Prologue

PROLOGUE

Three Years Ago . . .

Bama

I stumble into the trailer, the stale scent of smoke and beer clinging to my clothes.

The night's been a blur of laughter and loud engines, but now silence hits me like a brick wall.

My boots thud against the worn carpet as I push the door shut behind me.

"Ma?" I call out, though the darkness swallows my voice.

No answer. Just the low hum of the fridge in the corner.

I flick on the light, and there she is—slumped on the couch, needle sticking out of her arm, face pale as moonlight.

My heart stops. "Fuck, Ma!" I rush over, dropping to my knees beside her.

Her skin is cold, almost waxy, and I can smell the sickly sweet tang of heroin.

"Jesus," I mutter, my hands shaking as I reach for the needle.

How many times do I gotta see this? Every fucking time it guts me, but this . . . this feels different.

Heroin. Always fucking heroin. She said life wasn't supposed to be this way, but she couldn't stop chasing that high.

It's like she gave up on living just to survive.

I grab the needle, yanking it out of her arm.

The sight makes me sick, bile rising in my throat.

I toss it across the room, watching it clatter against the wall and fall to the floor.

My hands are shaking, but I can't let that stop me.

"Wake up, Ma!" I shake her hard. Her head lolls to one side, eyes half-open but unseeing. "Come on, wake up!"

Nothing. No response. Panic claws at my chest. This isn't happening. Not now.

"Fuck!" I scramble for my phone, fingers fumbling as I dial 9-1-1. The ring feels like it lasts forever until a voice finally answers.

"9-1-1, where is your emergency?"

"Uh, my mom—" My voice cracks. "She's not breathing. I think she overdosed. Please, you gotta send someone quick."

"Okay, sir, what's your address?"

I swallow hard. "37 Canterbury Drive."

The operator replies to me calmly, "All right, sir, we have an ambulance on the way. Can you tell me if she has a pulse?"

"I don't know! I don't think so!" I press my fingers to her neck, feeling nothing but cold skin.

"Stay with me, sir. Help is on the way."

"Yeah, okay," I mutter, staring at my mom's lifeless body. This can't be real, not like this.

The EMTs arrive within ten minutes, and as soon as I see the lights, I throw open the front door.

"You think this is an overdose?" the EMT asks, his voice cutting through the fog in my mind as he strides in through the door, a woman a few paces behind him with a gurney.

I stand there, trembling, tears streaming down my face. "Yeah," I manage to choke out, shaking my head so hard it feels like my neck might snap. "She was addicted to heroin. I tried to get her to stop, but she wouldn't." My voice wavers and cracks, raw from holding back sobs.

"Addicted," the EMT repeats softly, not as a question but an acknowledgment.

"Yeah," I say, swallowing hard. "Wouldn't be surprised if she overdosed or if there was fentanyl in it. This shit's everywhere now."

The EMT nods, scribbling something down on a pad.

His partner is already lowering the gurney next to the couch.

She waves him over, he helps her get my mom on the gurney, and they strap her in.

The two of them go outside and put my mom in the back of their ambulance, but the man comes back.

His partner closes the doors of the ambulance, my mom's lifeless body inside.

The sight makes my knees weak, and I nearly collapse.

"She's been struggling for years," I continue, words spilling out like a dam breaking. "Far from perfect, but she tried, ya know? She was still my mom."

"I know," the EMT says gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We'll take it from here. You did the right thing calling us."

"Sorry for your loss, son," the EMT says. His voice is calm, but it feels like a knife to the gut. "You should follow us to the hospital."

"Yeah," I manage to croak out, my throat raw from the screaming and crying that won't come anymore. "Yeah, I'll be right behind you."

I stand there alone, the weight of everything crushing me. The trailer park is eerily silent, the kind of silence that follows a storm. All I can think about is how I'm gonna get out of this place, how I need to run far and fast, leaving behind the ghosts that haunt these broken streets.

"Fuck," I whisper, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "Fuck this life."

I turn and walk back toward the trailer, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The ambulance pulls away, and I stumble to my bike.

The engine roars to life, but I feel dead inside.

I follow those red tail lights down the dark road, the wind slapping my face but not waking me from this nightmare.

The hospital parking lot is almost empty.

