"Don't do it, man."

Brad's fist throbbed after punching the wall. He couldn't look at Dice Mahone; his anger was so great he wanted to throttle the first person he looked at. But he couldn't hurt this kind stranger who had helped Lisa these past few months. He couldn't hurt the guy who offered to come over for moral support when Brad had to give his own testimony, when he had to admit to a courtroom that his sister's abuse had been going on under his nose for years. He felt like an ugly, worthless creature, a failure of an older brother, a blind fool who failed his family — and when he got angry, he got into fights. But he didn't want to hurt Dice, so he channeled all his rage into the wall, fought through the tears and bit his tongue until he tasted rust. By the time he caged his temper, Brad could barely feel his fingers.

"Feel better?" Dice was leaning against the red wall, leather-clad arms crossed over his muscular chest. A lock of sky-blue hair dangled down his white shirt, the rest tossed over his shoulder and hidden behind a popped collar.

Brad lifted his swollen hand, which blossomed with purple bruises. "What do you think?"

His glower cooled under Dice's calm gaze. "Better the wall than your old man."

Anger crinkled Brad's face. "He deserves it." He spat a wad of saliva into the alleyway's cement floor. "I want to kill him. I want to rip him, limb from—"

"Easy there." Dice held his hand up. "Remember what we talked about. If you went after him, you'd just get thrown into jail, and then you wouldn't be any help to Lisa."

"We don't know if I'd go to jail," Brad argued. "I could get away with it. No one would even miss him."

"Brad. "

"He won't get what he deserves, even if he is convicted. Last time, he got out early for good behavior. This time—"

"Listen. I've only done this for a few years, but I've seen guys go down that road. It never ends well. You want to help your sister, right?" Seeing Brad solemn and silent, Dice continued. "She needs you, man. Out here. Fighting him won't give him justice. Have faith in the jury. They'll do what's right. They'll give him what he deserves."

"He deserves to rot in Hell!" Brad snapped.

"He'll rot in prison," Dice said, "which is damn near the same."

"Is it? After eight years, it didn't change him at all. Still the same sick bastard he was when I was a kid." Brad shook his head. "I can't believe... what he did to Lisa. I knew he was scum, but I never thought... I..." He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Goddamn it, he thought. You're gonna cry in front of a stranger? Worthless little shit. He took in a deep breath, but he couldn't stop his fists from shaking.

Dice stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Brad. The only one to blame is Marty - and the court knows that. He'll go through the system and go back to prison."

"Can we even trust the system?" Brad asked, bitterness tainting his tone. "If the system worked the first time, he would still be behind bars. He shouldn't have been let out."

"Didn't the system help you as a kid?" Dice argued. "Yes, the system can fuck up, but it can also help: You and Lisa were taken away from him and placed with with your grandpa. You telling me that was a mistake?"

"Fat lot of good it did," Brad said. "She and I are all fucked up."

"Everyone's fucked up," Dice told him. "But you can get help for it."

"Help?" Brad snapped. "Why? Nothing will ever undo what happened."

"You're right," Dice said. "But, it will help you cope with what happened."

"I don't need help coping. Lisa's the one who was hurt."

"And she's seeing a professional to talk about it. But... you're also affected by what happened. There's no shame in talking to someone about it, sorting your feelings out. It would help."

"Nothing happened to me." Brad grit his teeth. "I don't need help."

"And yet you beat a wall till you damn near broke your fist." Dice stared at him evenly. "That's not a sign of a man who's coping well."

Brad took a step forward; he was shorter than most men, which could make intimidation tough, but Dice was close enough in height for them to stand nearly nose-to-nose. Before he could spit out a threat, though, a brightly colored business card popped in front of his face. A smiling psychologist looked at him beside a phone number and address. "This person saved my life," Dice said, calm despite Brad's anger. "A while ago, I was just where you are now: One wrong look away from killing someone."

Brad stared at the card before slowly taking it from Dice's hands. A psychologist? Really? An ugly voice in the back of his head whispered. Nothing happened to you. You don't deserve help. You have the nerve to make your sister's suffering about you?

As if he could hear Brad's thoughts, Dice spoke again. "That darkness you feel... It'll swallow you whole, unless you do something about it."

He clapped a hand on Brad's shoulder before walking away, past the courthouse and towards the street. Brad didn't turn to see him off. He made no move from the alleyway until the thunderous growls from Dice's receding motorcycle faded into faraway whimpers.

