Riders Of Tyr 4: Absolution

I wake up soaked in sweat, stifling a scream. It’s pitch black outside, deep into the night. I shake my head, tasting the saltiness of my tears.

It’s been years since Salome found us, kicked down that damn door like a warrior angel, and beat “Father” to death. Years since my brave sister scooped me up in her arms and brought me into the light. Years since I was freed from Hell.

But every night, I’m back there.

“Fuck!”

I grab the water bottle I always keep close and swing my legs onto the floor. It’s been months since I left Berkeley, and I’ve been on the road ever since, moving from town to town, leaving when things get too intense.

I’m like the Wandering Jew, the one who mocked Jesus on his way to the cross and was condemned to roam the Earth until the Second Coming. Only in this story, I’m also the one carrying a cross on my back.

I gulp down the water and head to the bathroom of this cheap motel somewhere in Wisconsin. The light flickers overhead as I splash water on my face.

Nothing can wash away the bitter taste on my lips, the restlessness, the itch. I can stay in and drown in the past, or I can go out, look for trouble, forget, feel alive, feel in control.

I grab my leather jacket and head out. In this dump of a town, there’s only one place to find trouble—the bar.

A text. I grip the phone tightly. There’s nothing threatening in the text. Quite the opposite. It’s from Lysandra.

She’s been calling or texting me every day, and even though I don’t talk much or respond often, I’ve started to appreciate these interactions. She’s persistent, and she’s not giving up on me.

And even though I try to keep her at arm’s length, I can’t help but feel grateful for her determination to stay close. I shake my head and open her text.

I wish I had smiled. I wish I had done a lot more in those few days we spent together. The days when he would sit with me, patiently, just looking at me, talking to me, waiting for a response.

Those days when I was fighting with myself, in a dark place, giving up on my revenge, blaming myself for everything that happened. And mourning Salome. And he was there through all of it.

He said he’d wait. That’s what he said as I walked away, and for a few seconds, I didn’t want to make him wait. But I was a mess.

I’m still a goddamn mess, and he seems like a fixer—a man who takes it upon himself to make things right. But some things can never be made right.

Another chime from my phone.

“Are you playing, darling?”

“Sure. Two hundred bucks says nine and eleven go in that pocket.” I point at a pocket hole.

My therapist discovered that. Something about it calms me. I used to play for hours. Fighting and pool. Those are my skills. And if these jerks keep laughing in my face like that, they’re going to learn about the former rather than the latter.

“Okay, baby doll.” He pulls out the money. “You’re on.”

I sense the man shifting his position to get a better look at my ass, and I seethe. I can’t help but think that the men who invented this game must have envisioned a woman leaning over a table with a long stick in her hand.

What they didn’t consider is that a woman with a stick in her hand is going to kick some balls. Literally. I focus and flash a menacing smile.

I strike the cue ball and watch as it makes the impossible sequence of hits, sending the nine and eleven balls straight into the pocket.

“I’ll be damned!”

“Thank you.” I take the money. “Should we end this game, or are you in the mood to lose more?”

The guy’s clearly wasted, and he’s got a couple of buddies with him. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, in his town, on his turf.

His fantasy was to shoot some pool, cop a feel, and then haul me off to his pathetic truck or whatever and have his way with me. But reality had a different script—him losing five hundred bucks, getting humiliated in front of his friends and the whole town, and me giving him zero indication that I’d be interested in a roll in the hay.

“You fucking bitch!”

His outburst is right on schedule. I struggle to keep my grin in check as I watch his anger flare up.

“Fools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end.” The quote slips out unbidden.

“Did you…? Did you just call me a fool, bitch?”

“Solomon did,” I reply, arching an eyebrow.

He looks puzzled, but it’s fleeting. He remembers his original intent and lunges at me. At last.

“Give me my money, you cheating bitch!”

He raises his fist to strike, but he’s too fat, too drunk, too slow. It’s almost as if he’s right: I’m cheating. But I’m not here to play by the rules. I’m here to play.

Too bad this jerk doesn’t know how to lose gracefully.

I duck under his swing and pivot left, landing a solid punch to his neck. He stumbles backward, gasping for breath. I shoot a warning glance at his friends, but they seem to share his lack of intelligence, and one of them charges at me.

I snatch up a pool cue and spin, connecting with his jaw.

The other patrons of this fine establishment continue to nurse their beers. I guess in this backwater town, bar fights are prime entertainment. They’re getting a free show.

A show that not too long ago, wealthy jerks would pay good money to see.

The memory of Jack and his tournament makes me clench my jaw. That bastard. That sick, manipulative son of a bitch. That lying asshole.

Men. They’re all the same, always taking, always taking. That’s all the men in my life have ever done.

I sense movement and react in time to grab a man’s arm, twisting it at an angle that results in a sickening crack. I toss him to the floor and turn my attention to the next contender.

“No, no.” He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s cool, you won fair and square.”

“The bike outside. The Harley,” I say, my gaze sweeping over everyone in the bar.

They all look to the fat man still on his knees, struggling to breathe. Of course, I think, nodding. I stride over to him, picking up a pool cue from a nearby table.

He looks up at me, terror in his eyes, and shakes his head.

“Is it me or did we bet two hundred bucks and the bike on that last call shot?”

He hesitates. I can see the wheels turning in his head. I twirl the cue in my hands, helping jog his memory.

And there it is! The light of recognition.

“Uhm…yeah, we did.”

“Keys,” I demand.

I toss the cue onto the table, leaving a few bucks for my beer, and head for the door.

“My keys,” he whimpers. “I got my house’s keys on that.”

I glance over my shoulder, pinning him with my gaze.

“Good. Report the bike stolen and I’ll just have to pay you a visit.”

He shrinks back at my words, and I look at the rest of the bar. They all seem hesitant to stand up for the loser. Smart.

I push open the door and head for the bike. A nineties Fat Boy for a fucking fat boy. How fitting. I climb on and insert the keys into the ignition.

Before I ride off, I pull out my phone and text back to Lysandra—