I made it to the parking lot with every cell in my body screaming, head throbbing like a fucked-up drumline. The cold hit hard, cut through the sweaty Santa suit and the layers of desperation underneath. My boots slapped against slick blacktop, and the keys to the Harley rattled in my fist, so loud I thought someone would hear them three counties over.
There was no time to check for pursuit—every breath was survival, every step a coin toss on whether I’d make it to the bike before the world closed in again. The lot was packed, every space crammed with an SUV, a pickup, or a four-door sedan with the Jesus fish peeling off the trunk. Christmas lights reflected on the wet asphalt, a blinking mess of red and green, strobing under the yellow sodium lamps.
I reached the Harley, lungs on fire, fingers numb, but remembering the drill. Kill switch off. Key in. Thumb the starter. The engine kicked over on the first try, the sound a brutal, perfect roar. I was swinging my leg over the seat when they found me.
“Hey, fuckstick,” someone called, and I knew instantly it was for me.
Four men emerged from between a line of minivans, fanned out like the world’s worst SWAT team. Sarge led the charge—Silas Burrows, ex-military, current psycho, wearing combat boots and a smile that looked stapled on. The other three were church muscle.
They didn’t run. They just closed in, methodical, practiced. The way a butcher approaches a dying cow.
Sarge was first to speak. “Shoulda known. Biker trash.”
I grinned, spitting a tooth into the snow. “I’m full of surprises.”
Sarge kept coming, hands open, eyes never blinking. “You made a mess in there.”
“Call it festive,” I said, bracing for the first shot.
It came fast—a jab to the throat that I barely ducked, the fist whistling past my ear. I countered with a right cross, caught Sarge under the eye, felt the bone crack against my knuckles. He grunted, not in pain but satisfaction.
The other three rushed me, one from each side and one over the top. I went for the nearest, aiming a knee into his groin, but he twisted, catching my leg and flipping me hard onto the asphalt. My head bounced. The world went white.
They were on me before I could get up, hands wrenching my arms back, boots grinding my face into the grit and salt of the lot. Sarge crouched down, wiped blood from his cheek, and grinned.
“Let’s see if you got anything left,” he said, then drove his fist into my ribs, once, twice, a rhythm as steady as any prayer.
I thrashed, bucked, spit curses, but the hands on me were iron. Another boot to my side, another fist to my jaw. My face went numb, blood filling my mouth until I could barely breathe. I bit at a finger, tasted sweat and copper and fear, then lost it as someone ripped a handful of my hair.
Sarge stood, towering over me, breath steaming in the cold. “Thought you’d be smarter than this.”
“Guess I’m just sentimental,” I gasped, the words thick with blood and pride.
He looked at the others. “Teach him a lesson.”
They lifted me, half-dragged, half-carried, and slammed me against the hood of a Chevy Suburban. The metal dented under my weight. The world tilted.
I clawed at the nearest face, fingers finding an ear, and ripped. The man howled, let go, and I turned on Sarge, lashing out with everything I had left. I caught him by the nose, yanked it sideways, felt the cartilage snap. He staggered back, swearing, but then they were all over me again, three sets of hands pounding, twisting, pulling.
The wet asphalt turned red around my face. My eyes swelled shut. I heard the Harley idling, the rumble growing faint as my own heartbeat stuttered. Each blow was a firework, then a thundercloud, then nothing at all.
Sarge leaned in, nose leaking, and said, “Merry Christmas, asshole.” Then he slammed my head against the hood one last time.
I slid to the ground, the cold seeping up through my bones. Everything started to fade, the pain replaced by a slow, soft dark.
Just before I blacked out, I looked back at the church.
Darla stood in the entryway, framed in the spill of light. Her hair was loose, glowing in the glare, and her hand was pressed to her mouth, fingers trembling.
Behind her, the Christmas lights burned and blinked, casting a crooked halo around her head.
She looked like an angel. Or maybe a ghost.
I smiled, or tried to, as the world finally went black.
8
Darla
