I sat on the porch and clutched the envelope in my hand. Writing the letter provided me with tremendous satisfaction, and I hoped mailing it would provide even more. Either way, it was a step I felt needed to be taken, and taking it wasn’t necessarily easy.

Knowing the man who killed Blake’s parents and my father was still alive, and in a few short days would be holding the very paper which I wrote my feelings upon was creepy and satisfying at the same time. As I tapped the edge of the envelope on my knee and waited, I grinned at the thought of the simple but effective words I had written. 

Mr. Mastick,

You took my mother’s husband, my father, and my boyfriend’s parents, but I refuse to allow you to take even a shred of me.

In fact, I’m giving you something.

I read you were a germaphobe and were even allowed to wear gloves in the courtroom. Well, after a reasonable amount of research and a few telephone calls to the department of corrections, I have confirmed you are now imprisoned and without gloves.

So, I find tremendous comfort in providing you with this information: I pissed all over this paper.

Fuck off and die.

Riley Campbell, a true survivor

As soon as I recognized the sound of Blake’s motorcycle coming up the block I stood, grabbed my helmet, and ran to the street. Riding on the motorcycle was now one of my favorite things to do. Stevie was right, it was a feeling of freedom I couldn’t find doing anything else.

It made perfect sense why so many veterans of war, police officers, and former prisoners rode motorcycles. The ride provided a sense of freedom nothing else could provide. The feeling of being on the bike and flying down the road cleared my mind, and I was sure it cleared the minds of many others like me.

I shoved the letter in my pocket, pulled the helmet onto my head, pulled the strap tight, and climbed onto the seat as soon as he came to a stop at the curb.

“Ready,” I said as I tapped him on the side.

Without speaking, he released the clutch and slowly picked up speed. As we rode through the neighborhood, I leaned to the side and gazed out at the road ahead of us.

“Beautiful day,” I shouted.

“Gorgeous,” he said.

I leaned back in the seat and pressed myself against the backrest. There was really no need for me to hold onto him as he rode, the support behind me provided plenty of stability, but I did it because I liked to. Touching him allowed me to continuously believe that he, and all of what we shared together, was real.

We turned into the parking lot across from the grocery store and parked beside the big blue mailbox. I got off the bike, unstrapped my helmet, and pulled the letter from my pocket.

“I’ve got a stamp if you need one,” I said.

“Got it covered,” he said as he stepped off the bike.

I pulled the door to the big steel box open and dropped my letter in the tray. He stepped beside me, dropped his letter on top, and turned to face me.

“Well,” he said.

“Any departing words or anything before I close it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I pissed on it,” I said.

“Pissed on what?”

“Pissed on my letter. He’s a germaphobe. So, I pissed on it and told him so in the letter. It’s the least I could do,” I said, still standing there holding the door open.

He reached for the opening, pulled out his letter, and tossed it onto the asphalt beside his motorcycle.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He glanced over each shoulder, unzipped his pants, and started whistling.

“Does that really work?” I asked.

After a few seconds, a stream of urine splashed against the envelope. As the puddle got so large it began to run toward the sidewalk, he stopped, shook his cock dry, and zipped up his pants.

“Hold on a minute,” he said as he opened the saddlebag on the side of the motorcycle.

After removing a pair of pliers from the toolkit, he picked up the letter and grinned.

“Look out,” he said as he dropped it into the mailbox tray.

I nodded my head smiled until it hurt. “Good idea, huh?”

“Great,” he said. “Close that thing and lets go get some ice cream.”

Mailing pissed covered letters to murderers and getting ice cream with a tattooed biker who had developed a kink for spanking my ass while fucking me.

Sundays had always been the most boring day of the week for me.

And then I met Blake West.