Then, faster than a spoiled teenager had any right to move, he spun back toward me, raising the glass bottle, and smashed it violently against the heavy motorcycle helmet I was still holding in my hands.
The glass shattered instantly, thick shards exploding outward and raining down onto the asphalt around my boots. The impact jarred my wrists, but I didn't drop the helmet. I didn't flinch. I just looked at him.
"My name is Tristan," he spat, pointing a finger directly at my chest. "When you see my car coming, you move your trash out of my way."
His two friends, stepping closer, began to laugh. "Look at him, Tris," one of them, a tall boy with a sharp jawline, chuckled. "He's in shock. He probably spent his whole life saving for that piece of junk."
I looked at Tristan. I noted the heavy gold watch on his wrist. I noted the specific embroidery on the breast pocket of his blazer—not just the school crest, but a small, secondary pin. A stylized crown.
I recognized that pin. I knew exactly whose son this was.
Taking a slow, measured breath, I bent my knees, ignoring the shards of glass on the ground, and reached out to grab the handlebars of my Harley. The bike was wedged tight, but I figured if I shifted the weight, I could pull it free and assess the damage. I didn't want a fight. I had spent two decades trying not to be the monster I used to be.
"Excuse me," I said quietly, gripping the leather handles. "I'm going to move my bike."
As I started to lift, a shadow fell over me. Tristan stepped directly into my space.
"I didn't say you could touch it," he hissed.
Before I could react, Tristan lifted his leg and drove the hard, reinforced heel of his suede loafer straight into the side of my right knee joint.
The pain was electric and immediate. The cartilage ground together with a sickening pop, and the leg simply gave out under my weight. I collapsed downward, my bad knee hitting the asphalt hard, forcing me to brace myself with one hand against the side of my pinned motorcycle.
"Stay on the ground where you belong," Tristan commanded.
He reached down, grabbing the thick leather collar of my jacket. He hauled me upward slightly, his grip remarkably strong for a teenager, and then he drew his hand back.
He slapped me. Hard.
The sharp, stinging impact echoed in the empty parking lot. My head snapped to the side, my cheek immediately blooming with heat.
Before I could even process the indignity of the strike, Tristan's hand darted down to the ignition of the Harley. He snatched the keys right out of the cylinder, the metal cutting a small scrape across my knuckle as he ripped them away.
I looked up at him, still resting on one knee, tasting the faintest hint of copper in my mouth where my teeth had caught my inner cheek.
Tristan dangled my keys in the sunlight, a cruel, satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Your life isn't worth a single tire on my car," he whispered.
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the keys over the retaining wall. I heard them clatter into an industrial trash bin somewhere in the distance.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. Down in the deep, dark basement of my soul, a door that had been locked for twenty years began to creak open.
CHAPTER 2
The noise of the confrontation had drawn a crowd. The mid-morning bell had just rung, and the administration doors were spilling open. Wealthy teenagers in tailored blazers and plaid skirts began pouring into the parking lot. They didn't run to help. They didn't shout for a teacher. Instead, they formed a wide, eager circle around us, lifting their smartphones like a firing squad raising their rifles.