Page 3 of Run Little Killer
Screwing my eyes shut, I count each inhale and exhale as I drown out the world around me.
In for four, hold for seven, out for six.
"Hey!" A deep voice calls out as a hand taps the side of my foot, prompting me to snap my eyes open.
"Fuck off!" I scream as I push up to my elbows and scramble backwards.
My legs flail as I keep shouting, hoping that whoever this is will realize I'm not worth the hassle.
"Goddamnit," the same voice grunts as my heel connects with the front of his jeans. "Shut her up!" he grumbles, hunching over and cupping his junk.
Before I can figure out who he’s talking to, a gloved hand circles my ankle and tugs me to the edge of the tailgate. His other leather clad hand clamps down over my mouth, silencing my cries as he pins me in place with his large body. The scent of leather and pine invades my senses and my eyes widen as I look up at the man holding me against his hard chest.
A black bandana is tied around his face, masking all his features except for a set of deep blue irises that light up as he drawls, "C'mon on darlin’, we're not gonna hurt you… unless you ask us to."
2
NIX
"Ready, old man?" I ask Rhett, opening my wallet as I push up to my feet.
He tips his head back, draining the rest of his drink before slamming the empty bottle down on the table. "I am now."
Grabbing a crisp hundred, I wave it in the air before slapping it down on the lacquered surface and nodding towards the bartender. It’s more than enough to cover the six beers, plus a solid tip for him and the frail old hag that served us. The worn out gash hovers over the register, scowling in our direction. The kuttes and rockers always earn uneasy stares, so her judgment doesn’t even begin to faze me. I mutter a thanks as we head toward the exit.
Even if I didn’t have a fresh stack of cash sitting in my wallet, it’d be a cold day in hell before I’d waste my efforts robbing some hole in the wall joint like this. Petty ass crimes like that are never worth the bills in the drawer.
I check the time on my phone as we step out into the half-lit parking lot.Not as late as I thought it was. Briarwood should've been long in our rear-views by now, butno, fucking Rhett laid eyes on a rundown bar at the first exit with a banner boasting that it carries Angler's Ale, and he justhadto stop. The beer sucks– it's unfiltered and tastes like stale Cheerios, there's a damn good reason many places don't carry it– but this last run was a long one, and I didn't feel like fighting with his ass.
“Westbrook?” Rhett asks, pulling on his leather gloves.
“Nah.” I shake my head, trading out my phone for the black bandana in my pocket. “We can make it a little further. Cedar Point?” Gravel crunches under my boots as I tie the bandana around my face and twist my hat around. “Unless it’s too far past your bedtime?”
Rhett scrubs a hand down his face before cracking his neck with a smirk. “Lead the way, ya little shit.”
Squeezing the clutch, I swing a leg over the leather seat of my Harley Dyna and hit the starter. The V-twin engine rumbles to life between my thighs as I shift my gaze towards Rhett. He mounts his bike, tying on his own bandana and cranking the engine. With a lift of my chin, I peel out, sending dirt and gravel spraying out behind me.
The sharp bite of the late October chill cuts through my hoodie as we pull onto the frontage road that runs parallel to I-80. Rhett slides up beside me, revving his engine before he flips me the bird and rips past. I dart a glance down at my speedometer.It's a safe bet he's pushing triple digits.
I chuckle as his taillight blazes up the road ahead. The bastard may be forty, but he sure as hell doesn't act it.
Rhett's basically the older brother I never fucking wanted. When I joined Mav's crew, he took it upon himself to be my mentor, and somehow along the way he became family with or without the patch.
Twisting the throttle, I take it wide open and the needle climbs higher as I close the distance.Eight-five… ninety… ninety-five.Adrenaline buzzes through my veins the faster I go, giving me a rush that rivals even the deadliest high as I catch up to him.
Nothing, not even good whiskey or easy pussy, seems to give me the same thrill that I get from riding at night. There’s just something about the way the world seems to halt. The air is calm, streets empty, like I’m the only one still in existence. I’m not a religious fuck, but the sense of peace that settles deep in my marrow as I cruise down an endless stretch of highway cloaked under the stars with the wind whipping past–that’sthe closest I’ll ever get to heaven. Which is exactly why I don’t mind taking these overnight protection runs. Well, that, and the payouts aren't half bad.
Rhett lets off the throttle, settling into the ride at cruising speed as I stagger myself behind him. Tension eases from my shoulders, left hand coming to rest on my thigh as the city lights dim at our backs. My mind starts to quiet as the trees lining the sides of the road grow more dense with each mile until they’re all that surrounds us. Downshifting, I lean into the curve, following the bend in the road past thickets of trees. When I straighten the bike, something catches my eye in the gleam of our headlights.
"What the fuck?" I murmur as we roll up on an old Chevy truck parked on the shoulder, its hood propped open.
Coming to a stop beside Rhett, our bikes idle roughly in place as we share a look of confusion. "That don't seem right," he says, leaning over and hooking a thumb at the pair of bloody cut-up feet hanging off the tailgate. "We should check on them."
"Yeah," I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face and pulling down my bandana.
I knock the kickstand down and dismount my bike, grumbling a tentative “hey” as I round the bed of the truck.
No response.
