10. Get on the Bike
10
GET ON THE BIKE
RORY
D espite my reservations, I don’t fight Aidan as he escorts me from the office. We move swiftly through the hall, down the stairs, and zig zag our way through the club, stepping around overturned tables, chairs and—bodies.
So. Many. Bodies.
Bratva bodies and the bloody bodies of Johns lay scattered about the club floor, along with broken glass and bullet casings. I let out a choked sob and Aidan turns, observing me, his gaze hardening.
“Don’t cry for them. They deserved it.”
I barely have time to process what he says before we’re behind the bar and through the kitchen. Cool air hits me as we exit out the back door.
The back alley is full of people. I stare out at about seven or eight guys, all either already sitting atop a motorcycle, or in the process of mounting one. Their faces are obscured.
I didn’t notice, but before we exited the office, both Aidan and Jimmy pulled their balaclava back up—likely in case of any cameras.
“What’s this?” The man closest to the door calls out, his Boston accent as thick as his arm when he gestures in my direction.
“A fecking hostage, what else? You idiot.” Jimmy growls and shakes his head, passing by him to slide atop a sleek red Yamaha.
The image of blood pooling under shattered glass is still fresh in my mind and I feel out of sorts. Dazed. Aidan lets go of my arm for a second as he retrieves his own helmet, pulling it on. His dark sweatshirt rides up with the motion, revealing a flash of sculpted muscle.
I’m instantly uncomfortable, trying to reconcile the blood in my mind with the bike and the muscles .
“Mac!” Aidan calls to someone over my head, pointing at me.
A second later, a black helmet flies through the air. He catches it easily, handing it to me.
“Get on the bike.”
His eyes—dark and unreadable—fix on me with unnerving intensity, but fear is at war with shock right now, and I can barely form thoughts, let alone words. I glance around nervously, considering my options. Sirens wail around us, police are closing in. Motors start up and bikes race out of the alley.
Aidan released my arm. I could run; it would basically guarantee a bullet in my head, which I might also get, if I comply.
When I do nothing, Aidan pulls out his gun, pressing the cold metal up against the tender skin behind my ear. “I won’t ask again.” His overall tone is soft, but holds a lethal edge.
I believe him.
I flinch when the motorcycle right next to us peels out, the engine letting out a guttural snarl, as its tires screech against the asphalt.
Hands shaking, I climb on the back of the bike, all too aware of how exposed my legs are under my skating skirt.I let Aidan slide the helmet over my head, and he’s surprisingly gentle. A small seed of hope blooms at the thought of the getaway car being a motorcycle, but the beginning of a plan dies when Aidan clasps a metal cuff on my left wrist.
Instinctively, I wrench it back, but he’s already clipped the other side to his belt. The chain link catches and cinches tighter, and I cry out in shock—or pain; I’m not sure. I glare at him with fury and fear.
Aidan wastes no time starting the bike. The deafening roar of the exhaust rips through the now quiet alley; just the two of us left. A raw and thunderous sound vibrates through my body.
Our bodies are too close… he’s … too close. His scent is overwhelming. I want to rip it from my nostrils. Bracing my feet on the pegs, I shimmy further up the bike, putting some distance between us.
“You need to hold on to me,” he shouts over his shoulder. The bike shudders under us as he revs the engine, but we stay put.
I’m shaking my head, not wanting to touch him. I see him watching me from the side mirror. He’s shouting now, because he has to, in order to be heard over the motor of his bike. It’s a sleek, matte black racing bike, built for speed. “Trust me, love, falling off a bike at high speed is not the way you wanna go.”
When I still refuse to move, he revs the engine again. The bike jerks forward unexpectedly, and Aidan slams on the brakes. The sudden stop sends me flying forward, my breath catching in surprise. I slam into Aidan’s back, my fingers gripping for purchase, clinging tightly to his shirt to keep from falling off.
"Hold tight," he warns. His voice is laced with a smug smirk I don't even need to see to know is there, a second before he releases the clutch.
I’m embarrassed at how tightly I cling to him, burying my fingers in the fabric of his sweatshirt with a death grip. My thighs squeeze tight against his as we veer out into traffic. We’ve barely hit the road before a bullet whizzes past my right cheek.
We both steal a glance behind us, finding a black SUV hot on our tail. Two guys and two guns hang out the window, shouting obscenities. Russians.
They fire again, not yet realizing who’s on the back of the bike.
Aidan changes gears, weaving between cars like they’re standing still. He zips up the ramp onto the highway, the Bratva in hot pursuit. It’s rush hour, and the traffic is heavy in the city. It’s not long until they have us back within range.
Gunfire sounds behind us again and I scream, but Aidan’s evasive maneuvers leave us both unscathed.
Dodging bullets costs us speed, and the SUV is nearly upon us. I close my eyes, waiting for the burn of bullets riddling my back, or for the inevitable fiery crash if they get Aidan first, but it doesn’t come.
Hesitantly, I peek back to find the SUV falling back, in pursuit, but no longer shooting— someone must have noticed ... I stiffen with the realization.
Aidan seizes the opportunity and speeds up, splitting lanes to give us some breathing room before cutting directly in front of a tractor trailer. The trucker lays on his horn, but it’s barely a second before Aidan swings right, cutting across another lane and another car before narrowly catching the exit ramp.
We race around the tight exit curve, but the Bratva loses us behind the truck, passing by the exit. We’re in the clear.
He zips through crowded downtown streets until he finds a back way out of the city, and we’re moving steadily along down a dark suburban road.
I let out a breath, not knowing whether to be relieved or terrified. At some point, I gripped near the bottom of Aidan’s sweatshirt, and now I am very aware of how my fingertips graze against the warm skin underneath.
Autumn is in full swing and the wind is ice against our bodies. With only my torn tights to keep me warm, I keep my hands where they are, siphoning off what little warmth I can.
Even though we’ve dodged the pursuing Bratva, Aidan hasn’t slowed down, and I don’t dare risk re-adjusting my grip. I turn my attention to planning what I should do when we stop.
If I can get away from him then, it might be the only chance I have.