By the time a city cocktail of booze and uppers emboldened Brad to dial those digits, it was late at night. Nobody would be in the office to pick up the phone. Club music so loud it rattled Brad's bones obscured the psychologist office's voicemail greeting, but he could hear the high-pitched beep that signaled him to leave a message.

"Haha, heyyy!" His voice had the telltale slur of too many bottles. "M'name's Brad. My guy Dice wants to hook me up with you guys. My number's 303-962… aaah, forget it." He could barely hear himself; how would the receptionist be able to make out his words next morning? They would probably write it off as a crank call and block his number. So much for professional help.

Then again, what help did he need? Pills in one hand and alcohol in the other was all the medication he needed, and this club was cooler than any professional's office could hope to be. Bland white walls and last year's magazines were all that awaited him there; here, the room brimmed with colorful decor and sparkling disco balls that shot light over the writhing bodies on the dance floor.

Chaos was freeing. Brad's true self sprung free with the taste of booze; smiles came easier than ever before, and when a tiny pill flooded his brain with chemicals, he felt full for the first time. Here, he was the Nobody, who didn't have to worry about managing business or paying rent or failing Lisa. Here, he knew only Joy.

Everyone around him shared in the revelry, pounding their feet and twisting their limbs to the music, which guided their moves like puppets on a string. Endless glory unfolded on faces from the dance floor to the bar.

Brad watched them all: a guy in a mohawk, high off his ass and dancing with a tongue out; a couple grinding and bumping into others on the dance floor; a young girl at the bar, blushing and giggling as a man touched her cheek; the guy whispering in her ear, his eyes dark with hunger.

As Brad watched them, his heart ached. He always wanted a loving partnership, but whenever he got too close, things always fell apart. At the beginning, girls found him intriguing, the bachelor martial artist. Then they realized he was a dumb hick who kept quiet not because he was mysterious, but because he had nothing to say. Most left once they got to know him, but some stuck around — and anyone who spent enough time around Brad would inevitably see him drunk, high, or both. And when he was under the influence, his true thoughts came out: all the pent-up rage, all the fear and all the ugliness.

No one stayed after that, and he couldn't blame them. Deep down, he was terrified he would break, lose his cool in a fight and beat his loved ones until they looked and with the same terror his eyes had when he looked at Dad. Turning into that monster was his greatest fear, and it cast a shadow over every good thing in his life. It meant he had no one to go out with, no one to whisper sweet nothings to as she drunkenly stumbled off her seat, no one to grab and hold tight as she struggled—

Brad paused; this picture wasn't right. The couple his mind painted as the elusive ideal was fighting. The man grabbed her arm hard, and she tried to pull away, but he dragged her close and said something that made her face fall. As Brad neared, he could make out the girl's voice: "Please, leave me alone. I don't want to."

"Come on, baby. Who paid for all your drinks?" A hand slithered down her back.

Although his voice was smooth and seductive, the girl flinched, worry etched over her features. "I-I don't owe you anything! Please, let me go!"

"Not yet," the man whispered, his expression cocky. It morphed into surprise when a hand thumped down on his shoulder.

"Hey guys." Brad's voice boomed in his ears. "Everything okay here?"

"Uh, yeah." The guy wrinkled his nose. "Get lost, dude. Can't you see we're in the middle of something here?" But the girl looked at Brad with hope in her frightened face. "Hey!" The guy whistled and snapped his fingers in Brad's face. "Over here. Look at me and read my lips: Get lost!"

"She doesn't look too good," Brad said. The world was blurry at the edges; the drugs were kicking in, so he needed to act quickly. "She told you to stop."

"No, she didn't."

"I heard her."

"Haven't you heard of roleplay, dude? We're just playing. Getting a little freaky. You know how it is."

Brad did not know "how it is." He paused, uncertain. He'd never done anything like this, never heard of anything like it, but it sounded plausible and the man spoke with such confidence that he felt unsure. He glanced at the girl, who looked at him with pleading eyes. "He's lying!" She said. "I asked him to let me go! Please, help!"

The guy smirked. "You see?" He told Brad. "She likes to pretend she doesn't want it, but I know she does. Isn't that right, baby?"

She pushed against his chest, but his arms held her tight. "How many times do I have to tell you no? Get off of me!"

"Nothing to worry about over here." The guy gave Brad a sleazy smile. "Just a boyfriend and girlfriend getting kinky to spice things up." His face fell into a glare. "You're cramping our style, dude. Seriously, get lost."

Maybe the guy was being honest; maybe they were roleplaying, and Brad was too drunk or high to comprehend the subtleties, but he could comprehend a crying girl asking for help. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought. Brad grabbed the man's wrist and jerked it away from the girl's arm, stepping between them to cut off all contact.

