Page 39 of Fury

I didn’t use my own bike. That would’ve been stupid. This bike was a piece I’d stolen a while back to rebuild, along with a plate that I’d stashed for a project like this. If I had to, I could abandon it without worrying that it would get traced back to my club or to me.

In the parking lot, the truck doors gaped open, and the guy loading turned his back, bending toward another crate. I slid inside the hold, flattening myself against the wall by crates filled with cereal and packages of sliced bread and coffee. My mouth dried as the double doors slammed close and the bolt lock slid across them. Voices, goodbyes. The truck jerked to a start and took off out of the store parking lot.

I was closer.

One step closer with every breath, every chug and pull of the truck.

Over fifteen minutes later, the truck slowed down and lurched to a stop.

A sweat broke out over my lip and my brow, and I swiped it away as I remained crouched down by the fucking sliced bread. I turned my head, taking in a deep breath.

The door pulled open, and light and hot air suddenly flooded the space. I shook my hair in front of my face and snatched the baseball cap from my back pocket. Grabbing a crate of cola cans, I backed down out of the truck.

“Hey! Where’d you come from?” asked the driver.

I slanted my head. “A lot to unload. Gotta get this shit done. You got a problem with that?”

His eyes narrowed, inspecting my torn jeans, tats up my arms, and ringed fingers. Was I Smoking Guns biker material enough for him?

“Nope, sure don’t.” He got inside the truck and shoved and pushed at crates.

I headed toward the back door of the Smoking Guns clubhouse. A skinny brunette cleaned a large tabletop with a spray bottle and paper towels. She eyed me as I walked past, raising the crate in my arms.

“Over there.” She gestured down a hall with the spray bottle. “Past the kitchen.”

I walked into a ratty kitchen with aging appliances. A girl with long red hair was making sandwiches at the counter. She glanced up at me, and my heart stopped.

Serena gripped the knife in her hand tightly. Her gorgeous blue green eyes widened. “What are you—”

My gut seized. Her face was striped with black and blue marks down one side. Purple welts were over her chest peeking out from the V neck of her T-shirt. All I wanted to do was take her in my arms and hug her hard. Kiss over the bruises. Grab her and run. Fly into the sky like fucking Superman. But I was no Superman.

“Where should I put these?” My voice came out lower and scratchier than ever.

She only stared at me, stock still.

“Just answer the question,” I said softly.

Light streamed in from the window behind her, a golden aura floating around her head. She looked like some magic fairy from another world.

Yeah, she was magic all right.My magic.

She rubbed her hands on a towel, her eyes hardening, never leaving mine. “Over here. Follow me.” She tossed the towel to the side.

“What’s up, Rena?” asked a deep voice. A Gun strode through the kitchen toward her, and I froze. Young, buzzed head, lots of earrings in one ear. He ripped open a bag of potato chips, chomping as he stared at her.

Serena’s eyes darted to him. “Pop and beer delivery.”

“Ah yeah, good. We’re outta Dew, get me a can.”

“Sure. Your sandwich is ready.”

“Cool.” He tossed the bag of chips onto the counter, slid onto a stool, and stuffed a chunk of sandwich in his mouth.

Serena moved toward me again.

“Hey,” he growled through a mouthful of food, turning his head to the side.

She stopped once more, standing perfectly still, and my lungs crushed together.

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