Chapter 1 Willow
Willow
The first thing I notice is the taste of tarmac grit. I lick my lips, trying to figure out why the hell I’ve got dirt in my mouth, and taste the metallic tang of blood. That isn’t good.
My cheek scrapes against the hard surface of the road as I lift my throbbing head, catching gravel on my skin. The ringing in my ears oscillates up and down, making me feel like I’m underwater. But I’m not underwater. I’m lying on the road, and I’ve got no idea how I got here.
My nostrils flare with the smell of tarmac and something acrid.
White dust floats from the sky and lands on the road next to me. I stare up at the clear sky, confusion warping my brain. It’s too thin to be snow, and this is summertime in southern California. It can’t be snowing.
Distorted shouts break through the ringing, and I turn toward the noise. That’s when I see my car. If you can call the twisted heap of metal sprawled on the road a car.
I recognize the light blue paint work and the dream catcher that Mom gave me hanging from the smashed rear view mirror, so it must be mine.
The driver door hangs open, the metal twisted and gaping. The airbag has been deployed, and a dark crimson smear slashes through it.
Whose blood is that?
I touch my forehead and my fingers come away red. Seeing the blood on my fingers sends a surge of panic through me, and pain comes crashing into my consciousness.
I’ve been in a car accident. A bad one by the looks of my car.
Trying not to panic, I do a mental check through my body.
My head is throbbing and there’s blood on my lip, but I’m still breathing and nothing hurts too badly.
Pushing up on my elbows, I try to stand up.
That’s when I notice my leg. Pain stabs at my ankle so sharp that my vision blurs.
There’s blood trickling and pooling at the bottom of my leggings, and the sight of so much blood makes my head feel light.
I haul myself into a sitting position and try to piece together what happened.
I was driving to Monterey. I decided to take the Pacific Coast Highway for the views. I remember seeing the ocean for the first time, the indigo blue contrasting with the powder blue of the endless sky. The excitement cutting through the grief of the past few weeks.
As I kept driving, the blue sky turned a burnt shade of orange and then darkened.
I remember yawning as I passed hotels but didn’t want to stop and spend money when I was only a few hours out from my destination.
The last thing I remember was the sound of motorbikes on the road. The engines so loud it felt like they were surrounding me.
I remember swiveling in my seat to see why they were so noisy. How I smiled at the sight of a motorcycle gang on the highway, so quintessentially Californian.
There was a black van among the bikes, and I noticed too late how erratically it was driving.
I don’t remember what happened next. How I got hit or how I got from the wreck of my car to the middle of the road.
I just know that I'm hurt. I need help, and I need to get off the road.
Something light tumbles toward me on the road. A small rectangular piece of paper. I catch it in my fingers.
It's a $100 bill. And there’s more of them, fluttering across the road. I’m wondering what the hell money is doing in the road when there's a shout that pierces through the ringing in my ears.
I look up past my mangled car and for the first time really see the scene in front of me.
The black van is sideways across the road, the front dented and steam gushing from its engine. The side of it is mangled, two ends folding in on themselves, concertinaed together.
A bike lies sprawled on its side, front wheel turning slowly. The engine cuts through the ringing in my ears.
There’re at least half a dozen men, their voices panicked and angry. A man crab walks along the ground, snatching the one hundred dollar bills up with his thick hands as white powder floats around him.
I try to call out to him, but my breath catches. Something is wrong with this scene. Very wrong.
There's a man standing in the middle of the road. His arms are outstretched as he looks up at the sky as if asking WTF just happened.
His back is to me, and I can make out the symbol on his jacket: Underground Crows MC.
He stands like a biker, his feet planted solidly on the ground, unfazed by the carnage that surrounds him. Like he welcomes this destruction.
A shiver goes down my spine as I watch him turn around slowly toward me. I’m both curious and terrified to see his face.
The man’s smiling, as if he’s enjoying all this. And as he turns around, headlights from the upturned bike catch his eyes. Illuminated in the darkness, they look pure black.
The man’s eyes lock on mine, and I hold my breath.
He stops in his slow spin, and for a moment we stare at each other. He’s got short, cropped hair and the hint of stubble clinging to his solid jaw.
It’s not an unpleasant-looking face, and if I wasn’t so terrified I might even find him attractive, in a villain enjoying watching the world burn kind of a way.
