Page 2 of Caged Hunger

All the kids quickly moved aside, making way as he stomped past.

He ignored the whispers and hushed comments.

Some called him an animal, while others called him a psychopath—proof that even his own parents couldn’t love him. After all, they were the ones who gave him away.

Well, the joke was on them. His parents hadn’t given him away. His father had been MIA since the moment his mama told him she was pregnant, and the police were the ones who took Basher from his mother after finding her passed out with a needle in her arm… one too many times.

A court would only allow a person so many second chances before deeming them unfit to be a parent.

So fuck all his classmates and their snide little comments.

He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

Later that night, there was a knock on his foster parents’ door. Basher opened it, then lowered his gaze as he let in the one person he hoped he would never see again.

Mrs. Kendle.

If she was here, that only meant one thing.

Basher headed back to his bedroom and began packing his things. He didn’t have much, so he put it all into one large duffel bag.

“We just can’t. He’s too aggressive and hard to handle. He got into another fight at school today, and we can’t have that kind of violence in our home any longer,” his foster mom said.

The truth was that she had already checked out three months earlier. This was just the excuse she needed. Something to point the finger at and claim it wasn’t their fault.

He had been living with the Millers for the past six months, but by the second month, he already knew it wasn’t going to work out.

It never did.

Nobody wanted someone like him living under their roof.

He was angry and aggressive and enjoyed solving problems with his fists—or a bat. That was how he got the name “Basher.” Over time, the nickname kind of stuck.

“I totally understand,” Mrs. Kendle responded, reaching out to Basher as he walked past his foster parents without saying goodbye.

What was the point? They weren’t going to miss him or even remember his name.

That was the story of his life.

A few months in a foster home. A few months in another new school.

And people wondered why he wasn’t able to learn anything.

1

BASHER

Stepping out into the heat of the Nevada sun felt like a soothing, warm blanket, finally welcoming him home after years of being left out in the cold.

He stood there for a moment, letting the warmth roll over his heavily inked skin. He fucking loved the heat. Being able to stand outside under the hot sun, breathing in that fresh, non-recycled air, was a gift he would cherish always.

After spending the last two years in a six-by-eight-foot Nevada State prison cell, being able to step out into the open air and not having to worry about someone shivving him in the back was a blessing he would not take for granted.

A honk to Basher’s left caught his attention.

Stepping out of a souped-up SUV was Bradly, his boss and the leader of the Death Cruisers Motorcycle Club.

He raised his hand to get Basher’s attention.