chapter 4: The Thunder on Elm Street
The following morning, my fragile peace was shattered by an apocalyptic sound.
It was the unmistakable, guttural roar of motorcycle engines. But it wasn’t just one rogue rider, or even a small group. It sounded like an invading army. The low-frequency rumble was so intense it rattled the glass in my bedroom windows and vibrated through the floorboards.
I bolted upright, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I scrambled out from under the duvet, rushed to the window, and peered through the blinds.
The blood drained from my face.
Our quiet, suburban street was completely overrun. Rows upon rows of heavy, customized motorcycles were parked shoulder-to-shoulder, stretching down the block as far as I could see. Men and women clad in heavy leather, denim cuts, and dark sunglasses stood beside their machines. They weren’t revving their engines in anger; they were just standing there, an imposing, silent wall of leather and chrome, all staring directly at our front door.
Panic seized my throat. Why was the entire club here? Had Dad done something wrong? Was this some kind of intimidation tactic?
A moment later, my bedroom door flew open. Mom stood in the doorway, her expression utterly unreadable. She wasn’t pale with fear, nor was she flushed with anger. Her eyes were bright, swimming with unshed tears.
