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That must have been how I missed the footsteps until they were right behind me.
I’d never been a woman who screamed.
Not at horror movies or when someone snuck up on me. Or when I found a horrifically large spider in the shower with me.
Everything in me rebelled at the idea of screaming for help.
But we weren’t that far from the road.
If someone was walking down the highway, or driving with their windows down, they might hear, might call the police. Or maybe even come to help me themselves.
I swallowed back my desire not to, and screamed my fucking lungs out.
Just a second before hands shoved hard into my back, sending me flying forward so hard and fast that I barely had time to throw out my arms to catch myself as I fell.
I landed hard, pain ricocheting up my knees and thighs as the underbrush and God knew what bit into my palms, making them burn.
A laugh, cold and chilling, filled the air, amused at my pain, at my helplessness.
I moved to scramble up, but he was too fast, too motivated by his own sick desires as he grabbed my shoulder, shoving me until I landed on my back hard enough to knock the wind out of me, making it impossible to scream as my heart pounded harder still.
In the distance, I heard a distinct pop pop pop.
I’d grown up in a rough area.
I knew gunshots when I heard them.
Who had a gun?
The biker?
The other guys?
Panic wrapped its hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply even as my attacker came down over me, his knees pinning my thighs to the ground, the deep pain oddly dull as my survival instinct started to kick in.
My arms were free.
And I struck out with everything in me, hitting, slapping, scraping.
The man let out a howl of pain as my nails raked down his face.
Some part of me knew from my never-ending obsession with shows like Forensic Files that DNA evidence under nails was a good way to find your attacker. I was going to get as much evidence as I could.
Because this fucker wasn’t going to get away with this.
“I like a little fight in my bitches,” he said, sounding pleased with the pain.
Right before he started to inflict his own.
It was a blur there for a few moments.
Fists on my skin, pain making my brain sluggish.
It wasn’t until I felt his hands grabbing at the front of my tee that I seemed to be able to think past it.
Because no.
No, damnit.
This could not be happening.
This would not happen.
Before I could unfreeze my limbs, though, I felt his hands on my bra, yanking it to the side, exposing me.
It was then that I started to scream.
Louder.
The sound rattled into my bones, made my own ears hurt, made my throat burn.
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” he demanded, pressing a hand over my mouth.
That wasn’t enough, though.
I wiggled and bit and freed my mouth enough to start screaming again.
I couldn’t tell you what he used.
A rock on the ground.
A gun he had on him.
Something else.
All I knew was that he silenced me then.
And all there was in the world was darkness.
“You’re gonna be alright,” a voice murmured as fingers pulled my eye open, then pressed to my throat.
Checking vitals?
My brain trudged slowly toward consciousness.
“The cops are on their way,” he added.
Cops?
Why were the cops coming?
But then, through the pain screaming through my head and the darkness, I heard something.
The rumble of motorcycles.
Many of them.
I came awake with a jolt then.
Motorcycles.
Bikers.
The club.
The ride home.
The attack.
My hands shot down toward my body, finding my boobs covered.
“You’re alright. Hey, you’re okay,” the voice said, too tense to be truly soothing, but clearly trying to calm me down as panic welled.
It wasn’t until my fingers found my fastened belt that I felt some of the fear slipping away.
Not naked.
Likely not assaulted while unconscious then.
“You’re okay. They’re gone,” the biker assured me. “No, don’t,” he demanded, holding me still as I tried to shoot upright.
“Why?” I asked, my voice sounding and my throat feeling like I’d been gargling glass.
“You have a head wound,” he told me. “I think you should stay still until the ambulance gets here.”
“You’re hurt,” I said, looking up at his battered face, so bloody and swollen that he barely even looked like the hot guy who’d agreed to drive me home less than half an hour before.
“I’m fine,” he said as the rumble of bikes growled louder before silencing completely.
“Finn!” a voice, deep but rough, panic-filled, called as footsteps pounded in our direction.
I felt myself tensing.
“It’s okay. It’s my brother,” he assured me, giving me a unconscious reassuring squeeze.
“Finn, the fuck?” the guy asked as he dropped down beside the biker.
Finn.
That was a very… normal name for a biker, wasn’t it? Weren’t they supposed to be called Gator and Tank and other weird shit like that?
