Page 94 of Hellbent
I think about Ryder’s voice in my head, sharp and low:If you were mine, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you.
My pulse won’t slow. My thoughts won’t stop.
I’m in his bed and I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
Sleep doesn’t come.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RYDER’S BEEN GONE since sunrise.
No knock on the bedroom door. No explanation. Just the slam of the front door and the low growl of his truck fading down the drive. I watched him go from the bedroom window, wondering when he’d be back.
By the time the sky drains to twilight, shadows bleeding across the floorboards, I’ve flipped through every channel on the TV, walked the length of the house a dozen times, touching walls, adjusting picture frames, opening and closing cabinets just to hear a sound. Made toast just to watch it go cold. Wandered through the empty house like a ghost.
No word from Jake. Or Damian. Or Wyatt.
So much for all the talk about me being in “serious danger” and needing protection. So much for worrying about what it would be like to be alone in the house with Ryder. Apparently the plan was to lock me up in here like a prisoner in solitary confinement.
By the time the sun drops below the horizon, my thoughts are spiraling. All day, I’ve been thinking about the bounty. The photo.
About Billy. The senator.
I wonder if Ryder found something. If that’s why he left.
Or if something happened to him.
The thought makes something clench deep in my stomach.
I need air.
I lace up my shoes, step onto the porch, and look out in the direction of Leathernecks. Down the road, but out of sight. Like everything else I want right now. I wonder what Wyatt is doing, and the pang of missing him hits me. Why can’t I just be down there with him, the two of us watching TV and teasing each other?
I stand, walk around the house, taking in the sense of openness. The trees break up the horizon, but otherwise, it stretches on forever.
A sudden rustle underfoot makes my heart leap into my throat. I freeze mid-step, one foot hovering above the grass as something slithers away. A flick of a tail. A snake.
Heart pounding, I move off the grass and onto the gravel of the driveway, and decide to look in the garage. For something to do…anything.
I open the side door, hinges groaning, and inside it’s cooler and impenetrably dark, smelling of oil and damp concrete.
I search the wall blindly, find a light switch, and flick it. A single yellow bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting weak light across the room.
Everything’s neat—tools arranged by size, shelves of ammo boxes, spare parts, cleaning kits.
A wall-mounted rack with rifles locked behind glass.
Tucked behind a barbecue, a bicycle sits half-hidden by a canvas tarp, back wheel jutting out.
I drift toward it and lift the tarp.
Black frame, wide tires, single gear. The kind you’d see in an old war film or chained up outside a pawn shop.
I blink. Then I laugh.
No keys. No gas. Just wheels. Pedals.Motion.
I throw the tarp off and locate an air pump tucked behind the bike. A helmet hangs off the side.
