EIGHT
Throttle
It’s dark, quiet, and still. Despite the bitter cold, we remain focused on completing our tasks. Or punishment, I should say.
The warehouse appears empty, with no signs of traffic or human life. Though, it's clear that the van has made several round trips since we first laid eyes on it. Fresh tracks mark the dirt.
What a sick fucking business. The idea of apprehending these guys is like a cozy fire on a chilly night. It's not unusual for us to handle things ourselves instead of relying on the legal system. We seldom rely on them and involve the cops only in extremely rare instances. There are task force members who don't approve.
Brass is currently parked right beside me. Not the ideal situation.
“Want one?” Our prospect offers me a cigarette.
“Is it laced?”
“If I was going to take you out, I’d have done it already.” He’s still holding out the pack, waiting for me to accept. When I decide not to, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
I position my forearms on the handlebars of my bike, leaning forward, expecting something to happen.
Anything.
Brass sings. A fucking ear-piercing sound with zero pitch.
I grunt. “Give me a damn cigarette.” I pull out the cancer stick and snatch the lighter he offers me. Great. Now I’ve taken up smoking outside the bedroom.
“I take it you don’t do country?” he asks, smirking.
“Is that what that was? And no, I don’t.”
He discards his used smoke on the ground, crushing it with his boot. “Country music is pleasant for the soul, brother.”
“You are not my brother. You’re still a prospect and I'm positive that neither of us wants to be here together. Let’s do this in silence, yeah?”
“Damn. She must really have you by the balls.”
Count to ten.
“She knows how you feel about her?”
This fucker.
“What are you talking about?” I snap. Our focus should be on paying attention, not discussing my personal life with someone I dislike.
“Oh, come on. You’re aware of who I mean. Our little quiet, feisty, petite, curvy. Great a—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” And our? Where does he get off referring to her as “our”?
He laughs. But I have no interest in talking about her with him.
“No, my balls are fine, jackass, because there’s nothing going on.” Perhaps I imagined that kick in the gut just now.
“Doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”
“I thought I said I didn’t want to fucking talk to you.”
He snickers again . “Look, all I’m saying is that one day she’s gonna find her knight in shining armor or some shit. And you won’t be able to push him away.”
“Let me guess. That knight in shining armor is you?” The vein in my temple is pulsating.
He throws his head back and bursts into laughter.
Brass has the case of the goddamn giggles.
“Nah, man. That ain’t me. But someone. Merely stating the obvious.”
Yeah, the gut punch is real. And it’s lingering like a disgusting stomach virus.
“Those things will kill you,” I tell him as he takes out another smoke.
“Probably,” he agrees as he lights it.
My leg continues to bounce off the bike peg as time passes. “We’re friends. Have been for a while. That’s it. I don’t want her ending up with the wrong douchebag.”
That person being you.
“Whatever you say, man.” He inhales following an exhale, sending a cloud of smoke swirling in my direction.
“She’s too good for you.”
“You talking about me? Because listen, I one hundred percent agree. I’m only making sure you’re not meaning yourself.”
Fuck. Was I? This dude who's covered in art, like the rest of us, is giving me relationship advice. His fingers bear tattoos of brass knuckles, and the special markings are not a mystery. Guy did time—heavy time.
Right as I'm about to inquire of his skeletons, a noise emerges from beneath the hill.
I flick my cigarette away and lean forward, hoping it will enhance my ability to see.
Two burly, menacing figures emerge from the garage, making a beeline for the van.
“Should we start up? Get ready to follow them?” our prospect asks me, clenching the bars to his bike.
“Not yet. They’ll hear our bikes.” I study them. “I don’t know how much of a positive or negative this is or not, but I can’t spot any club cuts. At least not on these two goons.” Pipe’s MC or another could have hired regulars to do their driving or perhaps they aren’t wearing their leather. But it’s not likely.
“Looks like they ain’t involved, yeah?”
“No, it doesn’t mean shit.”
Just before getting into the driver's seat, the guy pauses, tosses a whistle to his friend, and gives me and Brass a nod.
Shit.
“Fuck.” I lean back. “Not good.”
We were far enough for them to miss the chance of spotting us. It's simply a strange coincidence that they are looking up the hill behind the van or it is possible that they have a lookout man posted somewhere.
“Fucking shit. We gotta roll. Come on,” I say, not having to tell him twice.
We rev up our bikes and race away as fast as we can.
Side by side, our Harleys roar at the sound of thunder emanating from our pipes. The only thing I care about is getting back to the club in one piece and being alive.
The rear is lit up by headlights. Beginning from a distance, then gradually approaching. We're being trailed and they're about to catch us. Fast.
“Yo, Throttle,” Brass yells to me.
“Yeah, I see it!” Fucking too close. “If you wanted to ride my ass, why didn’t you just say so, fuckers?”
“I feel like now isn’t the time for jokes,” our prospect bellows.
We have a van directly on our tail and all I see is the blinding glare from its headlights.