I park my bike and trudge inside, feeling like I'm moving through molasses.

The receptionist gives me a sympathetic look as she directs me to the emergency room.

I hate that look. It makes everything too real.

"She's been declared deceased," the doctor tells me when I finally make it to the sterile room where they've taken her. He looks at me with pity, but his words are clinical and detached. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," I mutter, my eyes fixed on the floor. The linoleum tiles are dull, like everything in this place. Dull and lifeless.

"Do you need a moment?" the doctor asks, but I shake my head.

No, I don't need a moment. I need a fucking lifetime to process this.

"Got a phone?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "I left my phone at the house. I need to call a funeral home. Get her cremated."

"Of course," he says, handing me a landline. My hands shake as I dial the number, each beep echoing in my head like a death toll.

"Mechanicsburg Funeral Home, how can we assist you?" a woman's voice answers, too cheerful for the situation.

"Yeah, um, I need to arrange a cremation," I stammer, trying to keep my voice steady. "My mom . . . she's gone."

"All right, sir. Can I have her name and some details?" she asks gently.

"Maria Thomas," I say, swallowing hard. "Look, I don't got a lot of money. How much is this gonna cost?"

"Let me check," she replies, and I hear the clacking of keys on a keyboard. Every second stretches into an eternity. "We can offer a basic cremation package for around $1,500."

"Fuck," I whisper, thinking about the stash of cash I've got hidden in my room. It's not enough. "Okay, I'll figure something out."

"Would you like us to handle the transportation from the hospital?" she asks.

"Yeah, please. Just . . . just get her there," I respond, hanging up before she can ask more questions. I can't take it. This is all too much right now.

"Everything all right?" the doctor asks.

I nod, even though nothing is okay right now. "Yeah, just trying to get everything sorted out. Thanks for letting me use your phone."

The doctor offers me a sympathetic smile. "Of course. If there's anything else I can do, please let me know."

As I walk out of the hospital, the weight of what just happened hits me like a freight train.

Where the fuck is my father?

The drunk bastard is usually home, but he wasn't when I was there earlier. Fuck!

I get on my bike and ride like a bat out of hell back to the trailer. I swear to God, if the man is home, he's going to hear some shit from me.

When I arrive, I slam the door the second I'm in the house.

His old Chevelle is in the driveway.

The old bastard's gotta be here somewhere. "Where are you, you piece of shit?" My voice echoes off the thin walls covered in yellowed wallpaper.

I kick open the bedroom door, but it's empty, just a mess of dirty clothes and beer cans.

"Come on, come out!" I shout again, pushing through the small hallway, checking every corner, every crevice.

The smell of stale cigarettes and booze is thick, making me gag. God, I hate coming home and smelling this shit.

There's no sign of him. Just more evidence of his pathetic existence.

"Fuck!" I punch the wall, plaster crumbling under my knuckles. Where the hell could he be?

My mind races with possibilities—a bar, strip club, at that crackwhore's house he loves to step out on my mom with so much.

I sit down on the armchair and flick off the lights, waiting for his ass to come home.

The lights are off, but the flicker of the TV casts ghostly shadows across the room.

I don't know how much time passes as I stare at the doorway, but it finally comes open.

"Where the fuck is she?" his voice slurs from the doorway, venomous and lazy.

A bottle of Jack Daniels is clutched in his hand like it's a lifeline as he flicks on the light switch.

His eyes, bloodshot and empty, lock onto mine.

"Your bitch of a mother," he growls, barely looking up from his drink, "where the fuck is she?"

A hot wave of anger crashes over me.

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

He doesn't know. Doesn't care, and he never will.

"She's gone," I manage, my voice thick with rage and something else—grief, maybe. "She died, you piece of shit. Where were you? Out fuckin' your whore?"

His laugh is a hollow, soulless sound. "Figures," he mutters, taking another swig. "Useless junkie. Good riddance. At least now I can be with Staci."

Something inside me snaps.

The world narrows until all I see is him, leaning there without a care in the world, while Mom lies cold and dead.

I snap. Everything goes red. I lunge at him, my hands finding his throat like they've done it a million times in my mind.

His eyes widen, momentary shock giving way to rage.

