Page 17 of No Promises, No Lies

Instinctively, I wrench it back, but he’s already clipped the other side to his belt. The chain link catches and cinches tighter, and I cry out in shock—or pain; I’m not sure. I glare at him with fury and fear.

Aidan wastes no time starting the bike. The deafening roar of the exhaust rips through the now quiet alley; just the two of us left. A raw and thunderous sound vibrates through my body.

Our bodies are too close… he’s … too close. His scent is overwhelming. I want to rip it from my nostrils. Bracing my feet on the pegs, I shimmy further up the bike, putting some distance between us.

“You need to hold on to me,” he shouts over his shoulder. The bike shudders under us as he revs the engine, but we stay put.

I’m shaking my head, not wanting to touch him. I see him watching me from the side mirror. He’s shouting now, because he has to, in order to be heard over the motor of his bike. It’s a sleek, matte black racing bike, built for speed. “Trust me, love, falling off a bike at high speed is not the way you wanna go.”

When I still refuse to move, he revs the engine again. The bike jerks forward unexpectedly, and Aidan slams on the brakes. The sudden stop sends me flying forward, my breath catching in surprise. I slam into Aidan’s back, my fingers gripping for purchase, clinging tightly to his shirt to keep from falling off.

"Hold tight," he warns. His voice is laced with a smug smirk I don't even need to see to know is there, a second before he releases the clutch.

I’m embarrassed at how tightly I cling to him, burying my fingers in the fabric of his sweatshirt with a death grip. My thighs squeeze tight against his as we veer out into traffic. We’ve barely hit the road before a bullet whizzes past my right cheek.

We both steal a glance behind us, finding a black SUV hot on our tail. Two guys and two guns hang out the window, shouting obscenities.Russians.

They fire again, not yet realizing who’s on the back of the bike.

Aidan changes gears, weaving between cars like they’re standing still. He zips up the ramp onto the highway, the Bratva in hot pursuit. It’s rush hour, and the traffic is heavy in the city. It’s not long until they have us back within range.

Gunfire sounds behind us again and I scream, but Aidan’s evasive maneuvers leave us both unscathed.

Dodging bullets costs us speed, and the SUV is nearly upon us. I close my eyes, waiting for the burn of bullets riddling my back, or for the inevitable fiery crash if they get Aidan first, but it doesn’t come.

Hesitantly, I peek back to find the SUV falling back, in pursuit, but no longer shooting—someone must have noticed... I stiffen with the realization.

Aidan seizes the opportunity and speeds up, splitting lanes to give us some breathing room before cutting directly in front of a tractor trailer. The trucker lays on his horn, but it’s barely a second before Aidan swings right, cutting across another lane and another car before narrowly catching the exit ramp.

We race around the tight exit curve, but the Bratva loses us behind the truck, passing by the exit. We’re in the clear.

He zips through crowded downtown streets until he finds a back way out of the city, and we’re moving steadily along down a dark suburban road.

I let out a breath, not knowing whether to be relieved or terrified. At some point, I gripped near the bottom of Aidan’s sweatshirt, and now I am very aware of how my fingertips graze against the warm skin underneath.

Autumn is in full swing and the wind is ice against our bodies. With only my torn tights to keep me warm, I keep my hands where they are, siphoning off what little warmth I can.

Even though we’ve dodged the pursuing Bratva, Aidan hasn’t slowed down, and I don’t dare risk re-adjusting my grip. I turn my attention to planning what I should do when we stop.

If I can get away from him then, it might be the only chance I have.

11

NO SECONDARY LOCATION

RORY

We drive for a while, at least an hour—or two—leaving Boston far behind.

I’m doing my best to keep my teeth from chattering, but it’s involuntary at this point. I hate the way I curl my fingers under Aidan’s sweatshirt. At first, it was to keep from falling off the stupid bike, but now it’s to keep my fingers from falling off, period.

Neither of us has spoken since he forced me on the back of his bike. My nerves slide into hyper drive. Each passing minute brings us closer to what could be my final destination.Where’s the logging truck when you need it?

I’ve run through over a hundred varying scenarios in my head about what to do when we finally stop. We’ve entered quite a remote part of Massachusetts—if we’re even still in the same state. Maybe he is planning to bring me to some desolate section of woods and end it. It’s not like he can dispose of a body on his bike.

A morbid chuckle escapes me at the thought. Beneath my arms, I feel the muscles in his chest tense, having heard it.

He finally slows, turning into an industrial park full of rundown, abandoned mill buildings. No other cars or people in sight.Less than ideal.

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