Page 24 of Brick's Retribution

"Go!" I gasp, pushing her toward the bike. "I'm right behind you!"

She hesitates just long enough to see me regain my footing, then swings her leg over the bike.

I'm there a heartbeat later, ignoring the fire in my side as I kick start the engine.

More shots ring out as we roar away from the motel, bullets whizzing past.

I keep our movements unpredictable, weaving between buildings until we hit the open desert, the darkness swallowing us.

Behind us, engines roar to life.

The chase is on again.

I push the bike harder, faster, ignoring the warm wetness spreading across my side.

The wound isn't serious—I've had worse—but it's a reminder of what a close call that was.

"You're hit," Imani shouts over the wind, her arms tight around my waist.

"It's nothing," I call back. "Just a graze."

She doesn't argue, but I feel her shift slightly, one hand moving to press against my side, applying pressure to the wound even as she holds on.

The gesture is unexpected—practical, yes, but also caring in a way.

We race into the night, the stars our only witness as we push deeper into the wilderness between borders.

The lights of the men grow smaller in the distance, then disappear altogether as we navigate terrain their vehicles can't follow.

For now, we've escaped, but this is only the beginning.

As my adrenaline comes down, the pain in my side grows more insistent.

Imani's hand remains steady against the wound, her presence at my back a strange comfort.

I've always worked alone, relying on no one but myself for most of my life.

The club was the only time that changed.

Hell, it's how I've survived this long in a world that takes more than it gives.

But as we ride through the darkness, I can't deny the truth that's becoming increasingly clear—we need each other now.

CHAPTER THREE

Imani

The desert flies by in a blur of sand and scrub brush as Brick guides the Harley down back roads I didn't know existed.

His body is a shield between me and the wind, broad shoulders blocking the worst of the dust and debris.

I've given up maintaining any semblance of distance—survival trumps pride every time.

My arms are locked around his waist, thighs pressed against his, my chest against his back.

Every curve in the road pushes us closer together.

It's been hours since we left El Paso, changing direction multiple times, doubling back, cutting through terrain I would have thought impossible for a motorcycle.

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