Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
HUDSON
T he whole way back, I can’t shake the image of Wilde from my brain.
Beefy, lightly hairy chest, big arms—who the fuck am I kidding? All I could concentrate on was his cock. I’ve seen plenty in my day, but the way it was hanging there so confidently thick even while soft is burned into my mind.
Of course, my current biggest headache would have a perfect dick, and of course , all I want is to suck that perfect dick.
I couldn’t have come out here to the middle of nowhere and met someone emotionally well-adjusted to get horny over, could I?
No. As usual, the biggest asshole in a five-mile radius has caught my attention, and I’m tempted to make all the same mistakes I always do.
I’ve stopped paying attention to where I’m riding. This deep into the forest, all the tracks and turns look the same.
I’m swamped on all sides by trees, and my reception is dipping between one bar and out of service. Wilde’s place had been easy enough to find since the gravelly road led me close enough by it that I could make out his faded red truck through the forest. The house hadn’t been what I expected either.
In my mind, I’d been looking out for maybe a tent or a shack made out of a hastily put-together collection of junk.
Wilde’s house was … nice. Small, timber, with a living room, a kitchenette, and what looked like a bedroom, but it was immaculately built and cozy enough inside I would have thought it belonged to his grandma.
It put a wrench in my first opinion of him.
Not that any of that fucking matters when every time I blink, I get a flash of his dick.
Damn, to have him press me into a wall again …
I shake that off and look around, picking a random track and gunning the bike down that way.
The nrrr nrrrrr of the engine is echoing through the forest and probably scaring off any animals I would have found out this way.
So far, the only house I’ve seen is Wilde’s, but there has to be more.
We’ve seen three people since getting here, and that place wasn’t big enough for them all.
Since I’m out here, I might as well explore and figure out what the hell else is happening on our land.
It’s a mission to navigate the tree roots and random boulders sticking up out of the overgrown grass.
I barely spot them in time before having to veer sharply, but other than that, it’s a nice ride.
Everything is so green out here, the trees are blocking out the harsh sun, and as I ride, I can almost, almost stop thinking.
It isn’t something I’ve been able to do for …
I don’t fucking know how long. Between running Bell Building, being on the construction site, my shitty sex life, and, most importantly, my brothers and their issues, I’m tapped out.
It’s no wonder I have a short temper when I can’t breathe half the time.
Now, I have Wilde to add to my list.
Well, Wilde and his dick .
Because those are two very different problems.
I try to picture what Wilde’s reaction would have been if I’d gotten on my knees and offered him a blow job. Sure, it would have been hard to resist the temptation to bite the fucking thing right off, but picturing his hatred as he stalked closer is enough to wake my own cock up.
Between the naked wrestling and Sutton’s message reminding me of the degrading sex I missed out on, it won’t be long before I’m tempted to head home for a few days to get off.
Good decisions? I don’t know him.
Some days, I wish I could be more like the twins.
Kennedy has his head on right in everything except relationships, and Hart’s so damn switched off to the world that nothing gets to him.
The things that make me worry about them are also the things I envy.
How the hell did Kennedy end up so well-adjusted?
Then, on the flip side, what would it be like to not feel a single thing beyond a vague hum of emotion?
Sometimes I feel things too acutely, and with no idea how to handle it, I explode.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the awesome upbringing.
I shouldn’t complain though. There are plenty of people who had it worse than us. At least with Mom popping one too many benzos every day and Dad sticking his dick into every woman he came into contact with, it meant they were both too busy to be abusive.
So … yay for us?
My grip on the handlebars tightens, and I give the bike more gas. It feels fucking incredible to tear through track after track, kicking up dirt and leaves and leaving the breeze behind me.
Along with all thoughts about my parents.
Those stupid, fucking?—
Shit. A tree cutting into the track all but lurches out at me, and I only just manage to avoid it in time.
