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A man steps into the lane with a black helmet tucked beneath one arm, his denim jacket open enough to show the Ravenfork Reapers cut underneath.

Tall. Lean. Familiar smile.

Every old instinct in my body recognizes him before my brain finishes.

Razor.

He looks exactly like he did the last morning I saw him and nothing like the monster my memory turned him into.

That might be the worst part.

He smiles, slow and satisfied, like I have finally done something right.

“There’s my Doll.”

My hand tightens around the palette knife inside my pocket.

I back up.

This time no one is close enough to catch me.

Chapter Twelve

Bitter

There are easier ways to destroy a woman than cheating on her, then standing in front of every man who matters to you and making her ashamed for believing you meant what you said.

I managed both in less than twenty-four hours.

Efficient.

That ought to go on my tombstone.

I stand at the south access gate with one hand wrapped around the back of my neck and the other resting near the gun beneath my cut, watching festival traffic crawl past while everything I said to Sweet this morning plays on a loop I cannot shut off.

A woman I fucked.

You wanted it to mean more.

Not enough.

All lies. Not even good ones.

Everybody in that garage knew they were lies. Nevermore knew. Hyde knew. Trixie sure as hell knew. Boogie knew, and Boogie once spent forty-five minutes arguing that a possum could legally officiate a wedding if somebody printed the certificate small enough.

Sweet was the only person I needed to convince.

So I did.

That is the part I cannot get past.

I cheated on her because I wanted to make her stop trusting me. When that wasn't enough, I stood in front of the club and made damn sure she felt stupid for ever starting.

There are men who sabotage relationships by forgetting anniversaries.

I weaponize emotional trauma.

Adams family excellence.