He fired up the Harley, the engine exploding in the night like an air raid siren. It was way louder than it needed to be. I knew, without being told, that it was intentional—a final fuck you to the house behind us, a shot across the bow of my father’s little kingdom. I grinned, teeth bared to the cold.
We peeled out, the rear tire spitting gravel across the street, and in the side mirror I saw two lights flicker on in my father’s house. I pressed closer, feeling the speed and the risk and the irreversibility of it all.
I thought about the window I’d left open, about the empty bed and the prayer my father would say when he saw it. But mostly, I thought about the man in front of me, the way his body moved with the bike, the steadiness of his hands on the bars.
We tore down the hill, leaving the whole fucking world behind us, the echo of our escape chasing us into the dark.
***
The city always looked prettier from the outside. We cut through empty subdivisions and the dead veins of New Circle Road, then up the switchbacks behind Shaker Hill, the Harley’s headlamp punching holes in the black like a star gone rogue. Axel didn’t talk while he rode; he just hunched over the bars, eyes fixed forward, every muscle tuned to the curve of the road. The wind off the valley slapped my face raw, but I loved it. It was the only way to know I was still real, still here.
We hit the overlook at 1:46. There was no signage, just a break in the tree line where the guardrail had rusted away, and no one bothered to replace it. The city sprawled out below, a galaxy of parking lot halogens and tail lights, the pulse of Lexington’s nightlife so far away it looked peaceful. Above, the stars were sharp and cold, pinholes in a sheet of black ice.
Axel killed the engine and let the bike coast to a stop on the gravel. All I could hear was the crackle of the cooling engine and my own heartbeat, still kicking at double-time.
He turned and offered me his hand, palm up. I took it, letting him steady me as I swung my leg off the seat. He reached back and peeled off his jacket, the action slow, almost ritualistic.The right sleeve was still sticky from the blood that had seeped through his shirt last week—a gift from Bart’s not-so-subtle warning—but he didn’t wince as he shrugged it off. He spread it on the flattest piece of limestone, then gestured for me to sit.
“Chivalry, huh?” I said, half-grinning as I lowered myself.
He grunted. “Just don’t like the idea of your ass freezing to death before sunrise.”
I smoothed the jacket and sat, knees drawn up, the helmet beside me like a decapitated sentry. Axel stayed standing, lighting another cigarette with a battered Zippo. He inhaled so deep I thought he’d collapse a lung, then flicked the lighter shut and leaned against the bike. He stared out at the city, like he could count every sinner and saint in the sprawl.
We sat in silence for a long minute. It was the kind of quiet that came before a confession.
“I don’t want to go back,” I blurted, hating the way my voice cracked on the last word.
He didn’t move, but his eyes slid over to me, pale blue and tired. “Nobody’s making you.”
“My father is,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll find me. He always does.”
He exhaled, smoke leaking from his nose. “You’re not him, Darla. Never have been.”
I stared at my knees, knuckles white where I gripped the helmet. “You ever think it’s easier to be who they say you are? Instead of fighting it every single day?”
He shrugged, the motion almost invisible in the dark. “I’ve been both. One’s a cage, the other’s a war zone. Pick your poison.”
I let out a half-laugh, then pulled my knees tighter to my chest. “I used to think if I prayed hard enough, the truth would change. That if I just… tried more, tried harder, the world would become the place my father promised it was.”
Axel didn’t answer. He just smoked, the ember burning a line in the night.
“I saw the pictures,” I said, forcing the words out. “What he’s doing—the guns, the kids in those containers—that’s not God’s work. That’s just evil in a better suit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“I want to be angry,” I admitted. “But mostly I just feel sick. And stupid. Like I should’ve known all along.”
He flicked the cigarette butt over the cliff, then pushed off the bike and dropped beside me, the gravel crunching under his boots. He didn’t say anything, just sat shoulder to shoulder with me, the heat of him bleeding through the denim and leather.
“Tell me something true,” I said, desperate for anything but my own voice in my head.
He rubbed the scar on his jaw, like he always did when he was gearing up for honesty. “I used to be somebody else,” he said. “Back before the club, before all this. My name wasn’t Axel. It was Alfred. Alfred fucking Martin.” He spat the name out like it burned his tongue.
I turned to him, blinking. “Alfred?”
He grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. “Yeah, go ahead and laugh. It’s as pathetic as it sounds.”
I didn’t laugh. I just waited.
