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I was almost out of the city when dawn started to break. My body screamed for rest, but I resisted. However, I noticed a cheap motel off the highway. It was the kind of dump that wouldn’t blink at a bruised, bloody biker paying cash for a room. I parked the Harley in front of my door and limped inside.

Tossing my cut on the bed, I locked the door. I checked my reflection in the mirror above the cracked sink. I looked like I’d lost a street fight with a fucking grizzly. My right eye was bruised, lip busted, eyebrow sporting a fresh gash. My ribs felt like they’d been pounded by a sledgehammer. “Fuck Kingpin,” I muttered, wincing as I gingerly pressed my side. Probably nothing broken, but I'd feel it for weeks.

I couldn't stop thinking about everything. I was tempted to get wasted, pass out, and forget the world. But I had to keep my head clear. If Kingpin was serious about some rally in Anarchy, I needed to be on my game.

Instead of sleeping, I slumped onto the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone. A battered, older model, less traceable. Not that it mattered if the Aces were tracking me. They already had me by the balls. I stared at the blank screen for a moment, considering who I could call. No one. There were whores in every town, willing to video call for some phone sex, but there was no one left to call.

I thought about Sky. A surge of bitterness twisted my gut. I’d truly loved her or tried to. We’d built something of a life together, me going by Owen Black, her going by Savannah, raising little Caden. Then she had a miscarriage. And everything crumbled. Sometimes I wondered if she blamed me for that. Or if it was just her old life calling her back.

She said she was done with Kingpin’s shit. But apparently, she wasn’t done with Getty. She ended up in the arms of the mobster father of her kid. She’d said she loved me. People can’t be trusted to tell the truth, not even to themselves.

I squeezed the phone until my knuckles burned. Then I put it aside. If she wanted me, she’d know how to reach me. If she was in trouble, she’d either dig herself out or not. I couldn’t be her savior again. That nearly broke me the first time.

I flicked on the TV, letting the fuzzy images distract me. Some old Western was playing. A ragtag gunslinger was staring down a line of lawmen, one revolver on his hip. I almost laughed at the irony. I used to be one of those lawmen. Now I was a gunslinger on the wrong side of everything.

Reaching behind me, I pulled out a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one. The motel’s no-smoking sign might as well have been written in a foreign language. I inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine mingle with the residual taste of blood in my mouth. I didn’t even like cigarettes much, preferred the occasional cigar. But it gave me something to do with my hands, kept me from punching another hole in the goddamn wall.

Kingpin had said to ride out next week. That gave me seven days to figure my shit out. Time for my face to heal. Get some new clothes, make sure the Harley was in top shape for a cross-country trip. The Road Monsters from my current charter might ride with me, or maybe I'd go alone. I was a nomad, anyway, free to drift. Then we’d all converge in California for this rally. The idea of crossing paths with more outlaws, more drama, hardly thrilled me. But it was my ticket to keep living.

I stared at the ceiling, the battered fan spinning overhead. My head still pounded, but now the adrenaline had drained away, leaving a deep ache that went past bruises and cuts. It was an ache in my soul, if I even had one left. Eve was gone, living the life she wanted with Kingpin, two little babies. No doubt she was the queen of the Royal Bastards. Hell, perhaps she was happy. Remembering how she looked at me the last time I faced her, it’s as if she forgot I ever existed.

A flicker of a memory rolled in. Eve’s tear-streaked face when she first told me she was pregnant with my kid all those years ago. The glow in her eyes, the hope in her voice. Then when I found out that she’d lost the baby. My guilt at not being there, the wedge that formed… And soon after, she’d found comfort in Kingpin’s bed. That was it. The end.

I might have been cursed. My child with Eve had died, then my child with Sky. Love was a crock of shit. Some men aren’t meant for it. I was one of those men, obviously.

If I was wise, I’d let the entire scenario go. I’d cut ties, burn my patch, run again. But Kingpin was right. Where the fuck would I run? The entire MC world was connected, especially at the top level. The Road Monsters spanned the country, led by four Aces, Kingpin among them. They had tendrils in each region, alliances with cartels, local mobs, you name it. He’d find me. Or if not him, then someone else he hired.

Still, the thought of sneaking away in the dead of night toyed with my mind. I envisioned the open road, a new identity, some small town where I could vanish. But if I’d learned one thing from my time as a detective and later as an outlaw, it was that your sins always catch up to you.

I took another long drag of the cigarette, coughed out a cloud of smoke. “Dirty Diana,” I muttered aloud. The name sounded like trouble waiting to happen. Some cunning woman who fucked for money and secrets. If she was blackmailing Kingpin, I almost wanted to shake her hand for having the stones. But I also knew the bastard well enough to realize he would not stop until he either owned her or destroyed her. Possibly both. And I was stuck in the middle. Perfect.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I glanced at it, expecting some message from Kingpin detailing our next move. But the number was unknown. I almost ignored it. My instincts, though, told me to check.

I picked it up, slid my thumb across the screen. A single line of text greeted me:

Heard you’re going to California. Some piece of advice, watch your back.

No name. No signature. Could be from a variety of people, an old contact, a half-friend, or some leech that wanted to stir the pot. The phone beeped again.

Sky didn’t betray you. Not in the way you think.

My eyes glued to the text, a hot wave of anger and confusion rolling over me. I knew better than to respond.

I muttered a curse, tossing the phone aside. Great. Another puzzle I didn’t need. She did betray me. She went back to Getty. But the text said not in the way I thought. Was she a prisoner again? Was it all an elaborate ruse? We had rescued her, but she left again on her own. I was there. Still, my detective brain latched onto the questions, but I forced them down. I’d been six months and not a word. I couldn’t afford to chase ghosts. My next priority was surviving Kingpin’s mission. I’d worry about Sky if she ever gave me a reason to hope again.

When the cigarette burned down to my fingertips, I snuffed it out in the ashtray. My entire body ached, telling me to lie down. So I did, collapsing onto the lumpy mattress. I watched the flickering motel sign through the window blinds. Scenes from the fight played in my head. Scenes from my entire cursed life.

I closed my eyes. The inside of my eyelids was a red swirl of bitterness and pain. I’d get a couple hours of rest before the nightmares kicked in. But even if I didn’t, I was used to it. This was the life I’d chosen. Or possibly it had picked me.

Either way, come next week, I’d be on the road to Anarchy, California, searching for a woman named Dirty Diana. Guarding her, fucking her over, or saving her, whatever Kingpin decided “handling” meant. The only certain thing was that trouble would follow me like a shadow. And I’d do what I always did, face it with clenched fists, a bitter heart, and an empty soul.

I woke up sometime later to a throb in my skull and the stench of stale cigarette smoke. The TV was still droning on about some paid programming for kitchen knives. My side ached like I’d been trampled by a stampede of bulls. But for once, my mind felt sharp, free of illusions.

I hauled myself off the bed, ignoring the dryness in my throat. In the dingy bathroom, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over my face. It stung the cuts and bruises, but at least it cleared my head a bit. I rummaged in my bag for a first-aid kit. Dabbing disinfectant on the cuts made me hiss, but it was better than letting them fester. My phone was silent. No messages from Kingpin or the unknown number. Just me in this shithole of a motel room.

Kingpin thought he could control me. Perhaps he was correct. But I’d play his game just long enough to slip the noose around someone else’s neck. If Dirty Diana was the key, I’d find out. When I rolled into Anarchy, California, I’d do what I had to.

I didn’t give a shit about love or loyalty or any of that garbage anymore. I had an MC cut on my back and a bitter heart in my chest. And if the devil wanted me to ride with him, I’d ride. Just so I could burn him when the time was right.