Page 11 of Kings Have No Mercy
My temper shatters, and so does the beer bottle I slam over his head.
As Stein sets down his beer, I snatch the bottle from him and then swing it upside Johnny’s skull. He screams out in surprised agony and twists in his stool. So damn confused despite being nothing but a fucking turd from the moment I came down.
Blood leaks down his temple. His eyes go wide.
I slam my fist into his face once, twice, three times before he flops to the ground. Then I’m on him, grabbing the front of his shirt and rattling him like a saltshaker.
“Next time,” I growl, “I tell you we’re riding out, we’re fucking riding out.”
My fist smashes into his face one final time. He goes limp, which means my lesson is taught. It’s up to him to understand when he comes to, or I’ll beat the shit out of him again.
I stand up with blood on my hands and some sweat on my brow. Ozzie, Velma, and Stein watched the whole ordeal, start to finish. The three stare at me a second and then each other.
Velma pats me on the shoulder. “Tom would be proud.”
4
SYDNEY
I arrivein Pulsboro via Greyhound. I come with nothing more than a purse, a small suitcase, and the clothes on my back. I’m not in town to stay a while. I’m in town for answers.
The Boulder police department began investigating with little results. The only evidence found was a gray skull bandana in the bushes. They said it didn’t point to any new leads, convinced it must’ve been a stray item from Pop’s garage.
“We found other bike club memorabilia in the garage,” one of the officers had said. His bushy brows rose accusatorially. “I’ve heard rumblings about Jacob Singer’s checkered past before. Your Pop wasn’t mixed up in no kind of trouble, was he?”
I had stormed out of the precinct and gone straight home to look up bus tickets.
The police couldn’t be more wrong. That bandana didn’t belong to Pop—he was aHellrazor.
That skull bandana belonged to one club and one club only, and it damn sure wasn’t the one Pop had been a part of. No matter what Boulder police claimed.
I let my parents die once without fighting to learn the truth. Back then I was just a girl. I had no power. No sense of agency. The authorities threw me into foster care, and I was forgotten about ’til Mom and Pop wanted me.
Now that I’m an adult, I won’t let it happen again. Pop’s death isn’t going to fade into obscurity as some unsolved mystery.
Towns like Pulsboro and Wheaton have big reputations for the two motorcycle clubs in the area. The Steel Kings and Hellrazors have been at odds for a while now. But what could the Kings want with Pop?
Was this payback for something that had gone down in the past? Why wait so long to get revenge?
And who is Harold Lautner? Does he have something to do with what happened to Pop that night? The letter’s mysteriously disappeared. Either Pop trashed it before he died, or one of the men who killed him took it.
I intend to find answers to all these questions before my time in Pulsboro is up.
People stare as I walk out of the bus terminal and hike my backpack higher up my shoulder. The excessive hours I’ve been working these past few weeks will pay my way for now, but I need a job to stay ahead.
I catch a taxi off Main Street and head to the other part of town. Larson Lane is a dusty dead end road where Pulsboro allocated space for the town’s sketchier establishments. Between a strip club aptly named Titty Bar and a pool bar called Eight Ball, the establishments aren’t the most family friendly.
None of these places are anywhere I’d normally choose to visit.
Except for the biker bar at the end of the road that catches my eye from the second I’m on the street.
The Steel Saloon is almost as infamous as the MC that operates out of it. I’ve heard the stories of the wild parties and deadly fights that have gone down. I’m also aware I could be walking into a den of bloodthirsty savages.
As a Black woman on her own, the thought’s more than a little terrifying.
But I’m prepared to take the risk. I need a job, and there was a flyer on the corkboard in the bus terminal:
WAITRESS WANTED