Black howl.Hollow eyes.The one that watched her breathe when she didn’t know who I was.The one that let me touch her without asking her to carry the truth.The one I hid behind when telling her would’ve broken her worse than lying ever could.
I flick the lighter.
The flame catches fast, hungry, curling the edges like it’s been waiting.The skull’s gape warps and melts, collapsing inward until it’s nothing but blistered plastic and smoke that burns my nose and sticks in my throat.
I watch it and think about the journals.
The poetry.
Every word I ever wrote about her burned the same way.Page after page fed to fire because I knew what they’d say if anyone read them.That I wasn’t in control.That I’d crossed from wanting into worship and never came back.
Biker Boo wasn’t a costume.
It was a confession I never meant anyone to hear.
I toss the rest of the masks in without ceremony.One after another.Faces that don’t matter now.Shapes that let me be something I can’t afford to be anymore.The barrel flares, heat licking my knuckles, and I don’t pull back.
I deserve the burn.
I think about Becki believing what she believed.About the nights she thought she was touching someone else.About how there was never a clean way to tell her without shattering what little ground she stood on.
She’s not right.Not fully.Anyone with eyes can see that.
But she didn’t get that way because of me.
Still, I know how it looks.
I know what Legend would say.What my brothers would think if they ever connected the dots.I won’t be the man they blame for tipping her further into the dark.I won’t be the reason she’s written off as broken beyond saving.
The fire dies down, leaving twisted shapes and ash.
I grind it all into the dirt with my boot until there’s nothing left to recognize.No grin.No eyes.No proof.
I stand there longer than I need to.
I think about everything she’s done.Every lie.Every manipulation.Every way she’s twisted people to survive.I reflect on how I know all of it and still can’t make myself hate her.
That’s the danger.
That’s why this ends here.
I turn toward the clubhouse, toward the cell where she’s being held, my room, knowing one thing for sure.
Whatever she is now, I won’t let anyone say I made her worse.
And when I walk into that room, I won’t be wearing a mask.
Not ever again.
The first thing I notice is the chain.
Silver metal catches the dim morning light, glowing cold and cruel, like something ripped out of a medieval dungeon.Been here since this place held criminals.It wraps around her small wrist, gleaming against her skin like jewelry made by the devil.The other end is welded into the steel frame bolted into the concrete floor.A man could pull until he tore his arm out of the socket and still not break free.A woman even as tall and fit as Becki Crowley has no chance.
Yet she sleeps like she might.
Becki looks nothing like the girl the Reverend tried to shape.
She’s all sharp edges and softer shadows.Dark hair chopped short, framing a face made for defiance.Even asleep, chained to my bed, she looks like she’s daring the world to try her again.Her mouth is full, stubborn, the kind of mouth that speaks truth even when it burns.Her lashes fan against her cheeks, too delicate for a place like Hell, Kentucky… too delicate for a man like me.