"What the fuck, dude?!" The man lost all semblance of swagger; now his face twisted in offense. "We were just flirting!"

"No, we weren't!" The girl yelled over Brad's shoulder. "I'm not going home with you, so go away!"

The man gasped; then his shock boiled into fury. "You whore! " He shrieked. "You fucking gold digger—tease— bitch! Stop lying and tell the truth!"

The girl shrank back in fear, and Brad tensed. Marty said the same thing in the courtroom. He yelled at Lisa, desperate to convince the jury he was innocent, denying the truth even though medical records showed proof of his crimes. Even though Lisa testified with wet cheeks and a shaky voice, Marty screamed that she was a liar and he was an innocent man.

"Don't listen to that dumb whore," Marty said. "She's just a stupid slut. All she's good at is lying and spreading her—"

Crack.

The man's body thudded when it hit the floor, and he gripped his head and swore as he staggered to his feet. Brad sidestepped his punch and threw an uppercut into his throat. Dad fell back into the bar, hitting drinks that crashed to the floor in a shower of glass.

"Worthless shit kid."

Brad kicked his side, the same way dad would kick him whenever Brad fell to the floor during a beating.

"He told me it was how a father showed his love. He said a good daughter would have been grateful."

Brad's ears rang from a well-placed punch to his ear; white noise engulfed the world, and all he could see was that bloody bastard ahead of him, a pervert who would never suffer the way he deserved.

"He always said it was my fault, since if I weren't pretty he wouldn't want me. I called Grandpa asking for help, but he never came. He said that a father has a right to discipline his children however he wants to."

Blood trickled down Brad's face. Glass cracked beneath Marty's feet, then against Brad's forehead when a bottle smashed into his skull. "Fuck you, asshole!" Dad yelled, but his voice sounded different.

"I didn't know, Brad, I swear to God. I thought Marty was hitting her when she acted out—"

"And you thought that was okay? You didn't stop to think, 'Maybe if she's calling me in the middle of the night, this is some serious shit and I should step in'?"

"You don't get it. In my generation, a father had the right to hit his kids. I grew up thinking that was normal. I thought that's all Marty was doing."

"That's no excuse. You should have known better! You let him — you let him — "

"I never knew what was going on, I swear it. If I had, I would have stepped in."

"But you didn't. You let your son hurt your own granddaughter. My sister! And you sent her back, year after year!"

The girl was screaming, but Brad didn't care. He slammed his foot into Marty's back, again and again, until his Dad fell onto the floor and curled up as if he were praying. The last time he saw Dad like this was when they lived together, when Lisa was a baby who had just been beaten. Brad tucked her in bed and held her bruised body as it shook with sobs. When he crept downstairs for food a few hours later, he found Marty on his hands and knees, praying before a garish, golden cross. "Father forgive me, for I have sinned…"

Brad would never forgive him. Even as police slammed him into the club floor and clamped handcuffs around his wrists, he felt proud. He did the right thing. He stopped the predator from preying on the weak. Officers could slam his head against the police car before shoving him into the tight backseat, but he knows he'd done well.

All the way to the station, he smiled with bloody teeth.

A few hours later, Brad sleeping in a cell when an officer's yell woke him up: "They're bringing in the paddy wagon."

The ensuing conversation described a bust at a gay bar downtown. Brad hadn't the slightest clue why the bar needed to be broken into, but the slurs and sneers flying between the officers gave him a hint.

A few hours spent shivering in a cell had somewhat sobered him. The buzz from earlier still gave him a pleasant feeling of light-headedness, but the chemical high that set his nerves alight was starting to plummet, dragging Brad back to dreary reality. There, judgment, disappointment, and anger waited for him. His taste buds ached for a cool, refreshing taste of beer so he could wash those feelings away; instead, the cell door opened, and in came an influx of men with bruised, miserable faces.

"Sleep tight, ladies," the cop said before locking the new men in. Most of their clothes were colorful and stylish, but some men had ripped fabric and bloodstains from the bust. Calling them "ladies" was downright kind compared to the hateful insults the officers were slinging around earlier, but the newcomers glowered all the same. "Watch out for Bubba back there," the cop said, pointing at Brad. "Or maybe that's what you sick fucks want."

Brad stiffened at the implication. He was no sexual threat to anyone; he was nothing like his father, but the blood, bruises, and scuff marks from his earlier fight told a different story, made the men shrink away.

