Page 69 of Hellbent
I’ve felt it a million times before. A foster home that didn’t keep me. A temporary placement that turned permanent—until it wasn’t. A hundred doors closing in a hundred different ways.
They’re about to shut this one, too.
So I’ll be ready.
The land out here is quiet and open. On my right is the highway, running parallel to the dirt road, a lonely two-lane stretch of asphalt that’s usually empty. On my left, nothing but fields and tree lines stretching into forever.
But I know what’s behind those trees. Somewhere out there, just beyond my sightline, is the clubhouse. It’s close enough toreach on foot, but far enough to take all night. I don’t know where it is, exactly—but wherever it is, it’s not far enough.
The memory comes in flashes. The brutal cold sinking into my legs, my Converse soaked through with snow, the dizzying exhaustion I fought the whole way.
It feels like a lifetime ago. In the two months I’ve been here, this place has become my home. But I let myself get complacent.
When I first hear the low rumble of motorcycles in the distance, I think my imagination must have conjured them up. Too much thinking about the O.D., and now I’m hearing things.
But the sound grows. I feel it before I see them. The vibration threading through the air. The shift in pressure before they break the horizon. And then I see them.
Two riders.
Both dressed in dark layers, faces obscured by helmets. One bike is blacked-out, matte and unmarked. The other gleams in the light, chrome catching the sun.
I quickly avert my eyes, my heart hammering.
It’s just two guys on bikes. There are plenty of motorcycles out there. I’m overreacting.
Still, my fingers curl into fists in my pockets, the muscles in my shoulders locking tight as the motorcycles pull up beside me on the highway…
And don’t pass.
They slow, engines revving down, and a chill rolls through me. I turn my head slightly, keeping my face angled away. Not enough to look suspicious. Just enough to keep them from getting a good look at me.
Time suspends. I forget to breathe. And then—a car approaches behind them.
A sharp honk and the motorcycles pick up speed and pass. Within seconds, they’re gone. Just a blur of metal and exhaust, disappearing down the road.
It’s nothing.
Just some guys. Probably just checking out a girl walking alone.
No reason to panic.
By the time Ryder’s house comes into view, my feet ache, my patience is shot, and I’m past caring. I’ve already made peace with it. Talked myself in circles until there’s nothing left to feel.
Whatever lecture he and Wyatt have cooked up, I just want to get it over with.
My shoes hit the porch harder than necessary. I don’t knock. Just push the door open and step inside.
The house is cool and dim when I step inside, my legs aching from the long walk. I walk through the foyer into the living room, where Ryder is sitting on the couch, tattooed forearms braced on his thick thighs. His hair is loose, framing the sharp lines of his face. He lifts his head and stares at me levelly, with that dark, unreadable stare that makes my stomach tighten.
Wyatt sits beside him, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw no longer locked with anger, but his blue eyes pin me in place, sharp and assessing.
They don’t tell me to sit, so I stay standing, heart pounding, my mind carefully going blank just the way it has all those other times.We just don’t think this is the right placement for you. We just don’t think it’s a fit.
It’s easier to look at Wyatt, despite his anger this morning. “I know I fucked up.” I say steadily. “I’m sorry.”
Neutral expression. Dry eyes.
I brace for the next part, the part where they spell it out. Tell me I can’t stay. That this was never meant to last.
