Everyone knew him as Bull — the hardest man in town. But that night, on the side of Highway 9, I saw a completely different side of him.
Bull had led the Ironhounds for over thirty years. At seventy-one, he was still built like a tank, with a scar stretching from his eyebrow down to his collarbone. I was just twenty-three, a new prospect, barely a month into the club.
I was heading home after a long night shift when I noticed his Harley parked near mile marker 42. I almost kept riding… until I saw him.
Bull was down on his knees in the damp grass, right beside a small white cross. His head hung low, and in his hands, he held a purple helmet — its visor shattered into pieces.
I shut off my engine and walked closer. He didn’t even look up. But I could hear him. It wasn’t just crying — it was something deeper, like pain being torn out from inside him.
I stood there unsure of what to do. With a man like Bull, you didn’t know if witnessing something like this would cost you.
After a while, I cleared my throat.
“You the new kid from the clubhouse?” he asked, his voice rough and broken.
I nodded.
“Then come sit,” he said quietly.
I moved closer and sat beside him. The cross carried a woman’s name. The helmet had a small silver charm — a cat — hanging from the strap.
Bull kept his eyes locked on that cross.
“Tomorrow makes forty years,” he said slowly. “I was riding. She was behind me.”
I stayed silent.
“The truck didn’t come out of nowhere,” he continued. “I saw it. And I thought I could beat it.”
Then he turned to me — his eyes filled with grief, anger, and something heavier than both.
“Kid… one day you’ll hear stories about me. About the kind of man I am. But I need you to know the truth… the part I never told anyone. When that truck hit us, I…”