Someone picks up the bike that's on the ground, and the man’s face falls into shadow. But he doesn't stop staring at me.
With his eyes locked on mine, he presses one finger to his pursed lips. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s telling me to shush.
Indignation rises in my chest. I’ve just been in an accident that mangled the shit out of my car, and this guy’s trying to silence me.
I’m about to call out to the man, but there’s something about his look that makes me pause. The smile’s gone. His brows are knit together, and he’s lost the basking in disaster look. Instead, he looks concerned, almost fearful.
His hands come up in a placating way, and he takes a step towards me as if I’m a wounded animal he has to approach carefully.
There's a shout from behind him, and the man turns away.
My attention snaps to another man rushing to scoop up white bricks that are scattered in the road. And as he picks one up, white powder cascades out of it, catching in the air and blowing on the wind. His face contorts in anger, and he gives a pained wail.
Then it clicks. The white bricks, the money, the powder, the men in their biker cuts.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
It’s a drug deal, and I’ve crashed right in the middle of it.
Since I crawled from my car, everything has been in slow motion, but all of a sudden, it speeds up.
I look for the man trying to shush me, but he’s gone. As far as I can tell, he’s the only one who noticed me. The other men are too busy scooping up drugs and chasing money across the road.
I need to get out of here before they see me.
Staying close to the ground, I slither across the tarmac, trying to put as much distance between myself and the crash as possible. There’s a ditch on the side of the road and beyond that a thicket of bushes. It’s not much, but it’s my best chance of cover.
Pain courses through my leg when I move but I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to cry out.
I'm almost at the edge of the road when a yell goes up behind me. Turning, my gaze snaps to the source.
A short, stocky man with big, angry eyebrows faces me from the other side of the road. He wears a biker’s jacket, but the patch is different from the other man’s.
He looks straight at me and his lips curl, barring his teeth. He takes a step toward me, pulling a gun from his hip.
A shock of terror jolts my body.
The wreck of my car lies between us and he’s holding his side as if he’s injured, but I still know it won't take him long to reach me.
I’ve witnessed something here that I shouldn't have. I know how things like this work. They can’t have any witnesses.
I pull myself up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my leg.
Run, Willow. Run.
I take a step forward and my leg gives way underneath me, sending me crashing to the ground. I hit the tarmac and feel the jolt through my whole body.
When I look up, the man is staggering toward me. He’s holding his side, his lips curled up in a grimace. If he wasn’t so injured, he’d be over here by now.
But his injuries give me the chance I need to escape.
Come on, come on.
I pull myself up onto my elbows and then up to my knees.
My vision goes blurry with pain, but I need to move. I need to move now.
If I reach the thicket, maybe I can hide out and get away from these men.
Excruciating pain shoots through my leg, but somehow I manage to drag myself to the side of the road.
I risk a glance over my shoulder, and the man is now halfway across the road. He's stumbling as much as I am, which is the only reason why I’m still alive.
The white line blurs in front of me, and I’m not sure if it’s the head injury or the pain making me lightheaded.
If I lose consciousness now, I’ll never wake up.
The rev of a bike engine close by startles me, making me scream in terror. I spin around, expecting to find a gun pointed at me.
But it's not the man with the gun. It's the other one. The giant who tried to shush me. He straddles his bike with one leg cocked and indicates the seat behind him.
“Get on.”
I stare at the man on the bike, scanning his face for something soft, something gentle, but he's deadpan and he gives nothing away, just those intense eyes staring at me.
“Get on now.”
It’s the urgency in his voice that makes me move. I take a step toward him and stumble forward. In an instant he slides off his bike and catches me under my shoulders.
I’m half dragged, half stumble toward his bike. I cry out as my sore leg bumps against him. Then he’s lifting me up, pulling my limp body onto his bike.
My face scratches against his stubble, and I smell blood and the ocean. Then he spins me around, nestling my body in front of him.
The bike moves beneath me, and I grab hold of the handlebars to stop from sliding off. A gunshot rings out behind us and the man swerves from side to side, each swerve sending new pain through my body.
He steers the bike through the wreckage, away from the gunshots, and soon we leave the carnage behind.
I don't know why he did it. I don't know why he saved me. But as the bike vibrates gently beneath me, I slump against the man and lose consciousness.