Page 4 of Nitro

“What do you mean?” Scar asks.

“He probably broke some ribs in the accident. With the way he’s breathing, he might have a punctured lung,” Doc says. “Lay him on the kitchen table. I’ll check him out.”

“No!” I fight off the guys trying to help me. Attempting to breathe through the agony, I gasp, “Holly. Hurt. In trouble.”

Realization dawns in Scar’s eyes. “Fuck!”

“Where is she?” Talon asks.

“Don’t. Know.” Red-hot fire blazes up my spine. I double forward, howling like a wild animal.

“Let’s ride,” Scar commands before adding, “We’ll start at her house.”

The others check their guns before stuffing them into their cuts. I struggle to my feet, but the pain is so intense I can hardly walk. Forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other saps my strength. By the time I reach the garage door, I’m shaking. Sweat trickles into my eyes to blind me. I blink to try to clear my vision, but it’s fuzzy and gray, and it’s getting darker by the second. Nausea grips my stomach. Bile rushes up my throat. I’m about to vomit when suddenly, everything stops.

The pain vanishes.

My vision clears.

I can breathe again.

I slowly stand and blink at my brothers. My abrupt transformation stuns them into silence. Nobody moves. Instead of taking action, they’re standing there watching me because they don’t understand what’s happening. They haven’t figured out the horrifying implications yet, but I have.

Icy fingers of dread slither down my spine because this could only mean one thing. If I can’t feel Holly’s pain anymore, it might be too late to save her. She might be dead already.

Chapter 2: Holly

I never know what’s going to set my husband off. Last week, I forgot to iron his suit the night before a presentation at an important medical conference. At three a.m., after waking up from another terrible nightmare, I realized my mistake. In my dream, a glowing, demonic iron chased me around the house. I woke up screaming, which infuriated him. Jeff didn’t care enough to ask why I was yelling. Instead, he screamed at me to, and I quote, “Shut the fuck up so I can get some fucking sleep.” He was more worried about getting bags under his eyes than about why his wife was living in a state of terror.

Don’t ask me why I stayed. I don’t know. I kept trying to get the courage to leave, but then he’d do something so sweet and kind that I’d forgive him. Things would be okay for a little while, and then he’d slowly go back to demeaning me. From there, it was only a matter of time before he hit me. Now I wish I’d gotten the hell out while I could. I wouldn’t be lying face down on the kitchen floor right now if I’d left last month or last year or after the first time he hit me.

“Do you have any idea what our friends are going to think when they find out about this?” Jeff looms over me, screaming so loud my ears ring. He shoves the divorce papers in my face. “This is bullshit. This marriage won’t be over until death do us part. You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He kicks me hard in the ribs. “Answer me, you little bitch.”

“Yes,” I gasp through the pain.

The first slap wasn’t so bad, but then he punched me in the face. Pain exploded through my eye socket. I fell to the floor, giving him an easy target. He kicked me so hard I haven’t been able to take a deep breath since I landed on the ground. Maybe this is going to be the day he kills me.

“As long as you’re still alive, we’re still married. Do you understand me?” He throws the divorce papers at me.

I don’t know what possessed him to open the air vent in the guest room. He never does home maintenance because he thinks it’s beneath him. We hire a handyman for everything, so I never thought he’d look in there. Instead of taking the paperwork to the courthouse, I stashed it in the vent because I was too terrified to file it. I needed an escape plan. I needed help. But asking for it felt impossible. Now I wish I’d swallowed my pride. I wish I’d let Nitro whisk me away like some modern-day Cinderella, but I couldn’t. It would never have worked out because fairytales aren’t real.

“Why do you make me hurt you?” Jeff yells. “If you would just be obedient, I wouldn’t have to discipline you like this.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Apologizing is the only way to get him to calm down. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s hit me, slapped me, and pinched me, and he’s definitely screamed at me before, but I’ve never seen this level of rage in his eyes. It’s like he’s been possessed by something evil, like the devil has taken over his soul. It’s terrifying.

“What the hell happened to you? You weren’t like this when we first met. It’s those bikers. I should never have let you work at that seedy bar.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t dare say anything about the men from Underground Vengeance. I don’t want Jeff’s wrath directed at them. Those men have been nothing but nice to me. They gave me a job even though I didn’t have any work experience. They encouraged me to be more assertive with the male customersso I wouldn’t have to deal with strangers grabbing my ass. They made me feel like I was worth something, as if I was more than just Jeff’s wife. If it weren’t for the men in the motorcycle club, I’d still be a terrified little mouse. Instead, I’ve almost built up enough courage to leave my violent husband. Almost.

“Pick that shit up.” Jeff points to the paperwork strewn across the floor.

I crawl on my hands and knees, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my side while gathering the scattered pages. Hiding them at the bar and grill would have been a much better plan, but I didn’t want anyone to find them there either. The only guy who knows something’s seriously wrong with my marriage is Nitro. He saw the bruises on my cheek last fall. He promised not to tell the others about what my husband did to me, but Nitro also encouraged me to leave Jeff. I lied and told Nitro that Jeff had never hurt me before. He didn’t believe me. He wanted me to divorce my husband, insisting that being hit once was one time too many. I should have listened to him. Instead, I pushed him away.

“Here.” I hold the pile of papers in my trembling hands.

“We’ll burn them.” Jeff yanks open the junk drawer and pulls out a box of long matches. “Get the trashcan.”

I try to stand, but agony slices through my ribs. Tears prickle in my eyes as I attempt to breathe through the pain. I grab the trashcan and set it in front of Jeff. He scrapes a match against the side of the matchbox. It flares to life, releasing a sulfurous stench.

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