Page 58 of Sinful
My Road King is built for distance and comfort, not this.
And she's a professional.
By the time I hit the main road, there's nothing.
No lights. No sound except my own engine and the wind tearing at my cut.
I lean into the first curve, pushing the bike harder than I should on roads I don't know.
The Harley protests—it's heavy, built for cruising, not racing—but I don't let up.
She went north. I'm sure of it. North toward the border, toward Los Coyotes territory.
Toward her death.
I ride for ten minutes before I have to admit it.
I lost her.
"Fuck!"
I pull over on the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires, and kill the engine.
The silence is immediate and suffocating.
Just me and the dark and the empty Florida highway stretching in both directions like it goes on forever.
What the fuck am I doing?
I should turn around and go back to the compound.
I should tell Runes that Ivar's daughter just went on a suicide mission and let him handle it.
That's my job.
That's why I'm here—to negotiate an alliance, represent the Shotgun Saints, stay professional.
Not chase after women I barely know.
Women I slept withonce.
Women who should mean nothing to me.
Yet, my hands are shaking on the handlebars.
I haven't felt this way in eighteen years.
Not since the fire.
Not since I stood outside my burning house at fifteen years old, held back by neighbors while my family burned alive inside.
My parents.
My two little sisters—seven and nine years old, their whole lives ahead of them.
I could hear them screaming.
I couldn't get to them.