I curse under my breath, then motion to Brass and indicate the upcoming side road on our right.
We pick up the pace, going faster. Until we make it around the bend without dropping our bikes.
While maintaining a vigilant eye on my mirrors, I notice the person in the passenger seat leaning out and brandishing a firearm at us.
Fuck!
“Brass. Gun! Get down now!”
The noise, like that of a pistol, was nearby. Brass speeds up along with me, swerving and ducking with each shot. Every dent on my Harley makes me angrier and angrier.
POP. POP.
They maneuver around, and I lock eyes with the assailant. Beard with a tattoo under his left eye.
I give him the finger and he responds with a smirk. Should have kept my piece strapped to me.
The man once again takes aim with his gun, this time not directed at me. He targets my front tire.
Dammit.
POP. BAM.
I can't keep control as the van quickly drives away.
Brass calls my name.
I cannot steer. I'm losing my hold.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I descend, the noise of metal against the road. There's a guardrail heading toward me at high speed. Rather, I am the one going toward it. But I can’t stop. It’s like my leg is being engulfed in flames. Before I know it, that same guardrail is right there, and with a jolt of pain, everything goes black.
Tequila
This is not happening. Not today. Never.
I won't allow anyone to take him away from me.
I can't stop trembling, even though I want to. Ever since Angel called me about the accident, I haven't been able to quit. I knew without asking who it was. I was certain it was Throttle, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life.
I burst through the elevator doors of the hospital, only stopping once I notice everyone in the waiting room. Angel, Maggie, and the rest of the guys.
Maggie is being hugged by Chain. Tank is restless and pacing. Charger has Jules plastered to his side with Chloe coloring in her books on the table. Bullet and Brass are engaged in a discussion. Hush is leaning forward, with his veiny forearms resting on his knees and regular folks are casting curious and wary looks.
“Where is he? What happened? Someone better tell me something!”
Angel approaches, placing her hands on my shoulders. “He’s fine. Throttle's fine. Only banged up.”
“I have to see him.”
“The doctors won’t let us in yet. They said he needs to rest and—”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” I make my way over to the nurse’s station. “I need a room number for Levi Miller, please.”
No one pays attention to me. The nurse, with her long fake eyelashes, sighs as if I'm inconveniencing her. “Give me a second, honey.” She goes back to the never-ending conversation she’s having with the other nurses.
I drum my nails on the counter. Most of the time, I am a friendly person with incredible patience. Levelheaded, I suppose. But there’s something burning inside me, ready to ignite.
Okay, that’s it.
“Look, lady. I realize you’re super busy. Because damn, you seem to be, and I bet that story is really invigorating. But I must see my friend immediately. Please.”
She sighs. “What was his name again?”
I sprint down the hallway, scanning the room numbers until I locate him. Once I do, I focus on taking slow and deep breaths. He doesn’t need an irate me bursting in and upsetting him more.
As I enter, a wave of relief floods over me. He is all right.
I'm on the verge of tears, but I keep myself composed.
With nervousness, I watch as he carefully lowers both legs off the edge of the bed. “Throttle.”
“Hey, babe. Mind helping me out of here? Kind of want to go home.”
There are open scrapes, bandages on parts of his skin, and a road rash on his left arm.
“You idiot!” I lightly strike his chest. “I’m so mad at you.”
With a gentle touch, he takes my hand and kisses it tenderly. “I didn’t shoot out my own tire. Honestly, it was not enjoyable.”
“They shot your tire. You were shot at?!” I smack him again. “That’s for making me worry and coming close to death. I swear to God, if you died, I would have killed you myself.”
“What?” With his wide eyes and adorable grin, my vision blurs followed by tears as I let out an embarrassing hiccup sob.
“Hey. Tequila. Come here.” When I don’t listen, he lightly tugs at my arm. “Come. Here.” I’m being dragged onto his lap, and he blankets his arms around me. “I’m okay. Promise. Sorry I made you worry. But look…” I do, but there’s so many bandages and gauze. “Just a few cuts and scrapes. Doc said I’m fine otherwise. Well, except for a broken rib.” He lifts his shirt, revealing a wrapping, and I gasp. “But it’s no big deal.”
No big deal? I understand that I've had my fair share of freaking out, so I force myself to not cry once more. He pulls me closer, allowing me to cling to him like a baby. He’s wounded and I’m the one being consoled.
The thought of him being injured terrifies me.
“I was so scared.”
“I know. Hold on,” he demands, guiding me away and delicately brushing my hair behind my ears as he wipes my tears with his thumbs. “It'll take much more than this to bring me down. Understand?”
I acknowledge with a nod, captivated by his piercing eyes that dart between mine.
“Good. Now, let’s get the hell out of here. Shall we?” He glances down at my mouth, and I suck in my bottom lip. I should leave the bed, but his touch is too amazing.
“Tequila—”
“Knock. Knock. Heard you’re ready to go home, handsome.” An older nurse enters, and I leap off his lap.
I catch him staring at me and my heart beats a little faster.