Chapter Sixteen
Keely
Across town that same night, at the Prancing Pussycat...
“I don’t give a flying fuck, Cade!”
The words ripped from my throat, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the stale, coffee-scented air of the back room.
My glare, a white-hot shard of pure fury, was aimed squarely at the smug, unyielding curve of his jaw.
The cheap fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered, mirroring the frantic thrumming beneath my skin, as heat coiled in my gut.
“I am done. Another shift? Not a chance in hell. You want someone to pick up Kyllian’s slack?
You find someone else, or I swear on the stale grease clinging to these damn walls, I’m walking out.
And trust me, Cade, there are places out there that’ll spill coin like a goddamn fountain, places that pay so much more it’d make your teeth ache. ”
“Don’t threaten me, Keely,” Cade snapped. “You owe me.”
“We fucked once,” I spat back, the memory of his lecherous touch making my skin crawl.
“That doesn’t mean I owe you my soul, Cade.
And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to dance for your scummy clientele after the way you treated Kyllian.
” I shuddered, the image of Kyllian’s bruised face flashing behind my eyes.
If I had any guts, I’d be out that door, never looking back.
But the thought of Kyllian alone, jobless and terrified, gnawed at me.
She was probably out there somewhere, lost and alone, trying to figure out what to do next.
Cade’s eyes narrowed, his face contorting into a sneer.
“Kyllian’s problem wasn’t my problem. Bitch brought trouble to my club.
You want to walk out, fine. But don’t come crawling back when you realize you can’t make rent without me.
” He gestured dismissively toward the door.
“Now get the fuck out of my office before I call security and have you thrown out myself.”
His threat was clear, and the knowledge that I was no better off than Kyllian, just a different kind of captive, settled in my gut like a cold stone.
I stormed out of his office, the sting of his words echoing in my ears.
My defiance felt like a hollow victory. As I pushed open the back door, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the club, I saw it.
I didn’t recognize the bike at first. Years had passed since I’d last heard that particular roar, that specific, throaty growl that vibrated through my bones and settled into the deepest part of my gut.
But the silhouette, the way the biker sat astride the machine, shoulders broad against the night, was unmistakable.
It was my father’s bike, or at least it looked like it.
The polished chrome, the worn leather seat.
.. a ghost from a life I’d fought tooth and nail to escape.
And the rider... the rider was unfamiliar, but a visceral, sickening reminder of a past I’d worked damn hard to bury.
A past steeped in violence, in the kind of decisions that stained my soul, and that left me hollow on the inside.
My gut twisted. This man, whoever he was, was a living embodiment of everything I swore I’d left behind.
My first instinct, the one honed by years of self-preservation, was to vanish.
To melt into the shadows, to pretend I hadn’t seen, hadn’t heard.
But then, a colder, more insistent voice whispered, a voice that sounded eerily like him.
A wave of nausea washed over me.
My father.
He’d always said I was too soft, too unwilling to embrace the strength that ran in our veins. He’d said I was destined to fail, to be trampled by the world because I clung to my na?ve notions of right and wrong.
And here on his roaring beast was proof.
Someone was riding his bike, someone who didn’t flinch from its dangerous allure.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, knuckles white.
Every fiber of my being screamed to turn and run, to put as much distance as possible between myself and this unwelcome echo.
But another part, a darker, more conflicted part, felt a dangerous pull.
A morbid curiosity mingled with a desperate, almost shameful sense of belonging.
Could I turn away from this potential confrontation, this undeniable connection to my past, and still call myself strong?
Or would ignoring it be the ultimate act of cowardice, proving my father right after all?
The choice felt like a betrayal, no matter which way I turned.
Run and betray the man I’d tried to forget, or face him and risk succumbing to the darkness I’d fought so hard to outrun.
The rumble of the engine was a predatory purr that snaked through the parking lot.
My breath hitched as the rider slowly dismounted, the gleam of chrome catching the sparse light.
He moved with a dangerous fluidity, a man who knew the weight of his presence.
He was dressed head to toe in black leather, his face shadowed by the brim of his helmet.
He was a walking embodiment of the life I’d sworn I’d left behind, a life I’d watched consume my father and spit him out.
As the rider turned, and the dim light caught the hard planes of his face, a jolt of recognition, sharp and unwelcome, shot through me.
It wasn’t my father.
It was someone else. Someone who carried the same dangerous aura, the same grim determination in his eyes.
He was a stranger, yet he felt terrifyingly familiar—a dark echo from a past I couldn’t quite place.
He was here at the Prancing Pussycat at this godforsaken hour, and my gut screamed that this was no coincidence.
My father’s ghost might be long dead, but the life he lived, the people he ran with—they were still very much alive, and they were here.
A cold dread washed over me. My father, a man who’d reveled in the biker life, had left behind a legacy of danger and secrets. And now, here was another one of them, appearing out of nowhere like a specter from a life I thought I’d escaped.
I clutched the doorknob tighter, my knuckles aching. The rumble of the engine, the glint of chrome—it all spoke of a world I wanted no part of. He was a walking embodiment of the life I’d sworn I’d left behind, a life I’d watched kill my father.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over me, and I felt an unnerving fear prickle my skin. There was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes, the cold assessment that promised nothing good.
He wasn’t just a rider; he was a hunter. And somehow, I felt like I was the prey. My mother told me once that those who forgot the past were doomed to repeat it. I guessed she was right, for the past, it seemed, found a way of catching up with me, no matter how hard I tried to outrun it.
I didn’t think. I bolted.
“Keely, you fucking cunt!” I heard the rider shout, and adrenaline surged through me as my feet pounded against the asphalt of the alleyway behind the club.
The roar of his approaching bike was a terrifying crescendo, a physical manifestation of the danger closing in.
My lungs burned, my legs screamed with exertion, but the instinct to flee was a stronger master than any pain.
I didn’t dare look back, but I could feel his presence like a physical weight, a predatory shadow stalking my every move.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Stopping meant giving up.
It meant returning to a life that would surely kill me, like it did my father.
But a part of me, a small, stubborn ember of defiance, whispered that I should turn.
That I should face whoever this was, rather than live forever looking over my shoulder.
This constant running, this gnawing fear—was it truly living?
Was I any better than the people I was running from, or just a coward fleeing a fight?
The thought soured in my mouth, a bitter taste of shame.
Still, I didn’t stop. I would never stop running.
Not until I could be sure. Not until I knew I could stand my ground.
But the image of my father’s bike, the cold glint of chrome in the fading light, was a stark reminder of my own weakness.
I knew with crushing certainty that I wasn’t ready.
Not yet. And the knowledge that I was choosing cowardice over courage, safety over integrity, was a betrayal of the person I desperately wanted to be.
The roar of the engine grew louder, a familiar, guttural snarl that clawed at my gut.
I risked a glance back, my breath catching in my throat as I saw him, his dark silhouette against the dying light, astride my father’s gleaming black Triumph.
The rider was closing in, his presence a tangible threat that amplified the terror already coiled in my stomach.
I didn’t know who he was, or what he wanted, but the way he rode, the sheer menace that radiated from him, told me he was bad news.
And in this town, bad news could mean anything.
It could mean being caught, dragged back, and forced to witness something I’d never unsee.
It could mean losing everything I’d managed to scrape together, not just material things, but the fragile peace I’d built within myself.
And as I pumped my legs faster, pushing past the screaming protests of my muscles, I knew this was it.
This was the moment when I’d either truly break or find a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
But the terror was winning, and the desperate plea in my own mind was not for strength, but for escape, an incessant impulse that drowned out any nobler aspirations.
I hated myself for it.