Page 25 of Tormented

The devil’s words ring true too late. My front wheel tangles on the chain they’ve hastily strung low between the posts at the exact same moment that King steps out of the shadows and swings a crude makeshift bat into my chest, knocking me off the falling bike and taking the wind from me.

“Sorry, buddy, but you ain’t goin’ anywhere tonight.” He leans over and offers his hand. My bike still revs where it’s ended up, dented, scratched, and useless on the driveway.

Do it . . . .

I meet his gaze, my friend, my brother-in-arms, my president, and reach for his hand. Our fingers lock, and he pulls hard to try and haul me up, yet I pull back twice as rough and yank him off balance. King hits the dirt shoulder first, cursing loudly as Mighty and Callum run across from the garage. Dog trails behind, probably still nervous that I’ll shoot his sorry ass.

We may yet . . . .

I push to my feet, hands fisted at my sides as I shake my head at the cowards.

“None of you fuckers goin’ to admit you’d do the same?” I yell. “He came after my fuckin’ family, my son.”

“We get that,” Callum says, hands raised to try and placate me.

It infuriates me further.

“But we’re also thinkin’ of you, brother. Mack needs both his parents breathin’, not you going off on a fuckin’ solo crusade that’s bound to get you killed.” King jerks his head, his expression pained. “Fuck, man, just think about what you’re doin’.”

“I am,” I growl. “And right fuckin’ now I’m goin’ inside to get the truck keys. You might have fucked my bike, assholes, but you ain’t stoppin’ me that easy.”

I lunge forward, striding for the clubhouse, and almost miss the small nod Callum gives Mighty. The big son of a bitch brings his right arm around as I pass him by, producing a steel bar from behind his leg that he slams into the back of my knees.

I hit the ground, cursing him out as my legs tingle, weak and next to useless.

And you call them your friends . . . .

Still better than my enemies, though, aren’t they?

“Give it up, Sawyer.”

One foot up, bend at the knee, and push. I can do this.

Whack.

“Jesus Christ, give a man a break,” I half laugh, half say.

Knuckles pushed into the dirt, brace that leg, and go.

Whack.

I draw in a deep breath, having managed to stay on my feet this time, and slowly turn to look at Mighty standing there with the goddamn bar over his shoulder. He raises both eyebrows and shrugs as though saying, “What do you expect?”

A bit more respect . . . and a healthy dose of fear.

But they don’t fear me anymore, these bastards. I’m no scarier than a misbehaving toddler, which is exactly what they’re treating me like.

“Get inside, Sawyer,” King instructs.

“Get fucked,” I grit between my teeth.

Shoulders back and head held high, I turn and opt for plan C—walking out of here. One of the assholes moves, the scuff of his boots on the dirt giving it away. I break into a run, laughing maniacally as I’m crash-tackled to the ground yet again by that unrelenting fucker, Mighty.

“You ever thought about tryin’ out for a sports team, man?”

He grins down at me, and wrestles my hand to my side. I buck, thrash, and bite so hard that I draw blood, but he’s not put off easy.

Level up, son . . . end this ridiculous show . . . .