The Biker's Rules
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Hello, Melaena,” the man says with a low snigger as he steps closer.
He’s around Uncle John’s age, with graying hair and dark, watchful eyes. Scars map his face and arms, jagged and ugly, like souvenirs from a life that didn’t play fair.
I’ve seen him before — I’m sure of it — but my mind refuses to give me the memory.
“I — sorry,” he adds, almost amused. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”