Page 84 of Kings Have No Mercy
Wheaton is home to the Hellrazors. Risky as hell, but if Pop was a Hellrazor in his former life, then maybe it’s the best place for me to be. They likely have no idea who I am—I’m Black, Pop was White, and I was adopted many years after he gave up his MC lifestyle.
It seems even the Kings hadn’t known he had an adopted daughter and that she lived with him. Their words from the night he was murdered trickles in.
What about the girl? I heard he has a caretaker that lives with him.
It would make sense; Pop kept me and Mom far away from his former life of crime. Nobody knows that Pop had an adoptive daughter. They might not have even known he had a wife or that he was heavily involved in the local church for the last quarter of his life.
All these thoughts and more are on my mind riding out of Pulsboro.
The bus passes by the street lined with bars. Try as I might to avoid a glance, I wind up giving in. The lights in the Steel Saloon are still on judging by the glow from the front of the building. The party music is no more. As far as I can tell, everybody went home. The birthday celebrations ended a while ago.
Some time around Mason confronting me for being a treacherous informant who was betraying the entire motorcycle club. Accusations like those tend to kill the festive mood.
I blow out a sigh and sink deeper into my bus seat. My brow touches the warm glass of the window and I try blocking out the horrible images in my head.
Every moment since I set foot in Pulsboro and met Mason and the Steel Kings.
The good and the bad.
The happy times, like riding on the back of Mason’s motorcycle, and tonight when I’d danced for him. His green eyes had gleamed and his lips pulled into a wide, genuine smile. The more volatile times run through my mind too, like the moments we’d butted heads, and he’d humiliated me in front of everyone at the club meeting.
Tonight, again when he’d treated me with such hatred it was heartbreaking. All I wanted to do was cry and beg him to hear my side of the story.
The moments I’d realized I fit in, I felt like a part of something, but then quickly reminded myself this was a means to an end. I was only here for my own agenda. In order to get justice for Pop.
So many of these moments feel like mistakes. In what way, I’m not sure I’m ready to decide. I’m not ready to face the truth of the matter and the giant fucking mess that’s become my life.
It takes us another two and a half hours before we pull into the bus station in Wheaton. Dawn etches itself onto the sky in fading purples and brightening golden rays from the sun. The other two passengers get off without much fanfare.
I’m the one the bus driver needs to prompt.
“End of the line,” he grunts, jamming his thumb toward the foldable door.
I gather my things and plod down the center aisle of the bus, feeling like I’m being tossed into a deep pool and left to drown. Who knows what awaits me in Wheaton?
The small, dusty town doesn’t differ from Pulsboro. It’s the kind of place where most residents are familiar enough with each other, and small businesses reign supreme. I wander from the bus station and study the muted street outside. So early in the morning, nobody’s awake.
It seems I have a select few options. I could wait at the bus terminal and choose a different bus out of town—somewhere far away from not only Wheaton but, more importantly, Pulsboro. I could head to the Hellrazors bar and take a risk confronting them with what I know.
The Steel Kings are behind Pop’s death. A former member of theirs. Now they’re planning to sabotage their drug and armament supply. If they care at all then they should want payback as much as I did when I started this journey for revenge.
…orrrrI can grab a room somewhere and bury myself in solitude and sleep.
The last option is the one.
I check into the local motel and collapse on the bed almost from the moment I enter the room.
I’m out for the next thirteen hours. I wake late evening, groggy and sluggish, when most of the day has already gone by. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I stare around the dark shadows of my curtain-drawn motel room and contemplate what to do next.
I could go back to sleep for the rest of the night. Sink deeper into slumber and forget my troubles for another night.
It would be so easy given the trauma of the last twenty-four hours.
Just a day ago, I was putting the final touches on Mason’s surprise birthday party alongside Velma and the others.
By the night, I was being severely punished at Mason’s hand.
I roll out of bed and do the things that you’re supposed to do after spending an unseemly amount of time cooped up in bed—shower, groom, and feed myself. I wind up in a tank top and jeans with my hair shoved into a sloppy bun and a pizza pocket from the motel vending machine in my hand. Swallowing the last few bites, I decide how I want to move forward.