Prologue
TINY
(Age 14-18)
Iwas fourteen when I learned what mercy costs.
The foster house smells of mildew and piss, the kind that seeps into drywall and clings to skin no matter how many showers I take. Ray sits in his recliner with a beer balanced on his gut, the television flickering blue across his face. He believes silence keeps kids in line, but he’s wrong. Silence doesn’t keep order. It gives pain room to breathe.
Out back, under the half-dead oak, a stray mutt waits for me every day after school. His mangy coat, partially missing ear, and protruding ribs break my heart. I call him Bandit. He’s the only thing in this house that doesn’t hit back. I save crusts from the cafeteria and slip them to him behind the shed, crouching low as I whisper promises I can’t keep, like how I’ll get him out of here one day.
Tonight, Ray catches me. “You feedin’ that filthy thing again?” He slurs as he steps into the porch light, his shadow stretching long across the yard.
“He’s hungry,” I answer before I can swallow the words.
His lip curls. “Boy, you can’t save every lost cause. That dog’s just another mouth takin’ what ain’t his.”
The shotgun leans by the door, and before I can move, Ray grabs it and loads a single shell. With no hesitation, Ray pulls the trigger. The blast splits the night. Bandit drops mid-whine, his eyes still trusting even as his body hits the dirt.
My knees give out beneath me. Everything inside my chest falls quiet.
Ray grins as smoke curls from the barrel. “Now you’ll learn not to waste good food.” He turns and walks back toward the house like he didn’t just kill the only thing I care about.
Something inside me tightens, not sharp and explosive but slow and steady, like a wire pulled too tight for too long. I stand, staring at the dark mud turned red, my hands shaking. I hear his boots creak on the porch boards, then the soft thunk as he takes a drink of his beer and sets the bottle down.
I don’t think. I move.
When Ray turns, I’m already swinging. The shovel connects with his jaw, the impact jarring up my arms. He stumbles, swearing, and swings blindly, but I hit him again. And again. The shotgun falls away, clattering against the wood. Ray collapses into the dirt, wheezing, too stunned or too scared to rise.
“Stay down,” I warn, breath ragged. “You touch me, and I’ll finish you.”
Ray spits blood at my boots, but he stays down.
I bury Bandit in the woods behind the property and wrap him in the only blanket I own. The cold air burns my lungs as I dig, but I don’t cry. Crying is what Ray wants. Instead, I keep digging until my hands split and bleed, and the world feels distant and numb.
By dawn, I’m gone.
I take fifty bucks from Ray’s wallet, steal the neighbor’s rusty dirt bike, and ride until the wind dries the blood on my knuckles and the house of hell disappears behind me for good.
A week later, the Hellhounds MC finds me. They’re big men on bigger bikes, wrapped in leather and noise with the kind of swagger that only comes from having nothing left to lose.
Their Road Captain studies me carefully, his gaze lingering on the bruises, the dirt under my nails, and the anger I haven’t figured out how to cool. “You look like you bite back,” he says. “You want in?”
I nod before he finishes the question.
At first, it’s everything I think I want, everything I’ve been missing. Brotherhood replaces loneliness. Violence feels cleaner than helplessness. They teach me to ride like hell and fight harder, to drink and fuck until the noise inside my head dulls to a manageable hum.
But the ghosts never really shut up. Every time I close my eyes, I see Bandit lying in the dirt, his trusting eyes staring back at me blankly.
The Hellhounds’ world smells of motor oil and cheap whiskey soaked into old leather. The clubhouse is thick with cigarette haze and neon light, and the music is always loud enough to drown out anything human. Fights spark over nothing, and laughter comes only after someone bleeds. Behind the bar, prospects grind metal in the shop, shaping guns and blades with the same care other men might use to build something good.
The longer I ride with them, the more I see the cracks. The Hellhounds don’t protect people. They own them.
Guns, girls, pills. It doesn’t matter what’s traded as long as it bleeds profit. There’s always something dripping, whether it’s beer, blood, or sweat. I ride harder, fuck faster, and fight meaner, convincing myself I don’t see the lines being crossed.
Then one night, behind a motel on the edge of San Felipe, I hear screaming.
At first, I think it’s just another fight. It isn’t.