Rebel punk, Oscar Bradley, discovers that his party friend, Max, is the prince of Kingsport's Irish Mob; fierce rivals of the biker gang that's served as Oscar's surrogate family. With Max quickly pulling him deeper into his luxurious but deadly wor...
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Oscar couldn't quit thinking of that one saying—about not burning bridges because someday you might want to be able to cross them again, or some shit like that.
Maybe there was something to it, but as he thought about all of the things he'd been through with the gang... All of the good times versus all of the crappy ones, and money, and relationships, the more he was pretty sure that there are absolutely some bridges you should burn. Otherwise, after time has passed, and you think back on things, you might come to the conclusion that someone is worth your forgiveness and loyalty again. But in the Rejects' case, that just wasn't fucking true.
He never wanted himself—or them—to forget the sting of disappointment when he realized just how worthless he was to most of them. He never wanted to forget the smell of the charred corpse of his beloved bike. No one who really considered themselves your family would murder your best friend.
He didn't need a "family" like the Rejects.
He was perfectly happy with still being a danger to polite society, a disappointment to whoever was upstairs, and a fucking good time to whoever was down to roll with him on his own. Perfectly happy with being a menace. With being himself. And with the new gang he was forming.
But Max...
Where did the hot, rich, mafia prince fit into that? They were such a wreck together. Their worlds mixed as well as oil and water... Or, rather, like liquor and a flame.
Brief, and really heated.
But unlike everyone else Oscar had ever known, besides his Nan, Max wanted to be in his life. Max found him. Hunted him down...and Oscar loved the chase.
He glanced over his shoulder at the mafia prince. Max was sitting on the hood of his car, ankles crossed, casually smoking a cigarette as the flames from the blaze Oscar had started in the Reject's club house grew—reflecting streaks of color against Max's bronze skin.
Max noticed Oz was staring, and he smirked, blowing out a stream of smoke. "You look cute as an arsonist."
Oscar grinned and flipped him the bird. But flirting aside, the Rejects would be here soon. And Vick had better be among them. Oscar had other things he wanted to do tonight besides this...
It wasn't long before the unmistakable growl of chopper engines coming down the road caught Oscar's attention.
"Show time," he said as he hit shuffle on his playlist and drew his gun.
For a moment, everything felt like it got quieter just before the iconic, rhythmic guitar intro of Blue Oyster Cult's classic started blaring, competing with the semi-automatic gunfire as Oscar and Max started mowing down the incoming biker gang.
"All our times have come... Here, but now they're gone..."
There wasn't going to be any talking. No threats. No cool one-liners. Just a shootout, with only one outcome, that would be vaguely recounted on the morning news before the weather and the morning commute. The kind that "normal" people would listen to, 'hmpf' at, and probably make some comment about 'the problem solving itself', but that was fine with Oscar. Because whatever happened next, at least he didn't have any regrets.
