Page 163 of Double Bucked

But that’s the good thing about roping. I don’t need my sight.

Feel it. Be the horse. Be the rope.

I spin the lasso. Once. Twice. Now. I toss it out, and it sings through the air…

And loops around Arris.

Bingo.

I wrap the end around my knuckles and yank. Arris goes flying back, right off the back of his bike. The force of it vibrates through my arm, nearly whipping me off Chaucer. I tighten my thighs and my grip. Pain lights up my arm, but I don’t release.

Unmanned, the dirt bike spins out. It whines and screeches as it nails a tree, rolling downhill.

Chaucer whinnies and jerks against the new weight.

“We got him,” I tell him. “Slow now.”

Chaucer trusts me. He lessens his pace, moving away from the screaming bike.

Arris drags behind us. He’s still alive. Shouting. Cursing me out. Mad as an alley cat. Wiggling like a fish on a hook. The rope is around my arm and cinched off at my middle, and I feel it constrict. I let him drag a little further until we find a clearing with a stretch of moonlight.

Chaucer’s panting when we stop. I pat his side. I feel the heat of him. The sweat dampening his shoulder blades. “You still got it, old man.”

He huffs, which I translate to I know.

I hop off. The leaves rustle below as I hit the ground. I unwind from the rope and reel the body of Arris Dagney in.

Arris has piped down finally. He’s breathing heavily on the ground. There’s dirt across his face, scratches, but all in all, he doesn’t look too banged up.

“Go ahead,” he says. His voice is hard, though some of the fire has left it. “Kill me. I’m not afraid of death.”

“Good for you,” I tell him. “But that ain’t my style.”

I flip him onto his stomach. He tries to wiggle, but my knees trap the backs of his legs. I rope up his arms and legs, hog-tying him firmly in place.

There. He ain’t going anywhere now.

“Must suck,” I tell him, “getting one-upped by a Sooter and a retired racehorse.”

Arris groans, which is good enough for me.

A loud whistle makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

That ain’t no bird?—

I hear the crunch of boots on autumn leaves. When I turn, I see two men step into a clearing. I don’t recognize either of them. The whistler is tall, with a leather jacket and black hair. The other has the shoulders of a linebacker and dark, intense eyes.

The tall one motions to the hog-tied form of Arris. “Aw. You shouldn’t have. You wrap him all up in a pretty bow for us and everything.”

I bristle. “Who the hell’re you?”

The tall one lifts his shirt. It takes my eyes a second to see it in the moonlight. At his hip, I recognize that same wolf tattoo that Everett has on his arm. “Friend of your friend,” he says with a wink. “We got your lady’s bat signal. Smart girl.”

Friends. Good guys. Relief rushes through me like a waterfall.

“You’ve got no idea,” I tell him.

They crouch down next to Arris. The tall one clicks his tongue. “Sergey. Tsk, tsk. Couldn’t stay quiet, could you?”

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