shane to criticize Frank for taking in strays when he used to be one himself?

He needed to get off the bike in order to open the gate, but once he left the road, diving into the sanctuary of scrap piles and disused vehicles, the threat that always loomed at the back of his mind whenever he was among people was replaced by a sense of calm.

During his time in the penitentiary, freedom had seemed like the solution to everything wrong with his boring, aimless life. He hadn’t expected to only feel at ease behind fences once he’d finished doing time. It was something he hadn’t admitted even to Frank, but without the junkyard and his tiny bedroom, he would have been adrift rather than ‘free’.

In the dark, the slopes of plastic and metal were indistinguishable from natural dunes, and as Shane relaxed his shoulders, pushing his bike along the asphalt road winding through the massive site, he let his mind empty until it reached a meditative state he couldn’t ever allow himself back in the can.

“Name!” yelled someone far too close, and a sharp object poked at the back of his head, ruining the relaxed atmosphere.

There was the nuisance. The fucking sore on Shane’s ass. The flea sucking Frank’s life blood.

Shane exhaled, his muscles stiffening as he fought the fury buzzing deep inside him and the reflexes that told him to fight. “Are you fucking blind, Jag? Go back to the hole you’ve come from!”

The culprit slowly took away his weapon from Shane’s head. “It’s a den,” he said in a raspy voice. Shane had no idea if that way of speaking was natural for the guy, or just something he did to seem more animalistic. He did have some scars on the throat, so who knew?

Shane should think about his bike, but once the sharp metal was away from his flesh, something at the back of his head snapped, and he spun around, punching the shadowed face. “A real dog would have recognized me! You’re so fucking useless!”

He flinched when his vehicle hit the asphalt, but what were a few scratches in comparison to the satisfaction of hitting a man who kept offending him with his presence alone?

Jag flinched and grabbed his face, but instantly raised his spear—because of course he had a spear, made of a pipe—and pointed it at Shane’s chest, creating distance. “I’m no dog! Only reason you’re still breathing is that you’re Frank’s friend! What did you expect when you sneak around in the middle of the night, huh?”

Definitely not being accosted by this clown.

Jag would have been quite handsome if someone taught him to walk straight, eat with utensils, sleep in a bed, and replaced the weird fuckery he called clothing with something that didn’t scream ‘low-budget post-apo movie’, but they’d been clashing from the day they’d met, so Shane had discarded the notion of making a move on the freak.

In the dark, the long, fluffy hair created a strange halo around his head, and the armor of scrap metal transformed his shoulders into an inhuman shape. But he was still only a man who refused to see the world for what it was.

Shane hoped the crazy fuck wouldn’t stab all of them in their sleep because a bird told him to.

“‘Sneaking around’? What the fuck are you on about? I just decided to push my bike instead of driving it home. I’ve lived here longer than you!”

The faint glow coming from Frank’s house beyond the pile of scrap metal offered just enough light for Shane to see Jag squinting at him. The golden-green eyes did remind Shane of a wild cat, but he’d sooner die than compliment the psycho.

“No you haven’t. I’ve been here three winters.”

“Well, I lived with Frank when you were still a little kid running around with the wolves, or whatever it was you used to do for fun in that little fucked-up commune of yours, so beat it,” Shane growled and dragged up his poor bike. A part of him never stopped worrying Jag would sink his teeth into his neck and rip out a chunk of flesh, but the crazy guy respected Frank’s authority too much to go against his wishes and attack an acquaintance.

Instead of answering, Jag growled at him in warning, but by the time Shane looked back from behind the bike, the beast of Wreck & Repair had dispersed into the shadows. He could see what Frank meant when he’d told Shane Jag was great at guarding the perimeter of the property and saw things the camera system did not—especially in the spots that had been strategically placed away from digital surveillance. But if it were up to Shane, he’d treat him like the animal he was and put a shock collar on his neck.