I slam him against the wall, the plaster cracking behind his head.

"She's dead because of you," I spit, my grip tightening. "She overdosed because of your abuse, the shit you'd do to her, the shit you'd say, the endless cheating. She was fine when the two of you split up, but you just had to get your leech hands on her again."

He tries to push me off, but he's weaker than I remember.

The booze has made him soft. "You think I give a shit?" he snarls, his breath hot and sour with whiskey. "She was always a weak bitch."

"Shut the fuck up!" I roar, slamming him again. His head hits the wall with a sickening thud. "You could've helped her! You could've sent her to rehab!"

"Helped? She was beyond help," he sneers, trying to claw at my face. His nails scrape my skin, but I barely feel it. "It just would've been a waste of money."

"Fuck you!" I yell, my fist connecting with his jaw.

His head snaps to the side, and he crumples to the floor, unconscious.

I stand there, chest heaving, looking down at him.

For a second, just a second, I see the old man who used to take me fishing before everything went to hell.

But that man is gone, replaced by this monster. And monsters need to be put down.

I step over his limp form and head to the kitchen.

The knife block gleams under the harsh fluorescent light.

I pull out a blade, its edge cold and sharp.

My hand doesn't shake as I walk back to him.

"The only place you deserve to be is in hell," I mutter, kneeling beside him.

I wrap his hand around the knife, the metal cool against his clammy skin.

Pressing down hard, I drag the blade across his wrist, then the other.

Blood pools around my father's wrists, spreading like a dark, twisted halo on the dingy carpet.

I stand above him, chest still heaving, heart pounding in my ears.

The old bastard's breaths are shallow, each one weaker than the last.

"Hope you burn," I whisper, my voice raw.

I turn away from the dying monster and head for my room.

It's a cluttered mess of memories and mistakes, but I know exactly what I need.

My duffel bag sits under the bed, collecting dust.

I yank it out and toss it onto the mattress.

Clothes first—jeans, tees, socks, nothing fancy. It's just enough to get me by.

My fingers brush against the snake tattoo on my chest as I pull on a fresh shirt. A reminder of who I am, of where I came from.

The room is closing in on me, the walls suffocating.

I grab a few more essentials—a photo of Mom before the drugs took over, an old pocketknife she gave me when I was ten, and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

I stop for a moment, staring at that bottle.

At the memories it holds. I toss it into the bag anyway. Might need it later.

My bike keys jingle in my hand as I head back to the living room.

The sight of my father's lifeless eyes sends a shiver down my spine, but I don't linger.

I flick off the lights, plunging the house into darkness.

Stepping out into the night, I take a deep breath of the cool Alabama air.

The roar of my Harley is the only thing I need now.

It's my ticket out, my escape.

With the duffel slung over my shoulder, I stride toward my bike, determination hardening inside me like steel.

"Time to move," I mutter, swinging my leg over the seat.

The engine roars to life beneath me, a comforting growl that drowns out the chaos in my head.

I rev it once, then twice, feeling the power surge through me.

"Goodbye, you piece of shit," I say, glancing back at the trailer one last time.

The place where everything went wrong. Where I lost everything.

I twist the throttle, and the bike leaps forward, carrying me away from the ghosts and straight into the unknown.

I gun it down the backroads, the night swallowing me whole.

The wind slaps my face, stinging like a thousand tiny needles, but I don't care. It's better than the numbness creeping up on me.

"I need to go to Billings," I mutter to myself, the word barely audible over the roar of my Harley.

Rosa's there. She'll know what to do.

The moonlight flickers through the trees like a broken strobe light, casting eerie shadows that dance across the road.

My mind races as fast as my bike. I can't stay in Alabama.

There are too many memories and too much pain. Not to mention, I just killed my father. I have to keep moving.

I zip past the old gas station where I used to buy smokes as a kid.

The place is a shell now, just like everything else in this godforsaken town.

A blur of rusted pumps and shattered windows. Good riddance.

The miles melt away under my tires, each one a step closer to freedom.

The weight of what I've done presses heavy on my chest, but I push it down.

No time for regrets.

Lights from an oncoming car flash in the distance.

I squint, leaning into the curve, knowing the worst of my life is over, and for the first time, I can look forward to my future.