The redirection throws me off, and I swerve for another tree, braking hard, tires shredding through the dirt before the back end curves out and collides with fucking something , and then I’m launched into the air.
My gut flies out through my ass, and then I land, colliding with the unforgiving ground before I slide a few feet. There’s a second for me to catch my breath—and then my bike catches up with me.
It smacks into my chest before taking me out. I lose track of what’s where as the bike goes over the top of me; there’s just pain and the urge to scream that doesn’t come out.
The bike hits a tree and finally stills, and it’s only in the echoing silence that stretches out around us that I let out a “ fuuuuck! ”
When I try to sit up, pain spikes so sharply up my side that I almost pass out. My shirt looks wet, stuck to my side, and it takes me a really fucking long moment to realize it’s not blood. It’s a burn from the motor.
I try reaching for my shirt, but my fingers are too stiff. My hand’s shaking; it takes my swimming vision a second to notice my fingers are swelling up.
“What the fuck …”
I roll onto my side, teeth clenched so tightly my jaw might break, and after what feels like forever, I struggle to my knees.
I’m sweating, even though it’s cool down here, heart thumping loudly in my ears, and if it wasn’t for my helmet, I’d swear I hit my head with how disoriented everything feels.
My left arm is okay, and I use it to steady myself as I climb to my feet. My right leg takes my weight, but when the left joins in, a throb pulses through my ankle.
Well, that’s a fucking problem.
While my hand and ankle hurt, it’s nothing on the burn. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and I’m doing everything I can to concentrate on literally anything else.
I shove my good hand into my pocket and find my phone thankfully unharmed, but when I bring the screen alive, I see exactly what I’m expecting to.
No service
No fucking service . I almost throw the useless thing against the tree.
I can’t call anyone, I can’t walk, and I can barely fucking breathe with how harshly my breaths are coming. My vision is swimming in and out, and the burn is making me want to curl over on myself, but I limp for the bike instead.
Do I want to get back on this damn thing?
Fuck no. But I’m hoping and fucking praying as I lift it upright, throw my shitty leg over, and then try to turn it on.
At first, I think it’s fucked—there’s only silence where there should be an engine—but maybe it’s in as much shock as I am because after a moment, it chugs to life.
I rest my helmet on the handlebars for a second, relief taking over as I try to clear the haze swamping my brain. The most difficult part is getting the bike balanced while on my shit leg, but after a few attempts, I get going.
My adrenaline is through the roof, and the dizziness is making it hard to focus, but I somehow manage to find a track and follow it.
It leads to what looks like the gravel road that leads to town, and I urge the bike faster, needing to get where someone else can take over.
I need painkillers and the ability to not think for a while.
It feels like my brain is swelling, and I have no idea where I am, but I swear it keeps darkening and lightening.
I jerk the bike to a sudden stop and almost fly off the damn thing. I’m struggling to hold on, and after a second, the bike drops as I stagger painfully to the side .
I’m at a house with a red truck. It feels familiar. Like relief. I’m sure I was just here, but my thoughts are snatches of images too hard to reach through the pain.
My vision swims so hard I almost throw up.
“Hello?” I croak. But I don’t know if it’s out loud or in my head. I’m tired. So damn fucking tired. I try to get closer to the house, but it only moves further away. “ Hello ?”
“Hudson?”
I turn at my name, and it takes me a second to focus on the bearded man. As soon as I do though, it’s like all the strength drains out of me. My knees crash to the ground, and the rest of me follows. I’m not even sure where I hurt anymore, other than everywhere.
I’m panting so quick and sharp that it’s burning my chest, and I squeeze my eyes closed against the … well, everything.
I need the pain to stop.
Once it stops, I’ll be fine.
Just fine.
And maybe some sleep.
All I know is that the bearded man will fix it. I know him, and I know I know him, but my brain is moving too slowly to pick from where. The mixture of fear and interest promises me that he’ll make this better.
Even if he kills me.
At least that will take the pain and nausea away.