"Fuck you, pig!" One of the men stood taller than the rest, with long golden hair and a crimson shirt that sparkled in the dim light. He spat through the bars at the policeman's feet.

The cop stepped back, but his eyes darkened. "You're gonna regret that, bitch."

"Then unlock this door and fight me, man to man." Although the blond man puffed out his chest and threw his arms wide, the cop ignored his taunts. When he left, the blond shook the bars, screaming, "Coward! I'll kill you!"

There were around five men shoved with Brad; seven more had been thrown into a cell beside them. Since they were packed in like sardines, a short, black-haired guy had to push through his friends to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. "Roger, calm down," he whispered. "You're gonna get us in even more trouble."

"I don't give a fuck!" Roger spun around, wet eyes wild with anger. "They deserve to suffer! Did you see what they did to the girls? They—they just dragged them off, and—"

"Shhh." Another man stepped forward, touching Roger's hand. "There's nothing we can do."

"Goddammit!" Roger stepped back, bumping into the cell's cold, hard bars. He looked ready to snap someone's neck, and Brad recognized the righteous fury he himself had felt at Marty's trial. Injustice was impossible to swallow and even harder to correct. How could one man take on a gang of policemen? How could a son overcome his cruel father? Looking at Roger was like seeing himself in a broken mirror; Brad saw the reflection of his own raw anger, and it frightened him. Is this how Dice felt when he watched me fall apart?

At first, it was strange to see a group of bikes parked along Grandpa's pristine, green lawn. When Brad saw a black motorcycle with a raging fire decal leaning against the white picket fence, he thought he was dreaming. Then, when he walked in to see Lisa smiling for the first time in months as she served tea to a gang of grizzly bikers, his heart melted. When the police dropped her off, she seemed cold and lifeless; she used to run up for a hug whenever he visited, but for months she looked through him. Once she befriended Dice Mahone, Lady Tank, and the rest, her old self slowly emerged. For that, Brad was eternally grateful.

Dice was the gang's leader and the one Lisa clicked with the most. She chattered and joked with him in the warm, familiar way she used to have with Brad. At first, he was jealous, but soon he found it hard to hate such a consistently kind guy. When Dice offered to go with him when he testified against Marty, that sealed the deal. They were friends.

Brad hoped he didn't fuck it up with his anger, but Dice was so calm and patient, he hoped they would be cool. He was nothing like the man currently in Brad's face, the tall, muscular blond whose flushed cheeks matched the bright red of his sparkling shirt.

"And you," Roger said, jabbing a manicured nail between Brad's eyes. "You'd better not mess with my queers. Understand, 'Bubba?'"

"My name's Brad."

"I don't care what your name is, as long as you don't hurt my friends. I'll knock you into next week if you lay a finger on any of us."

"I'm not going to touch any of you," Brad said loudly. He wanted to make it clear that he wouldn't bother anyone, but Roger seemed to misinterpret him, seemed to see the volume of his voice as a threat.

"Why not?" He taunted. "You afraid the gay will rub off on you?" He stepped closer so their faces were a few inches away, and Brad recognized the telltale dilation of drug use in his eyes. Neither one of them was sober. Maybe drugs brought out Roger's violent side, or maybe it was the humiliating mistreatment from the officers. Either way, it was clear Roger was hurting and hungry to reclaim some semblance of power through fighting. Brad sympathized. He just wished the anger weren't directed his way.

"Nope," he said calmly. "Don't want a fight."

Roger narrowed his dark blue eyes. "You sure, big man?"

"Positive." He tensed as Roger leaned closer, roaming his dark eyes over Brad's bruised face. For a moment, he thought Roger would punch him anyway. Surprisingly, he stepped back and sighed.

"I guess you've had enough fighting for today, judging by your busted mug." Roger leaned against the cell wall and crossed his arms, looking Brad up and down with a judgmental expression. Suddenly Brad felt embarrassed for not dressing up; he had a colorful floral shirt and blue jeans with his old, reliable boots. They weren't anywhere near as new or fashionable as Roger's threads, and he wondered if he had enough extra cash for a snazzy new jacket.

Now that the potential violence dissipated, a collective sigh fell throughout the cells. Roger's friends settled in their hard confinement; some sat on the cold benches, while others stood by and murmured among themselves. "What happened to you, anyway?" Roger asked.

Brad looked away. "I gave someone what he deserved."

Thick, black eyebrows rose in surprise. "Interesting," Roger drawled. The corner of his mouth was bright purple from a recent punch, but his glimmering eyes were unmarked. "Don't stop there. I love a good revenge story."

