© K.L. Hall and www.authorklhall.com, 2025. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to K.L. Hall and www.authorklhall.com with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.
This is an unedited snippet and NSFW.
MERCY HARRIS
The bar counter was dark and scarred from years of drunk ass patrons. Behind it were shelves lined with various liquor bottles. An old jukebox played an old country tune in the back corner, the music barely audible.
“Excuse me, c-can I use your p-phone?” I stuttered as I approached the counter. “My car broke down way down the road, and I need to make a call.”
The bartender was a burly man with long locs, a grizzly beard, and what looked like a permanent grimace. His lip curled in a twisted smirk that creeped me out.
“Sorry, lil lady. Ain’t no phone here,” he answered, eyes lingering on me too long for my liking.
His response was curt but still made my skin prickle. Still, I didn’t know if I was more disappointed or relieved to have not received any help. I glanced over my shoulder. All eyes were still stationed on me. The patrons were all rugged, and the room was full of brooding bikers who seemed to have made that place their home away from home. They sat scattered around cocktail tables and booths across the room. By the looks on their faces, it was a place where strangers weren’t welcomed, and my uninvited presence had noticeably disrupted the vibe.
I felt the weight of their stares, and my anxiety heightened. It wasn’t a place a young woman like me should’ve been in alone, especially not one on a desperate mission. I gotta get the fuck out of here.
“Thanks,” I said quickly.
I turned to leave, only to find my path blocked by a biker with a patch on his leather jacket that said President and a menacing grin. The one percent patch on his jacket was apparent, signaling that he was part of a gang that separated themselves from other law-abiding riders, and it became clear my safety was far from guaranteed. He was the president of the Chicago Outlaws, the MC at the epicenter of my article. My heart stumbled out a frantic beat as the heavily tattooed man grabbed my arm. His grip was unyielding.
“You lost, lil lady?” he asked, noticing my press badge. Before I could answer, he reached out to snatch it from my waist. He glanced at it, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Mercy Harris, huh?” What’s a pretty lil thing like you doing in a place like this?”
Terror had me in its clutches as the other bikers started to close in. Their vulgar comments made my skin crawl. I glanced away, trying to think of an excuse quickly.
“I’m just passing through,” I explained, trying to keep her voice steady. “Having a little car trouble, that’s all.”
The man leaned in closer with the group of men at his six. “Passing through, huh? Ain’t nothing for you to find here but trouble. Or maybe that’s why you’re here, to start nosing around in shit that ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.”
I stuttered, trying to explain myself, when the menacing figure snatched my bag from my shoulder. I watched helplessly as he dumped its contents onto a nearby table, scattering my notebooks, pens, sticky notes, and voice recorder. He laughed and made crude comments as he rummaged through my things.
He swiped up my voice recorder, studying it with a scornful grin. “Sorry, Oprah. No stories here,” he taunted menacingly.
“No, please wait,” I called out to him.
But I was too late. He threw it to the ground and stomped on it, smashing it to pieces under his thick black boot. My heart clunked to my feet, having to witness my crucial evidence being destroyed as the pieces of my recorder scattered across the floor.
All my hard work—doing the research, preparing the questions, risking it all to meet my source to have my inquiries answered—seemed to have slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. Knowing I hadn’t had the chance to transcribe or upload the recording to the cloud made the loss even more devastating. All that I’d worked so hard to obtain was gone.
“Consider this a warning,” the biker growled, leaning in close. “You know what we do to snitches around here, especially when they’re as pretty as you?” he asked menacingly.
COMING MARCH 12TH!
Comments