Chapter 41
NOAH
“Hold the light right there,” I murmur, my grease-stained fingers tightening a brass fitting on the carburetor.
Rue shifts closer, the flashlight beam illuminating the side of the Knucklehead engine block. Her arm brushes against my shoulder, and the lingering scent of her cuts straight through the heavy smell of old oil and dust.
I give the wrench one final, solid turn until the bolt seats perfectly.
“Alright,” I say, tossing the tool onto the rusted workbench. “That’s it. Fuel lines are clear, the gas tank is full, the plugs are fresh, and the carb is clean. If she’s got any compression left in her old bones, she should turn over.”
Rue lowers the flashlight, her eyes wide and suddenly bright with anticipation. “Are you going to try it now?”
“Stand back,” I tell her, a rare surge of genuine, unadulterated hope swelling in my chest.
I grip the handlebars, throwing my right leg over the seat. I settle my weight, ignoring the dull throb in my left bicep, turn on the ignition, and take a deep breath.
I stand up on the pedals, bringing my right boot down hard on the kickstart.
The engine whines—a sluggish, metallic groan—but doesn’t catch.
“Come on,” I mutter to the machine.
I kick it again. This time, the engine coughs, a sharp sputter of combustion echoing off the corrugated steel walls of the shed, before dying out.
Rue inhales sharply, taking a half-step forward. “It almost caught.”
“Third time's the charm,” I grit out. I brace myself, drawing a deep breath, and kick the pedal down with every ounce of strength I have left.
BANG.
The exhaust backfires like a gunshot, making Rue jump, and then the massive V-twin engine roars to life.
The heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the idle vibrates through the floorboards, shaking the dust from the rafters. A cloud of gray exhaust smoke plumes out of the tailpipes, filling the barn with the sharp, beautiful scent of burning gasoline.
Fuck yes!
“Noah!” Rue screams over the deafening noise, her face breaking into a massive, blinding smile.
I roll the throttle, the engine revving with a ferocious, deafening growl that sounds like pure, unfiltered freedom. I hit the kill switch, the engine sputtering to a halt, plunging the barn back into silence.
For a second, neither of us moves. We just stare at the vintage motorcycle as the blue smoke curls toward the skylight.
“It runs,” Rue breathes out, dropping the flashlight on the workbench. She closes the distance between us, throwing her arms around my neck. “It actually runs! We have a ride out of here.”
I catch her around the waist, burying my face in her neck, a ragged laugh escaping my throat.
“I need to double-check more on it, but tomorrow night, we’ll leave.
As soon as the sun goes down, we pack the bags, we strap the dog to the back, and we ride straight to Arizona. After we check the news, of course.”
Which is something I’ve only been briefly doing.
She pulls back, her jade-green eyes shining with unshed tears of sheer relief. She kisses me—hard and fast, tasting like adrenaline and salvation. “Let's go tell Bullet.” She kisses me again, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the sliding door.
We slip out of the barn, the cool Texas night air hitting our heated skin. My heart is hammering a victorious rhythm against my ribs. For the first time in ten years, I actually feel like I am going to win.
We might beat this.
We jog across the exposed dirt of the farmyard, Rue’s hand laced tightly with mine. We reach the back porch of the farmhouse, and I push the wooden door open, letting her step inside first.
“Bullet!” Rue calls out happily, kicking off her sneakers. “Buddy, you won't believe it—”
She stops dead in the hallway. Her hand slips from mine, dropping limply to her side.
“Bullet?” she says again, her voice instantly losing its joyous edge, replaced by a tight, confused pitch.
I step around her, my eyes sweeping the dim living room.
The old beagle is lying on the faded rug near the sofa, but he isn’t sleeping. His body is completely rigid. His back legs are sprawled out awkwardly, and his chest is heaving in shallow, rapid spasms that sound like a wet, rattling wheeze.
“N-Noah,” Rue chokes out, the panic instantly swallowing the room.
I don’t answer. I drop to my knees beside the dog, my survival instincts immediately shifting from the high of the barn to a cold, clinical dread.
I place two fingers lightly against Bullet’s chest. His heart is racing at a terrifying, erratic speed, fluttering violently beneath his ribs before suddenly skipping beats. I pull his jowls back. His gums are a pale, sickly blue.
“What's wrong with him?” Rue drops to her knees beside me, her hands hovering uselessly over the dog’s body, terrified to touch him. “Noah, what's happening?”
“Rue,” I say softly, the single syllable tasting like ash in my mouth.
I look up at her. The beautiful, hopeful smile she wore just three minutes ago is entirely gone, replaced by a stark, shattering terror.
“No,” she gasps, shaking her head frantically. “No, he was fine. He ate his food today. He was fine!” Her voice breaks.
“His heart is failing,” I say it as monotone as possible, trying to anchor her in the chaos. “He’s old, baby. His body can’t go on anymore.”
“Do something!” she screams, tears spilling over her lashes. She grabs my shirt and shakes me. “You fixed the bike! Fix him! Do CPR, Noah, please!”
“I can't,” I whisper, grabbing her wrists and pulling her against my chest. “I can't fix this, Rue. Just sit with him. Hold him, honey.”
Bullet lets out a low, agonizing whine, his head lifting a fraction of an inch off the rug.
“Bullet,” Rue sobs, tearing herself out of my grip.
She pulls the dog into her lap, cradling his head against her chest, burying her face in his soft, floppy ears. She rocks him back and forth, her tears soaking into his fur. “Please don’t go. Please.”
I sit back on my heels, entirely helpless. I’ve fought fucking marshals, I’ve survived a gunshot, I’ve navigated maximum security prisons, but I can do nothing to stop the universe from taking the only thing this girl has ever had that loved her unconditionally.
I choke back my own emotion, wrapping my arm around Rue, as her cries start to rack her entire body.
“No,” she sobs. “No, no, no.”
Bullet’s wheezing slows. His erratic heartbeat stutters against Rue's arm, the frantic rhythm fading into a weak, spaced-out thud.
I hold her tighter, already knowing what’s coming.
The little beagle lets out one final, long exhale, his body going entirely slack in her arms. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my head against Rue’s.
And the silence that follows is the heaviest, most brutal sound I have ever heard.
Rue doesn’t scream out in agony. She just lowers her head over the dog’s lifeless body and breaks into a quiet, jagged weeping that physically tears at my insides.
I can’t find the right words. I just move behind her, wrapping my arms around her shaking shoulders, pulling her back against my chest while she holds Bullet’s lifeless body.
Whatever victory I felt is eclipsed by unshakable grief.