Page 54 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

When did he become a gossip? How many other people had he talked to about my personal life?

I stalked toward my bike, yanked my helmet off the seat, and shoved it over my head. My vision tunneled as I straddled the machine and fired it up. The roar of the engine did nothing to drown out the storm in my head.

My marriage was my business. The last person I wanted to talk to about my late wife was the one woman who had been in the middle of that marriage whether she knew it or not. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt guilty about marrying Leah.

Fuck if I knew why.

I twisted the throttle harder than I needed to, peeling out of her driveway in a cloud of burnt rubber. The road stretched out in front of me like an escape route. I gunned it, feeling the rush of speed as the wind whipped against my face.

The problem with being angry on a motorcycle was that you stopped caring about things like caution. Every twist of the throttle felt like an outlet, a way to outrun everything clawing at the back of my mind. Merritt’s questions. Riggs’s betrayal. The memory of Leah, her face blurring with Merritt’s in my mind.

I pushed the bike harder, each mile a desperate attempt to leave behind the chaos of emotions that threatened to overtake me. The faster I went, the more I could pretend that the wind was wiping the slate clean, erasing the mistakes and missteps of my past.

But escaping wasn’t as simple as outrunning memories on a motorcycle. Every rush of adrenaline was matched by a sting of regret. I knew I had to face Merritt eventually, but the thought made my stomach churn. How could I look her in the eye and see that same pity I saw earlier? That was the last fucking thing I wanted.

I didn’t deserve to be pitied. I was the asshole. I was the one that couldn’t be enough for my wife because I was hung up on a woman that had forgotten I existed.

I glanced down at the speedometer. Ninety. I was vaguely aware of the danger in my recklessness. But the tornado of guilt and anger spinning inside me couldn’t be subdued by precaution. I was spiraling, dangerously close to the edge, but unable to stop myself. It had always been like this—motion was my therapy, speed my drug of choice when the world got too heavy.

The corner came up faster than I anticipated. I leaned into the turn, too fast, too sharp. A car was coming at me, their headlights blinding me. Swinging wide to avoid the gravel wasn’t an option. My bike hugged the white line, riding the shoulder and hitting the rumble strips. I fought to keep it steady. I was almost around the corner when the tires slipped.

The world tilted and I went down hard.

The sound of metal hitting pavement screamed in my ears as I skidded across the asphalt, the bike dragging behind me. The heat of friction burned through my jeans and jacket, and the ground tore at my gloves.

When I finally stopped sliding, I lay still, staring up at the dark sky littered with stars. The world spun, and my ears rang, but I was alive. That realization hit me as I sat up slowly, wincing at the searing pain radiating from my arms and legs. My jeans were shredded, my gloves in tatters, and my jacket—well, it was more holes than leather now. My skin stung where the road had kissed it, angry and raw. I was in the ditch, which had ultimately broken the slide and given me a soft landing.

I pulled off my helmet and managed to get a look at it. It held up but it was scratched to hell. It wasn’t going to do much good in another accident. “Damn.” I realized just how lucky I was. I didn’t always wear my helmet. Tonight was a lesson in why I should.

I turned to look at the bike. It was lying on its side, the tank scratched to hell and the exhaust dented. When I hauled myself to my feet and limped over to it, I was relieved to see the engine looked intact.

I pushed the bike upright, gritting my teeth against the pain in my arm. “Come on,” I muttered. “You’re fine.”

I managed to swing my leg over and sit in the seat. I gave it a little test bounce and flexed my hands a couple of times. If the bike cooperated, I was going to be able to ride. Stiff but I would manage to get it done.

With a silent prayer on my lips, I gave it a go. The damn thing still started, roaring to life like a battle cry. That was nothing short of a miracle. Hell, the last several minutes were a series of miracles. I revved the engine a couple of times, ignoring the pain in my hand and focusing on the sound. I listened for any misses or pops that would indicate there was some damage. The adrenaline masked just how bad off I probably was.

There was only one place to go. Riggs’s bar. I needed answers—or maybe just someone to fight. I eased the bike onto the road and took it a little slower on the way back into town. As I rode, the adrenaline ebbed and every injury I sustained began to make itself known.

My ribs ached with each breath, my hand throbbed in time with the pulsing in my head, and my skin felt like it was laced with hot wires. The chill of the night air did little to soothe the burns and scrapes, but it sharpened my focus, clearing some of the fog from my head.

As the lights of the town approached, the familiar neon glow of the bar flickered in the distance. I pulled up outside and cut the engine. I sat there for a few minutes. As I looked up at the building, the rage bubbled back to the surface. My leg throbbed, and my hands felt like they were on fire, but it didn’t matter.

I saw the cherry of a cigarette glowing in the back and knew Riggs was taking a smoke break, which worked great for me. I stormed toward the back entrance, my boots crunching on the gravel.

Riggs was outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up when he heard me coming, his expression morphing from casual indifference to surprise, then irritation.

“Christ, Kannon. You look like hell.”

“What the fuck did you tell her?” I barked, ignoring his comment about my appearance. I stopped a few feet from him, my hands balling into fists at my sides.

Riggs sighed, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. “Barely anything,” he said, holding up his hands like he was innocent. “She came around asking questions, and I gave her the basics. Two years married. Three years since the accident. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “You thought it was your job to tell her about my wife? About Leah?”

“She was spiraling, man,” Riggs said, straightening up. “She wanted to understand you. I figured someone needed to throw the girl a bone so the two of you could finally get it over with.”

“Get what over with?” I snapped.