Removing the cover, I swing around to the back, adding the stolen license plate to the car. There’s no need to give the cops more of a red flag since the car currently has no tags. Climbing in the driver’s seat, I run my hand over the steering wheel. She is one fine piece of American machinery, and I’m practically giddy when I see the key ring is dangling from the ignition. The turn of the key, the stroke of the engine as it turns over, coming to life under me—it is a moment of power and control. The rumble of the motor sends vibrations through the old building.

I’m just getting ready to put the car in gear when I look up and come face to face with four bikers all aiming their guns at me through the windshield of the beauty encompassing me. Shit just got real.

Raising my hands in defeat, I stare down the biker who is walking over to me. Today may be the end of my road, but I won’t show them any fear.

“Cut my car off, boy,” one of the bikers commands.

He is huge. Tall and built he has long, brown hair braided in the back with a goatee and tattoos coming down both his arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the others who are just as mean in appearance. They have since lowered their weapons but are watching me like a hawk circling its prey.

“Get out of the car, punk ass,” another one with short, salt and pepper hair orders. His goatee is an even mix of gray and black, matching his hair.

Doing as I’m told without hesitation, I can’t stop my mind from worrying over my mom and sisters. What will they do with me gone? My family is going to lose the only man left to protect them. Mom has always told me to stay clean, don’t fall to the temptation of a quick dollar. Too bad I didn’t listen.

“What’s your name, boy?” the long haired, burly biker that apparently owns the car asks, stepping up to me.

“Franklin Thomas Oleander,” I answer, steeling my voice to one that shows no weakness, no fear. He may kill me today, but he won’t break me.

He tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans against his back, obviously feeling I am not a threat. Truth be told, I’m not a threat, not to him and his crew. They could each crush me with their bare hands. I am still filling out, and since Mom can’t afford much, I make sure my sisters eat before I do, which means I am skinny and rough around the edges.

“You got a death wish, Oleander?” The other three bikers remain back, letting the one man handle me on his own.

“No,” I answer firmly.

“Apparently, you wanna die. Why else would you be dumb enough to touch my car?”

“Umm…” I have no answer. Seeing as it is his car I was attempting to steal, I am faced with two options: man up and take what is coming to me or cower down and beg for my life. Well, no one ever calls me smart. “You gonna kill me, kill me. You wanna beat my ass, beat my ass. Whatever you’re gonna do, just do it.”