Page 12 of Walking Red Flag

He only sped up.

He was going so fast that I was hyperventilating now.

He left the lake area and shot off onto I30, making my heart feel like it was going to burst inside of my chest.

We were on one of the busiest roads in Dallas now, weaving in and out of traffic, and I was so scared that I was seconds away from throwing up.

My hair was flying straight back from my face, and I swear to God, my skin was being flayed off with each whip of my long strands.

A group of motorcycles up ahead caught my attention.

They were going fast.

But nowhere near as fast as Asher and I were.

But, as if there were divine miracles after all, upon seeing those bikers, Asher slowed down to fall into formation right beside them, as if that’d been his destination all along.

He made some weird hand gestures or something, and I looked over at the man on the bike that was a little behind the one that Asher was hand gesturing at.

The man’s head turned to me, and I knew that he saw the terror in my eyes.

His gaze narrowed on mine.

I held out my hand, my fingers aching from holding on to my wrist so hard, and mouthed, “Please.”

In one swift movement, the man moved over, crowding Asher.

Asher slowed even more and turned his head toward the biker that was now almost kissing handlebars with his.

His arm came out, and as if he’d practiced it a thousand times, he pulled me off of Asher’s bike and onto his.

It was the smoothest movement I’d ever felt.

One second I was on Asher’s, and the next I was bear hugging a stranger and burying my face into the leather jacket covering his back.

I closed my eyes and held on for dear life, so freakin’ relieved that I couldn’t breathe.

I wasn’t aware that we’d even stopped until the rumble pulled me from my thoughts.

Safe.

I was finally safe.

The smell of cedar, pine and something else invaded my senses, and for the first time since this ride had started, I felt like I could breathe again.

Don’t nobody get on my nerves like everybody.

—Cutter’s secret thoughts

CUTTER

The sound of bikes pulling up outside my place had me grabbing my helmet, my cut, and slipping out the door.

I jerked my chin up toward the four bikers waiting for me and stopped at the side of my bike, shrugging into the Truth Tellers MC cut before sliding the helmet over my head.

There were quite a few people that didn’t wear helmets, but the Truth Tellers weren’t one of them. We were all former military.

Every last one of us knew the significance of protecting your noggin.

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