Page 1 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

1

KANNON

My Harley roared as I cut between two cars, splitting them with only a few inches of space on either side of me. One of them blared their horn, but I was already gone, cutting to the shoulder to race up to the red light and blow through the intersection moments before it turned green. Passengers in the cars I passed glared at me. Some cursed out their open windows and flicked ash from their cigarettes. I just grinned.

It only made me want to fuck with them more. I pushed the bike harder, feeling that familiar thrill surge through my veins when the engine really opened up. This was freedom—the raw, untamed sort that you could only find on the back of a motorcycle with no particular destination in mind.

I liked the custom pipes that made my bike sound like a fucking freight train. It made people look, made them wonder, maybe even made them a little afraid.

Good.

I cut across the lane and got to the exit that would get me on the highway. It was only a couple of miles, but I really needed to open her up and let the wind slap me in the face and burn my skin. The chill in the air made me feel alive.

Dallas didn’t really get frigid until the dead of winter, but when you were doing eighty with nothing but the wind in your face and the road stretching ahead of you, even a mild chill could cut deep. The highway was nearly empty, a straight shot to the next exit. I throttled up. The bike responded eagerly, its growl deepening as we ate up the asphalt.

My exit came up too soon. I considered abandoning my plans and just going for a long ride in the dark. It didn’t matter where I went. I just wanted to go. That was just me. I had a restlessness I couldn’t shake. People always said I was going to kill myself one of these days. Those people would die without ever having lived.

They also didn’t seem to understand that the speed didn’t scare me. Fuck, it taunted me. It was the fuel in my veins. I took the exit anyway, the decision made more out of habit than any real desire to stop riding. The road looped around, taking me under the highway I had just been on and toward the city’s fringe.

The outskirts were quieter at night, less congested with the day’s hustle. Here the lights dimmed and the world seemed to pull back, giving space to those like me who thrived in the shadows. I slowed down as I approached the rundown bar. The building looked like it might collapse at any minute but its neon sign flickered, announcing they were open.

Nowhere else was like the Rusty Rail, the dingy hole-in-the-wall bar I called home more often than my own place.

The place wasn’t much but it had character. A couple of regulars loitered by the door, cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the dark. They straightened when they saw me pull in. They got the usual wary look in their eyes.

Damn right.

I swung my leg off the bike, the worn leather of my jacket creaking. The bouncer, a brick wall of a guy aptly named Tank, nodded as I walked past. I wasn’t just a regular—I was the guy people noticed. The one they whispered about when they thought I couldn’t hear.

Inside, the bar smelled like stale beer and regret. My boots hit the floorboards covered with sawdust and peanut shells. The place was dark with old-school lighting that made everything look yellow, like stepping into an old photograph. I had a feeling that was intentional.

I made my way up to the long bar that had seen some shit in the hundred years or so since it had been installed in the place. A guy sitting on the stool I always claimed looked up, flinched, and immediately stood, muttering something about needing to hit the bathroom. I slid onto the seat like it had been waiting for me all night.

Riggs, the bartender and one of the only people I could halfway tolerate, placed a glass in front of me without asking. Neat whiskey. My usual.

“Slow night,” he said, leaning on the counter. His arms, inked with faded tattoos, flexed as he wiped down a spot I was pretty sure was just stained. It would take a sandblaster to get the marks out of the bar. The thing had nicks and scrapes across the surface. There were even a few holes that were rumored to be from a shootout sometime in the thirties. I didn’t know if that was true but there was a big faded sign on the wall saying “Take all gunfights outside.”

I took a slow sip, letting the burn of the whiskey remind me I was still alive. “Slim pickings?”

He chuckled, glancing around. The place wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t exactly bustling either. A few small groups huddled in corners, nursing drinks. A couple of pool players argued over shots at the table in back. And the women? They weren’t anything to write home about, but they weren’t the worst, either. I didn’t mind riding something with a few miles on it.

“Could go downtown,” Riggs said, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Bet those high-end places are crawling with hot trim tonight. Model types with long legs, expensive perfume. They’d be happy to a take a roughneck like you home for a little walk on the wild side.”

I snorted, turning on my stool to survey the room. “Nah. Too much effort.”

“Effort?” Riggs raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Since when do you do effort?”

“Exactly.” I tipped the glass to my lips. “Why should I, when this place has everything I need?”

And by everything, I meant women who were like me—damaged, complicated, and looking for something they’d never say out loud. The kind who knew the score before I even opened my mouth. No strings. No expectations. Just two people scratching an itch. They probably had daddy issues and a lot of baggage.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t the guy to solve their problems or pull them out of whatever shitty life they were stuck in. I was just the guy that could give them a good time. The kind of night that would leave them tingling and wanting more.

But they wouldn’t get it.

They got to fuck me and that was enough. More than one woman had seen the face of god when I pounded into her up against a wall or bent over my bike. Plenty of women had told me so. I aimed to please. I got off on making women get off. There was a power in that, a kind of control that I craved. A connection that was purely physical, free from the messy webs of emotions and expectations. It was simple. Uncomplicated.

“You’re generous,” Riggs said dryly, responding to my comment about his bar.