He shrugged. "Some jackass tried to take a drunk girl home, but she didn't want to. He wouldn't let her go, so I stopped him."

"Looks like he did a number on you."

"You'd say the same if he were here. But he wouldn't hear you, since he was unconscious last I saw him."

Roger's bruise rose when he smiled. "Good job taking out the trash."

"Thanks," Brad said. "I just wish the cops weren't called."

The blond's face fell. "I know what you mean. If I find the person who ratted me and my guys out, I'll kill him. Or her. Whoever it is will get their face bashed in with my bat. That's a promise." When he got no response except stunned silence, he continued: "I'm not joking, by the way."

"Okay," Brad said, his voice equally calm.

Roger watched him closely. "Nothing to say?"

"I get it." Brad was afraid of saying anything more; he might start talking about how much he wanted to kill Marty, and then he would be the one aching for a fight, just so he could beat the feelings away. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes so he wouldn't dwell on dark thoughts.

"Well, that's a rare response." Roger laughed. "Most people freak out when I talk like that."

Brad's eyes popped open. "Do you often talk about wanting to kill people?"

Roger smirked. "Ah, come on. I only talk about those who deserve it."

"The world's full of people who deserve to be killed," Brad said without thinking. "So you must be talking all the time."

"Ha!" Roger threw his head back, his white teeth gleaming in an unsettling grin. "Well said. Too bad the world is shit at doling out justice."

The truthful words struck Brad to the core. Instead of saying anything, he looked down at his feet and realized a shard of glass was lodged into the side of his soles. For a moment, he considered yanking it out, but then he might cut his finger, and he doubted the policemen would give a band-aid. Even if the men sharing his cell had a spare bandage, they had too many injuries of their own to patch up. When Brad looked up, he found Roger wearing a solemn expression. "That's why we have to make our own," he muttered.

Brad frowned. "Our own what?"

Roger's eyes snapped towards him. "Our own justice," he said. "You can't trust that good things will happen. You can't trust that people will get their just desserts. Just think about all those fucking pigs out there." His lip curled in disgust. "We're not bothering anyone. We're just existing. And for some reason these self-righteous assholes whose job it is to protect us break into our place and rough us up. Did you see that guy who threw us in here? He molested the women he was supposed to be frisking. He hurt my boys, spat in our faces, cussed us out the whole time. He deserves to be fired. But that won't happen, 'cause cops protect their own." His eyes narrowed. "But I'm going to remember that bastard's face, and mark my words, when I get out—"

"Shhh." Brad put a finger to his lips before pointing to an officer standing by the door. "Don't want them tracing any murders back to you."

"Good thinking." Roger smirked. "You don't talk much, but you're pretty cool for a whacked-out, quarter-life crisis-looking guy."

Brad smiled wearily. "I'm glad you think so. But seriously, good luck with... whatever you're gonna do." He paused, unsure if he should stay quiet or not. "I wish I had your conviction."

"What do you mean?"

"You're confident in your beliefs. I'm not. They change all the time."

"Your beliefs on justice, you mean?"

"Yeah." Brad nodded. "I'm just... trying to have faith that the system will work. But I don't think any amount of prison time would give him what he deserves."

"Who? The guy you just fought?"

"No..." Brad licked his lips; he felt sick talking about this, but booze loosened his tongue, and Roger's eyes were soft with sympathy. "Someone else."

"Who?"

"I won't talk about who." Brad's voice was tight with anger.

"Okay." Roger held up his hands in acquiescence. "But, I mean—personally, I don't believe in having faith. That shit's pointless. Standing around, waiting for something good to happen? Nah. You gotta make good things happen." He paused. "And in this case, that 'good thing' would be someone getting what they deserve."

Brad thought for a moment and lowered his voice. "What you were saying earlier...about killing people...that was all, uh, joking, right? You weren't being serious?"

Roger's blue eyes twinkled. "Hmmm. Wouldn't you like to know?" He shook his head, smiling. "But on a more serious note: I don't know your situation, so I can't give you any advice, but... well... Do you believe in karma?"

Brad shook his head. "Nah. I don't think so."

"Me neither," Roger said. "This guy you're thinking of… is he in jail?"

"No." Brad scowled. "He paid his bail, so he's home, but the trial's still on. It's been half a year now, and I don't even know if he's gonna be ruled guilty or innocent."

"Then…you might have some time to drop in for a visit, right?"

The implication hung in the air. It grew ripe in the silence.

"Just something to think about."