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“West—”
“I said now,” he roars, the still-idling engine at my back adding to his menace. “Gimme one less thing to worry about, Maddie.”
She levels him with a glare that could peel paint, clearly not intimidated by this man, and then softens her features before blowing me a kiss. With one flick of her ankle her bike roars forward. I watch her slip onto the road, panic rising as I grip the seat at my side for stability.
“On,” is all Digger barks, firm finger now directed at me.
I throw one leg over and then scooch my ass back as far as I can, terrified one wrong tilt of my hips will tip the vibrating machine over. My heart hammers in my chest, each pull of my lungs shallow and barely enough to sustain, given the restriction of the helmet. I fumble around and find the lip of the visor, shunting it open to get more air.
“You sure you want to start this?” Connor shifts his weight between his feet. “You sure yourclubwants to start this?”
“Yeah,” Digger hollers. “I am. Because italreadystarted.”
“Your fucking funeral.” I register the glint of Connor’s favorite toys strapped to his ribs as he throws his arms wide: his knives.
A perverse part of me wonders whether he still uses the one that I slashed across his leg or if he’s replaced the memory of me. Knowing the sick fuck, he probably licks the damn thing while jerking off every night.
To my horror, he lifts his right hand and goes for the longest of the blades tucked against his left ribcage. Yet Digger is one step ahead, helmet swinging in an arc through the air. He collects Connor—side of the head—rattling him enough to send him staggering backward. A second straight uppercut with the thing knocks the fucker clean out.
I can’t look away as the sack of shit crumbles to the ground, barely registering Maddie’s uncle as he leans down to check Connor still breathes and then straddles the bike in front of me. Digger leans the machine far enough to the right for him to kick the stand in, the spell broken when two strong hands find my thighs, hooking me behind the knee and jerking me forward until I crash into Maddie’s uncle’s back.
He doesn’t say a thing. Simply taps the bike into gear and takes off, leaving my troubles in a messy heap on the ground behind us.
If I wasn’t dead before, I sure as fuck are now.
2
TYKE
“Ever been to Cabo before?”
I close my eyes, fingers poised around a dram of my favorite whiskey. “What the fuck you on about now, Turnip?”
My Road Captain splits his weathered lips in a wide grin. “Parents took me there when I was a kid. Prettiest waters you ever saw, but the landscape was boring as hell. All brown and dusty.”
“You got a point to this?” I lift an eyebrow and study the drink swirling in my glass before tossing it back.
“Just thought if we find ourselves in the shit, that might be a nice place to relocate to.”
“Cabo?” I signal Dolly behind the bar for a refill.
“Yeah.”
“Where the landscape is dusty and boring.” I swivel on my stool to face the moron.
He shrugs, a shit-eating grin still on his dial. “You got another suggestion?”
“I do.” I throw my elbows behind me, propping them on the counter. “But none that involve you fuckers.”
Retirement. A fool’s dream. The ultimate goal.
And a place that I dream of frequently. Quiet days in a cabin on the fringes of the woods, only the changing seasons for company. I fantasize about the smell of roasting meat—a fresh kill from the forest—drifting out to me as I sit on the porch, mud on my boots, and peace in my heart.
The chances I’ll ever experience that are slim, which is why I stick to the dream. My personal indulgence every night before I rest my head.
There ain’t many of these fuckers who’d understand what it is to dream. Too many of the men around me ended up here through sheer desperation; their vision narrowed after one too many turns on the wrong side of life’s coin. They needed someone to lift them up, to guide them when they could see no more road ahead. And that’s what I did.
What I do.
