Rage (Royal Bastards MC 2)

Crimson liquid coats my hand and shirt, the bottleneck acting like a funnel for his blood.

Screaming ensues from the female bartender. His little buddies don’t move to help their drinking buddy. Instead, they huddle together like the cowards they truly are. Pulling a hundred from my pocket, I slap it on the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”

When I get outside, Jameson’s bike is pulling into the parking lot. The motherfucker probably has a tracker on my phone. Dismounting and slipping off his helmet, his gaze assesses my appearance, and his eyes close. “What the fuck have you done?”

I look down at my hands, the sticky crimson gore staining the flesh. It’s real…it’s all fucking real. My head swims and my feet stumble toward him as the doors behind me open and people pile out, fleeing the scene.

“She’s fucking dead,” I choke over the words. A sob convulsing my chest, I fall to my knees as the darkness consumes me.

Thirty-One

Gabe (RAGE)

10 years later.

Twenty-five fucking minutes I’ve been sitting at this bar waiting for Halo to get out of the crapper. Asshole got a text and suddenly needed to shit. We’ve got a job to do, and time’s a ticking. Some fucker is going around murdering women in their homes in our city, and our Prez wants everyone out looking, protecting. A text comes through on my cell. It’s from Kai—aka Killer—letting me know he’s going to be out of town a couple more days. Animal sent him on an errand that’s taking him longer than planned. No doubt mixing in a little pleasure with business. Kai was aptly named Killer because he did any dirty work happily. I’ve never known any brother to enjoy the carnage as much as him. “You want another, sweetness?” the bartender asks, leaning on the bar to give me a view of her cleavage. She’s gotta be at least fifty. Her overly bleached hair looks thin and crispy, and her over-the-top makeup makes her look like a like a deflated blow-up doll. Before I can reply, a skinny, pale brunette pushes between some old geezer and me.

“Laura, is Milo in?” she asks, her hands shaking from withdrawals. My head whips toward her as old scars open up, seeping pain from my pores. The barmaid does a perusal of the bar and dips her shoulders. “He was earlier.”

My eyes scan the place. No ghosts laying in wait to fucking jump scare me.

“Fuck, give me something—a shot of Patron,” the woman demands, tapping her finger on the bar top.

“You know I need to see cash first, Milly. You nearly got me fired last time.”

“Milo will pay.”

“Milo isn’t here.”

“Fuck.” The brunette slams her palm down, her body vibrating.

“What about you, old man? Want to buy a lady a drink?” She leans into the geezer, much to his disgust.

“If I see one, I might,” he grunts, side-eyeing her.

“Fuck you then.” She turns to me, attempting to move closer.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” I hold up my hand in warning, then nod to the bartender.

“Milly, I can’t have you in here harassing my customers.”

“Screw you all then,” the angry spitfire sparks.

A flash of familiarity washes through me. From across the bar, a face that can’t be real turns suddenly and begins walking toward the back. I know it’s my imagination summoning memories and morphing them into images before my eyes, the fucking mention of Milo awakening the agony of losing Willa.

The dark-haired woman turns her head, and for half a heartbeat, my soul reaches out, wishing. It’s funny, the last couple months, I’ve had the feeling of being watched I can’t shake, when in reality, it’s me people watching, searching. I am always seeking out things lost to me long ago.

The woman moves with grace, dodging people like she’s made of air. From the back, she could so easily be Willa, but there’s no fucking way. Despite knowing that, I push up from the bar and move toward her. My heart rages inside my chest, telling me to calm down, use self-preservation, protect myself from the ache.

Long, dark curly hair disappears from sight. There’s only toilets and a fire exit back here. She wasn’t real.

Pushing into the women’s bathroom, I do a sweep. It’s empty.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I try the men’s. One guy taking a leak at the urinal.

“You see a woman come back here?” I ask. I’m fucking losing my mind.

“If you drink enough, you can see anything.” His grin is lopsided.

My head is playing tricks on me. I’m so fucking desperate to see her face again, I convinced myself it was possible. Now, that the empty hole in my chest will ooze all night. Anger rattles my bones. How could I even let myself entertain the possibility that she could be in a crowd somewhere, waiting for me to find her, save her again? Grief is a funny thing. One day, I could go a whole twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes not think about her, but that one minute is so savagely soul destroying, all the other hours become irrelevant. Over ten fucking years, and I’m still chasing shadows.