Page 56 of Cinder
“Hearing you’ve already used six of them isn’t as reassuring as you think it is.”
His eyes gleam in the dim light of the underground garage. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me, sweetheart. I can see trouble coming long before it gets here.”
The thunderous bark of six Harleys gets louder as the bikers start to leave.
Without warning, Lars wraps his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me down for a kiss.
A deep, smoldering kiss.
A deep, smoldering kiss that makes my toes curls and my skin tingle.
When he lets me go, he looks pleased with himself. “I hope there is more of that when I get back.”
And without another word, he roars off after his brothers.
But as I watch him disappear into the early morning sunlight, guilt and fear gnaw at my gut.
Because Lars is wrong.
He can’t see trouble in front of him.
Because if he could, he’d see that I’m right under his nose.
CHAPTER 26
Lars
It’sa long ride to Jacksonville. But I don’t mind the long rides because there’s nothing like the wind whipping against your skin and a long open road ahead.
I could live a hundred years and never lose the thrill of pulling down on the throttle and letting my Harley fly down those vast stretches of highway.
It gives me a chance to think.
To quiet the noise in my head.
It’s when I let it all run free. All the chaos. All the doubt. All the fears. All the lingering pain and confusion that comes with being me. With the hope that by the end of the ride I can either make peace with it or know a way to destroy it.
Like the murders of Carina and Beth.
Like this obsession with Ella, and why I can’t get her out of my head.
Like not being able to let go of the past long enough to grab onto something for the future.
We’re a good crew. Me and Beast. Zac, Bear, Axe and Gambit. All battle-scarred bikers who can appreciate the medicine of a long ride.
Late into the evening, we stop at a motel somewhere in North Carolina where I fall into bed surrounded by the stale smell of old air freshener and bleach. But my body is too road-worn to care, and the moment my head hits the pillow, I crash into a deep sleep.
By the next morning, we’re gone by sunrise and end up making good time into Florida, arriving at the Rattlers’ clubhouse just before noon.
The clubhouse sits on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire, and fringed by swamp and empty backroads no one dares to visit.
We nod to the guard as he opens the gate and lets us ride in.
It’s humid as hell. The kind of sticky, swampy air that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like you’ve been dipped in soup.
Hammer and his VP, Roach, are waiting for us at the entrance of the building.
We climb off our bikes and greet our hosts. Handshakes. Biker hugs. The usual shit.
