Page 19 of Beautifully Wounded

“Get her bag and put her in the truck,” Ringo orders JD, who just manhandled me out of the van.

“She riding with me and Stocky?” JD asks as he rounds the back of the van and takes my bag out.

“Nah, man. I’ll ride with her and Stocky. You take my hog back to the Western. Stay with Jols.”

Hog? Western?

I have no idea what Ringo is talking about, but JD beams as he moves back to us with my bag.

“You really gonna leave me in control of your ride?”

“Yes,” Ringo hisses, stepping forward and pointing a stern finger in JD’s face. “Don’t put a fucking scratch on it or I’ll feed your balls to Molly.”

JD rears back. “Bit fucking harsh.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? That’s going easy on you. Fucking look after it,” Ringo barks before gripping my upper arm and passing me to JD.

“You’re such a fucking Grinch,” JD whines, leading me away from the van, towards the truck.

“Who’s Molly?” I ask JD, as we move away from Ringo’s earshot.

“Molly’s the fucking queen. You’ll meet her soon enough.”

I’m so confused. Hog. Queen. Molly. Western. Are they all peopleor…?

I consider asking JD, but then we are at the small truck and he’s unlocking it, helping me up into the cabin and directing me to sit in the middle and as I do what he asked, clipping my seatbelt in place, JD’s attention remains on whatever is going on behind the truck.

From up here in the cab, I see four motorcycles parked in front of the truck, just under some bushes partially hidden away.

Damn. Was my assumption correct? Are these guys bikers? Do we even have them here in Australia?

A bright light snags my attention to the driver’s side mirror to see a ball of flames behind us, a gasp flying from my lips as I stiffen in panic. My gaze darts to JD, half expecting him to be readying himself to go and save someone, but when I realise he’s too calm, leaning against the open door watching the fire engulf the van, I start to relax.

They are burning the van.

Shit. How many times have they done this? Everything they’ve done tonight seems to come so naturally to them that I have to assume they do this a lot.

After a minute, the others move to the motorcycles, and JD talks quietly with Ringo outside the truck before he, too, moves to the last motorcycle.

I jump in my seat when the driver’s side door swings open abruptly, and one of the bearded men climb in, shooting me a wink.

“I’m Stocky.”

His voice is deep, just like Ringo’s, and they look a similar age. I have no idea what age that is, though. Old. Not my parents old, but still old all the same.

I don’t say anything to him, wrapping my arms around my waist as the night air finally cools, sending prickles of goosebumps to scatter across my skin.

“Put this on.”

Ringo’s demand draws my attention to where he’s climbing up into the truck on my other side. He’s holding out a black hoodie, and when I just stare at it, he gives it a shake.

“Put it on, Charity.”

I roll my eyes, but snatch it off him, unclipping my seatbelt to slip the hoodie on, before clipping myself back in.

Suddenly, I’m engulfed in Ringo’s scent. I’ve smelt it numerous times since he entered my bedroom earlier tonight, but this time, it’s wrapped around me, and I’m honestly disturbed by how relaxed it makes me.

A yawn escapes my lips as the truck starts up, and Ringo’s eyes meet mine as he fastens his own seatbelt.

---