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The bike careens into the wall in an explosion of fire yet Smoke doesn’t so much as flinch as he’s backlit in flames.
Griff’s two men stare, slack-jawed, for a beat too long when the realization hits. They both raise their guns at Smoke. I want to scream I want to jump in front of the bullets, but sharp pain meets my every move, rendering me useless.
Smoke’s fingers flex at his side. His nostrils flare. He stares down the men holding their guns on him like he has all the time in the world. The men fire, but Smoke continues to advance on them, side-stepping the bullets.
“Shit,” the shorter of the two men curses while reloading his gun with trembling hands. The other does the same, but it’s too late for them. Much too fucking late.
Smoke crisscrosses his arms over his torso, reaching under his cut, each hand emerges holding a large metal gun boasting long wide barrels. He’s eerily calm as he stretches out his arms in front of him and fires a single bullet from each gun into their heads. Just as they fall lifeless to the ground, more men appear on opposite sides of the room. Smoke lifts his arms out to his sides and fires. When a bullet misses his head by only a few inches, he turns his gun behind him and fires, hitting the man without so much as a glance in his direction.
This isn’t Smoke the kidnapper or Smoke the killer or even Smoke the lover. No, this is Smoke, the man. The rescuer. This was Smoke with someone and something to live for.
It was both terrifying and thrilling all at once.
Despite what has transpired between us, this beautifully brutal man came here and put his life on the line to save me.
A bullet pierces Smoke’s shoulder. Streams of bright red drip down his arm to his wrist, seeping into my shirt as he bends to gather me into his arms. He places a heavy gun between my bound hands
“Can you shoot?” he asks.
I nod even though the gun feels heavy. So does my own head. I can barely lift it.
“Listen to me, and pull the trigger when I say so.” He sets up the gun so it’s mostly resting on his arm, and it’s no longer heavy in my grip. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I say on a feeble whisper.
Smoke lifts me into his strong arms, his blood both wets and warms my skin.
There’s movement to the side. A shuffling of feet.
“Fire,” Smoke orders, turning us around.
I do as I’m told and fire along with Smoke. I hear a deep grunt followed by a crash as his body hit something on its way down to the ground.
Smoke’s on the move, heading back out from the hole he created with his bike.
“Fire,” he says again, and I do as I’m told.
“Good girl,” he says, and I smile, or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell with all the spinning going on above me. I lock eyes on his jaw, the slope of his nose, the scar above his eye. I think of how beautiful this man is. How angry and horrible and violent and beautiful.
I’m tired. Oh so very tired. My wrist goes limp. The gun falls from my hand. I focus on Smoke. On the lines of his face and neck. I look out to the field around us. Construction matter, bodies.
Blood.
I am having the nightmare again. The one where I’m in Smoke’s arms being carried across a bloody battlefield. Only this time it’s not a nightmare. There’s no fear, only comfort. I now know that the feeling of safety that envelops me in the dream as he wraps me in his arms isn’t wrong.
He’s protecting me. Loving me in his own way. So, I let him love me. Protect me. And I close my eyes, letting the darkness take me under. I’m lost to the dream. I’m safe.
I just need to rest now. Just for a moment. The feeling is overpowering. I give in, closing my eyes, because I have to. I have no other choice. I’m just so tired.
Oh, so very tired.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“No!” I scream as Frankie’s eyes flutter then close. She’s covered with blood oozing from her stomach. I give her a shake while the dirt continues to explode all around me. I’m running up the hill. King, Preppy, and Bear follow me, covering me, shooting anyone who comes near.
Nine is waiting with the van when we get to the top.
“I thought you said you planted three bombs?” Preppy asks.
“I did,” Rage says.
“I only heard two,” Preppy crosses his arms over his chest.
Rage flashes him a wink and another explosion sounds, taking the last bit of the building with it to the ground. “As I was saying,” Rage smiles victoriously. “Three bombs.”
“You two conspire to take out an entire criminal organization by yourselves and fail to include me?” Preppy asks, feigning hurt, with his jaw open and his hand on his chest.
“Next time we need a court jester for a job, I’ll let you know,” Rage says, tucking her earbuds into her pocket.
“Listen here, Rambo Barbie,” Preppy says, taking a step toward her as we reach the van.
“Children,” King warns.
Nine opens the door, and I place Frankie gently across the seat. She’s fading fast. Everyone heads further into the woods to retrieve their bikes, and Rage her Vespa. Preppy hops in with us, and Nine backs us out and speeds down the road.
“Why did you do this?” I ask Frankie as I haul her across my lap and look down at her beautiful face.
My chest is hurting. My throat burns every time she gasps for air. She winces with every rattling breath.
“You risked your life,” I tell her, and I want to yell at her, throttle her, punish her for putting herself in danger like that. But my need to punish her dies a quick death when her eyes close and her chest shakes. “Why?”
Frankie’s eyes open slightly. She stares up at me. “For you. For the flash drive,” she coughs out. Her head falls to the side. Her eyes close.
This time they stay closed.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“I’ll love you with everything I have and all that I am. It ain’t much, but it’s yours if you’ll let me give it to you. If you’ll wake up. Please fuckin’ wake up, baby. Wake the fuck up!” I beg Frankie as I carry her in the front door of the club.
I set her down on the pool table in the main office area. I’m gentle for the first time in my memory, careful not to bump her head. I feel like a meteor struck the earth, splitting it in two because my world has been split in two. With the sudden possibility that Frankie may no longer be in that world, it all might as well crumble to dust.
Rage is watching me. I can feel her eyes at my back.
“If you’re going to stand there staring, you might as well fucking help,” I bark.
Frankie let’s out a strangled breath, and for a moment, I think she’s waking up until the sound fades, and nothing is left in its place.
I’ve been shot before. I’ve been stabbed. But nothing, nothing I've ever experienced could compare to the pain of possibly watching the only woman I'd ever truly loved take her very last breath.
“Smoke, I'm not a damn paramedic, I can't put her back together,” she says, her calm voice grates on me like sandpaper across my knuckles.
“Neither can I,” I whisper.
Frankie was the one who had gathered up all the scattered pieces, all the jagged shards of me and painstakingly, piece by piece, put me back together.
My despair turns to anger as my throat closes.
I can't do the same for her.
“Why is that little shit taking so long!” I roar.
I look back to Rage, she's eyeing me cautiously. She's not frantic, but that's not her style. Never was. She twirls the end of her long blonde ponytail between her fingers.
