Page 66 of Ravaged and Ruined
“I won’t,” Aero says, holding his stare. “You have my word.”
Cobra doesn’t argue. He just nods once, steps in, and places a kiss on the crown of my head. Then he turns toward the clubhouse and slips inside.
“I’m still mad,” I whisper. “I hate you a little.”
His voice breaks like gravel under a boot “I hate me a lot.”
The sun’s down now, dipping behind the line of trees beyond the gate. The headlights of his bike cast long shadows across the concrete, stretching out before us.
I look up at him, this stupid, broken, beautiful man, and shake my head.
“Don’t think this means I forgive you,” I say. “I don’t. I don’t even know where we stand. I’m getting on that bike because I choose to. Not because you said so. Not because you stormed in here and pulled this caveman bullshit.”
He nods, jaw tense. But there’s something in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. Hope maybe and beneath it, that same wrecked, relentless love I crave.
“Then let’s go home,” he says. “I’ll send a prospect back for your things.”
“No need.” My voice is flat, but there’s a sting under it. “You didn’t pack anything useful anyway. Unless mismatched socks, a hoodie with a stain, and three pairs of underwear count as an outfit.”
His only answer is a grunt, like he’s not about to apologize for hauling me out of there without thinking twice.
I climb on behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek against his back. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat loosens the ache in my chest. Just a little.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aero
The road stretches ahead, my headlights casting long streaks across the asphalt. It’s quiet this late, just the hum of my engine, the whisper of wind, and Lacey’s arms locked tight around my waist.
We’ve been riding for hours, Pennsylvania’s hills fading behind us, the flat sprawl of Jersey slowly unfolding ahead. She’s behind me, right where she belongs. Her arms snug around my waist, her chin tucked near the back of my neck. Every curve is pressed close, her body moving in sync with mine the way it should be. It does something to me. Every time I feel her breath through the fabric of my cut, it grounds me.
A truck pulls closer in the opposite lane, big and dark and riding a little too close to the line. My eyes flick to the mirror out of habit. The truck slows pulling back. Still, something doesn’t sit right. My fingers tighten on the grips and I twist the throttle putting distance between us. I feel her fingers flex against me, and I ease up slightly. I don’t want her to think I’m tense. Even if I am.
A few miles later I catch sight of headlights behind us again. Same truck creeping closer this time, then backing off. My gut pulls tight. My instincts flickering like a faulty fuse, quiet, but insistent. Lacey shifts behind me, just a little. I feel it in the way her hands press in at my sides. She’s getting tired.
I veer off at the next exit, minutes after the gas light blinks amber, peeling down an unmarked service road and into some no-name station lit by flickering overheads. The place looks like it’s been here since the ‘80s and hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since. Four old pumps. A busted ice chest. No one else around. It’ll have to do.
We need fuel. I need five minutes of her pressed up against me without the roar of the engine between us.
I kill the ignition and glance back.
“Stretch your legs, Bambola,” I tell her and draw cash from my wallet. “I’ll fill up.”
She slides off the bike, her fingers trailing down my back before she steps away. My body instantly feels cold from her absence. I swipe my card, and start the pump. My eyes sweep the lot out of habit. Habit that’s saved my life more than once.
She comes back toward me, holding two bottles of water and a pack of gum. Her smile lights the darkness hovering around us.
I grab her by the hips and kiss her hard enough to forget the last few days. She makes a soft sound, her hands bracing my chest, then sliding up to the back of my neck. Fuck, I could live in that sound.
A heartbeat later something sends a wave of tension crawling up my spine. My eyes snap open. Headlights cut through the darkness as the same black Ford barrels into the lot from the opposite side of the station, followed by a blacked out van.
My blood turns ice. “Lacey. Run.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She turns, but she doesn’t get far.
The doors of the lifted Ford slam open, both driver and passenger sides, metal creaking from the force. Men in black spill out of the van like a damn SWAT unit. Heavy boots hit the pavement. One of them grabs her before she hits the corner of the building. She screams.
I lunge. But I’m too late.
