Page 126 of Breaker

I watch as Zane descends the ramp, staggering as the light waves from the inlet shift the dock up and down under his feet. He stumbles a little, catching himself on a light pole on his way to his car. He drops his keys at one point, nearly falling over as he bends to pick them up.

Fuck. The idiot is drunk.

Is it wrong of me to let him drive? The question sits in my thoughts as the sharp beep of his car unlocking breaks the quiet and he tugs the driver door open.

I debate leaving my bike and just driving the fool home, but that would be a bad idea. I’d have to get back here to retrieve it, which would present more problems and more questions.

The car alarm cuts through the quiet parking lot, then abruptly stops. Still wobbly, he climbs into his little sports car and slams the door with such force the sound echoes through the lot.

Now that he’s securely inside his car, Zane fiddles with his phone long enough that I start to question if he forgot what he was doing. Right before I lose patience, the engine turns over. He puts the car in reverse and shoots from the parking lot, tires squealing in his wake.

Releasing the throttle, I take off a minute later, I following at a safe distance. Not that I have to worry too much. Zane’s driving intoxicated and has no security team to keep an eye on him. All his focus is on the road right now, at least I hope. Dread builds in my gut that I shouldn’t have let him drive, so I inch closer to the shiny red car. But I’m not worried.

It’s never going to cross his mind he’s being followed.

We weave through traffic, stopping at red lights, and head further west, away from the city. Zane bought a massive estate in a new subdivision a few years ago. While I can appreciate the beauty and luxury, that’s not the reason I’m taking note of the distance between the homes, the high concrete and stucco walls separating one property from another, the low lighting, or how each home is surrounded by lush plants and large trees, all for privacy.

It works well for what I have planned.

When he turns onto his street, I fall back some, turning my lights off. The low rumbling of the engine seems too loud as I creep along the street behind him, but he’s not even slowing down. He pauses long enough to let the metal gates in front of his house open, then drives though slowly. When the gates are almost closed, I lean forward, rolling the throttle and drive through just as the gate slaps closed.

His car comes to an abrupt stop. The door opens.

Idiot.Who the fuck gets out of their car when a stranger drives up?

“Get the fuck off my property,” he shouts.

Even though it’s dark, the only light from the round globes atop the gate posts, I can see the fear spread across his face when he sees who I am. Part of me wonders if he realizes exactlywhoI am now. I’m not just the biker who humiliated him outside the office.

I’m one ofthem.

“My security team is going to fucking—“ His words cut off as I release the kickstand and climb off my bike.

His phone clatters to the ground. Zane scrambles to get back in his shitty little sports car, but I grab him by the back of the neck just as he tries to dip inside. Panic makes his body go stiff.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Then he’s all movement, legs flailing, arms twisting, hands fisting to punch. One lands on my helmet with a loud thud. He attempts to kick back, trying to connect with my knee, but I know it’s coming so I dodge it and swipe his feet from under him with my boot. He goes down hard. I help him, still gripping his neck to make sure he lands flat on his stomach, face to the rough concrete.

“You motherfucker!” he screams, palms flat to the ground, trying to push up. His angry growl gets cut short as I grip the back of his head by his hair and smash his face down to the driveway. The crack of his nose hitting sends a jolt of electricity through my veins, almost orgasmic with its intensity.

So, I do it again.

His gravelly screams come to an abrupt stop. Dark blood splatters the concrete and my boots, the low lights making it gleam like glittery paint. Satisfaction at seeing the dark spray across the ground curls in my gut.

Standing upright, I release him, but he’s too stunned to move, curling into himself as he cups his face.

“You broke my fucking nose.” A gurgled groan comes out in a gasp. He spits out blood. “You broke mynose.”

A broken nose is about to be the least of his problems.

I grab the phone he dropped, shoving it into the pocket of my jacket. Fisting his hair in one gloved hand, I pull him to his feet, my blood starting to run smoothly, like heated oil in an engine as I half drag him toward his house.

Bet he’s regretting not replacing his security team.

Trying to function, much less see with a broken nose, is tough when you’re dealing with it for the first time. On top of it he’s drunk which makes him slow to react. Not that I care. But it’s why he’s not fighting me much, his loafers scraping on the concrete drive trying to keep his footing with my long strides as I drag him to his front door.

His loafers catch on the first step. Irritation scrapes across my skin. I tug him harder, jerking his head back to set him right. Zane releases a weak groan, his hands flying up to scratch at my thick gloves. I tighten my grip and shake him until he stops, then shove him up the steps.

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