I ride through the derelict city, and even though it’s late, the street’s here are never quiet. There’s always homeless people trying to carve out a safe corner for themselves, gang members patrolling their territory, hookers shaking their tits in the hopes of earning themselves enough to buy a solid meal the next day. It never used to be so bad. Black Creek has always been home to vagrants and outlaws, but there was some sort of order before—when The Feral Beasts ruled the town. Sure they inflicted fear in the heart of residents, and the street ran red with just as much blood as it does now, but there was order to the chaos. Now, it’s just complete and utter mayhem.
Broadly speaking, you could divide the city into three main territories based on who they belong to. The Antonelli’s own the docks, Grim Bastards have laid claim to most of the East District, and the Reaper Rejects are quickly accruing land in the Downtown area. The problem is, any part of the city that isn’t owned by one of these three, has been snatched up by small, disorganized street gangs, evidently breaking the city up into a multitude of different pieces. It’s impossible to keep track of who owns what, and each gang is just as dimwitted as the last. Boys with guns and absolutely zero common sense. Idiots that will shoot first and ask questions later, and think they’re big shit because they strut around with a gun that’s bigger than their dicks. It’s just asking for trouble, and with each passing day, temperatures rise. Rival gangs are at each other's throats, and all of them are dissatisfied with the small bit of land they occupy.
It’s hitting two a.m. when I slow down, pulling into a small garage hidden behind a disused building. I’m a block away from my apartment, but I don’t dare park Raven on the street. She’d be stripped and sold for parts before sunrise. I also don’t need people questioning how I came about owning her. She’s a twenty-five grand bike. Not something just anyone in Black Creek can afford. Don’t get me wrong, there’s the odd, brand spanking new Benz or SUV that’s obviously stolen, but for the most part, gangsters drive around in supped up Buicks or Lincolns, with their arms hanging out the window, thinking they look like hot shit. The point is, everyone knows it’s only gang members that can get their hands on that shit. And anyone who knows me knows I have absolutely zero fucking affiliations with any gangs. They bring nothing but problems and heartache to the everyday residents of Black Creek who are just trying to carve out some sort of existence for themselves.
Anyone who had the means or opportunity to leave Black Creek, left years ago, back when I was barely more than a baby. It was obvious back then, as soon as The Feral Beasts started making a name for themselves, that things were only going to go from bad to worse. Whoever is left have stayed because they crave the life of being an outlaw, with all it’s bloodshed and violence, or because they couldn’t leave. They didn’t have the money, they couldn’t risk the livelihood they have here, or some other reason kept them trapped here. I, unfortunately, fall into category B. I can’t leave. Not yet. I have obligations, wrongs I need to set right, and honestly, part of me is reluctant to give up on this city just yet. I grew up here. I work my fucking ass off to make a life here for myself. I don’t even know what the fuck I’d do if I moved to another town. My skillset is not exactly transferable, or one that can be applied to most legal occupations. So, I guess for now, I’m stuck here. And on days like today, when I rid the world of one more piece of trash, I’m okay with that. Ask me again tomorrow, though. I’ll most likely have a different answer.
Turning off the engine, I remove my helmet and shake out my waist-length, long copper-colored hair, and climb off the bike. Patting the seat in farewell, my chunky-heeled boots tap against the concrete floor as I walk out of the garage, closing and securing the door behind me.
Once I’m sure she’s safely tucked away for the night, I make the walk to my apartment at a brisk pace, keeping my senses on alert. You can never let your guard down in Black Creek, especially not at this time of night.
I hear a gunshot go off, but it sounds like it’s several blocks behind me, so it’s nothing to worry about. Reaching the dilapidated apartment building that’s covered in graffiti and looks like it’s one minor earth-rumbling tremor away from collapsing, I stride past the elevator that has been out of service since I moved in here five years ago, and hike up the dimly lit stairwell to the top floor.
Sticking my key in the lock, I have to jiggle it before the mechanism gives and the door opens. The only light is the flashing of images on the TV, which has been left on. I scowl. Seriously? Every night. How difficult is it to turn the TV off after yourself?
My apartment is small, barely enough space for two people to co-exist. A narrow kitchen with chipped cabinet doors and a linoleum floor that no matter what I do, always bubbles up, is separated from the living room by a wall with a large window, allowing a small slither of light in to brighten the kitchen from the grimy window that constantly lets the cold air in in winter and provides an unexciting view of the main street below. Dull colored, threadbare curtains hang limply either side of the window, beneath which is wedged a small sofa and a table that only holds a lamp. The only other piece of furniture in the room is a small television set. Off of the living room are two bedrooms, one double and one single, and a small bathroom, containing the main reason why I chose this apartment over the other shitholes I looked at...the tub. It’s nothing special or fancy, but it’s a tub nonetheless, and I am all for soaking in a hot bubble bath after a long day like today.
I drop the duffle bag on the floor and kick my boots off by the door, hanging my leather jacket on the hook before I cross the discolored carpet. I flick on the kitchen light as I pass by, snatching the remote off the sofa to turn off the TV. I take a second to listen for any sounds coming from the bedroom, and when all I hear is the noise of the always bustling city coming up from the street, the sound of our neighbours arguing through the thin walls, and the always present hum of our old refrigerator, I move to the bathroom.
Running the rusty taps for the bath, I light a few candles and add a lavender scented bath bomb to the water before heading back into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I grab a bottle of white wine from the door and, fetching a glass from the cupboard, pour myself a large serving.
I take a sip, the tension dropping from my shoulders as the cold, dry, fruity flavor slides down my throat, taking with it the last of today’s problems. I take the glass with me back to the bathroom, ignoring the blackened grout lines that never seem to stay clean for long and the chipped tiles along the wall, and set it on the bath caddy before stripping out of my leather pants, black Henley and bralette.
When the water is piping hot and bubbles threaten to overflow the side of the tub, I step into it, lowering myself into the warmth with a sigh. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes, inhaling the soft lavender scent and letting it relax me.