Page 17 of My Wild Biker

Chuck grabs the back of his head and drives his knee up into the kid's face. More blood. The sound of impact makes my stomach turn. The kid crumples sideways and doesn't move.

Chuck stands over him breathing steady, not even winded. His hands are bloody. He looks down at the unconscious body like he's assessing whether more is needed.

Then he crouches and does something I can't see from here. When he stands he's holding the kid's phone and wallet. He tosses both into a trash can near the building.

He turns and sees me standing by The Anchor's door.

His expression goes blank.

He walks toward me and I should probably step back, should probably be afraid, should probably do anything except stand there staring at the blood on his knuckles and thinking about how fast he moved, how controlled, how there was no rage or loss of control, just necessary violence executed with precision.

But I don't move.

He stops in front of me. Blood on his hands, blood on his forearms, breathing steady. "I told you to stay inside."

"I know."

"So why didn't you?"

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Because I needed to see. I needed to understand what this means."

He looks at me for a long moment, searching for something in my expression. Fear, maybe. Judgment. Whatever he's looking for, I don't think he finds it. "And? You understand now?"

"Is he dead?"

"No. He'll wake up hurting but he'll wake up."

Walt appears at my elbow with a phone to his ear. "Tate's handling cleanup. You two get out of here."

Chuck nods once. Then his hand is on my lower back, warm and solid, guiding me toward his motorcycle. We pass the kid's bike and Chuck crouches, does something to the engine I can't see. When he stands he's holding a wire.

"So he can't follow when he wakes up," he says.

We reach his bike and he swings on. The leather seat creaks under his weight. "Get on."

I climb on behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, feel his body solid and warm against my chest. The engine rumbles to life under us, vibrating up through my thighs, and we pull out of the parking lot.

He doesn't head toward my rental. Takes Route 9 out of town instead, riding fast, leaning into curves that make my stomach drop. I hold on tight and press my face against his back and try to process what I just watched. The crack of bone. The blood. The way Chuck moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently.

My heart is pounding and my hands are shaking where they grip his shirt.

Ten minutes later he pulls into a driveway at a small house on the outskirts of town. Kills the engine and we sit there in sudden silence. Just cicadas and my pulse in my ears and the ticking of the cooling engine.

"This your place?" I ask. My voice sounds strange.

"Yeah."

"Why'd you bring me here instead of my rental?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Because I need to clean up and I didn't want you alone yet."

I climb off the bike and my legs shake. Adrenaline crash, probably. He steadies me with a hand on my elbow, and I feel it rough against my skin.

Inside the house is sparse. Couch, coffee table, nothing on the walls. The kitchen is visible through a doorway, just counters and appliances, no signs of cooking or living. Everything temporary, like he could pack and leave in an hour.

He leads me to a bathroom barely bigger than a closet and turns on the light. Fluorescent buzz, harsh brightness. His knuckles are split and bleeding. There's blood on his forearms too, spattered across his skin, and I know it's not all his.

He runs water in the sink and starts washing his hands. The water runs pink, then red, then pink again as blood swirls down the drain. He's methodical about it, scrubbing attentively, checking each knuckle for debris.