Chapter 27 Whiz
WHIZ
It happens all over again.
Not the same road. Not the same men. But the same feeling.
Loss slamming into my chest before I can stop it.
Undertaker’s bike fishtailing. The crack of gunfire. The moment everything went wrong—and the split second afterward where I knew, knew, I had fucked up in a way I couldn’t undo.
That same realization is clawing at me now as I kneel in the dirt beside Zoey, my hands shaking in a way I don’t recognize as mine.
“Zoey… hey—hey, stay with me.”
There’s blood. Too much of it. It’s soaking through her shirt, darker than it should be, spreading faster than I can press against it. My palm is already slick, and I push harder anyway, like pressure alone can fix something this bad.
Her eyes don’t open.
Her body doesn’t react.
And my mind goes somewhere it should never go again—
Not again. Not like this. Not because of me.
“Fuck—”
I fumble for my phone, almost dropping it before I manage to hit the right contact.
Sawbone answers on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“I need you,” I bite out, already looking back at her, already checking that she’s still breathing, even though I can see it—barely. “She’s been shot. Country road south side route. I don’t—she’s bleeding bad.”
“How bad?” he asks, already moving. I can hear it in the background.
“Bad,” I say, voice tightening. “She’s out. I can’t—”
“I’m coming,” he cuts in. “Don’t move her unless you have to. I’ll bring gear.”
The line drops.
For a second, I just stare at the phone.
Then I move.
I can’t leave her in the open. Not out here, not where anyone can drive by, where whoever just tried to kill us might double back. I slide my arms under her carefully, trying not to jostle her too much, but there’s no clean way to do this.
“Sorry,” I mutter, even though she can’t hear me.
Her head tips against my shoulder as I carry her off the road, pushing through brush and low branches until I find enough cover to shield us from view. I lower her slowly, adjusting her so she’s on her back, checking her breathing again.
Still there.
Still shallow.
“Stay with me,” I say, like repetition might make it stick. “You don’t get to check out on me. Not after—”
My throat tightens, cutting off the rest.
Because I already know where that sentence ends.
Not after this is my fault too.
I press harder against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding, my mind running through everything I should be doing, everything I am doing, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Time stretches.
Too long.
Every second heavy.
Every breath she takes thinner than the last.
“Come on,” I murmur, leaning closer, my forehead nearly brushing hers. “You don’t get to leave me right now. Not like this.”
The sound of engines hits before I see them.
Relief crashes through me so hard it almost knocks the air out of my lungs.
Sawbone’s SUV pulls up first, brakes hard, gravel spraying. Pastor jumps out on the passenger side at the same time Sawbone comes around, already grabbing his bag.
Behind them, engines roar—Lyric, Zombie, Trick riding in fast, cutting their engines before the bikes even fully stop.
“They’re here!” I shout, backing up just enough to give Sawbone space.
He drops to his knees beside her immediately, hands replacing mine with practiced precision. His movements are quick but controlled, eyes focusing on what matters.
“What happened?” Lyric demands, stepping close.
“Two shooters,” I say, breath still uneven. “Took them out—didn’t realize she got hit until after.”
Lyric’s jaw tightens. Zombie curses under his breath. Trick just scans the perimeter, already on edge.
Sawbone doesn’t look up. “Entry wound here,” he mutters. “No exit. We get her back, now.”
“I’ll drive,” I say immediately.
“You’re riding with me,” he replies. “I need you to keep pressure.”
I nod without hesitation.
“Pastor,” Lyric says, already shifting gears, “take his bike back.”
“Got it.”
“Zombie, Trick—we stay. Scrubs is on the way. We clean this up, see what we can pull.”
No one argues.
They move.
Fast.
We get her into the SUV, Sawbone working the whole time, adjusting, stabilizing. I climb in beside him, my hands right back where they were, pressing down on the wound, not letting go this time.
“Keep steady,” he says.
I do.
The drive back feels longer than it should.
Every bump makes me tense, every shift tightening my chest as I watch her face, waiting for something—movement, sound, anything.
Nothing comes.
“Stay with me,” I mutter again under my breath.
But she doesn’t answer.
Back at the clubhouse, everything blurs into motion.
They set her up fast—infirmary room, lights full, table ready. Sawbone takes over completely, and I can barely keep up with the shift from outside chaos to controlled medical precision inside.
“Hold her,” he says.
I do.
He works.
Clean. Efficient. Focused in a way that commands the entire room.
“There it is,” he mutters after what feels like forever. “Stay steady.”
My grip tightens as he removes the bullet, blood slick under my hands. He moves quickly after that—cleaning, stitching, packing.
IV goes in.
Fluids.
Pain meds.
“Sedative,” he adds quietly. “She’s not waking through this.”
I nod, even though I don’t fully register what everything means.
“She needs a hospital,” he says after a moment, glancing at me.
“No,” I say immediately.
His eyes flick up. “Whiz—”
“No,” I repeat, harder. “I trust you. That’s it.”
There’s a pause.
Then a slight nod.
“Alright.”
He keeps going.
She doesn’t wake up.
Not that night.
Not the next day.
Not the next.
And it eats me alive.
I don’t leave her side. I don’t sleep more than an hour at a time, if that. Every shift in her breathing, every twitch—I’m there, watching, waiting, ready.
“She’s stable,” Sawbone tells me more than once. “You need to relax.”
I don’t.
Can’t.
“She’s gonna wake up,” he says the second day.
“She better,” I mutter.
Because I don’t know what happens if she doesn’t.
When she finally does, it’s not for long.
Her eyes open, then close. She drifts. In and out. Pain meds keeping her from fully coming back.
But she’s here.
And that’s enough… for now.
I’m sitting there, watching her breathe again, when the door opens.
Lyric steps in.
He doesn’t waste time.
“We found him,” he says.
I look up immediately. “Who?”
“The leader,” he replies. “Based on the shooters. We’ve got a name. Location. It’s solid.”
Something sharp and cold locks into place inside me.
“We’re going after him.”
“I’m coming,” I say instantly.
He hesitates.
Of course he does.
“You’re not steady,” he says.
“I’m focused,” I shoot back.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I don’t care,” I say, standing now. “They shot her. They tried to take her out like—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “I’m going.”
He studies me.
Weighs it.
“You lose your head out there, you’re a liability,” he says.
“I won’t.”
“Fine.”
That’s all I need.
I sit back down beside her, quieter now, the storm inside me narrowed into something cleaner. Sharper.
More dangerous.
I lean forward, brushing a hand lightly across her hair before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“You stay,” I murmur. “You hear me? You stay right here.”
My voice roughens slightly as I pull back just enough to look at her.
“I’m gonna fix this.”