Ayla: You haven’t been gone for five hours. How does this happen?
Christian: We’re ready. Need a show of force?
I slide Poe into my shirt pocket and button it. She’s outraged—I know because she stabs me with her claws—but doesn’t get a choice.
Me: Can’t hurt. I’ll lose them if I can. If I can’t, be ready when you hear the pipes.
Me: {Sharing location}
I’m back in the garage sending one last text.
Me: If you call, Lorien is in my helmet.
I flip up the visor and say as quietly as I can, “Hold on around my middle. Try to avoid the shoulder if you can. And the hip, but better I be in pain and you still on than the other way around. Got it?”
She gives Poe a stroke and asks, “Are you sure about this?”
“Not interested in fighting my way out, so, yeah.” A known felon on one end and a shady-as-shit business owner who would hire said felon on the other means they’re willing to fight dirty at the very least.
I climb on, stretching the wound at my hip until I wish I didn’t have to ride. The fabric presses in needlessly as well, folding painfully in all the wrong spots.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty tops. That’s what I need to get us safe.
God help me if they give chase and it requires losing them.
No. God helpthemif that’s the case.
Holding the handlebars is murder.
Lorien’s arms around my waist is, too, but for a whole different reason. “You ready?” I turn her way.
My old, retired helmet bobs, and I reach a hand back to slide the visor down.
Here goes nothing.
I crank the bike at the exact moment I hit the garage door andam through it and into the alley before the truck driver has a chance to make a face. I use the app on my phone to drop the garage door and arm the house as I round the corner to see Gascon, phone to his ear, looking confused. His other hand holds a gun and he whirls, firing.
It goes wide and I want to stop and give him a beat down for pulling that shit near the woman on the back of my bike. More so, I don’t waste another moment to let him get off another shot.
We’re on the main drag, heading for C470, when motion in my periphery catches my attention. Gascon runs hellbent for leather chasing me instead of trying to get a ride, lifting the pistol.
I can’t avoid what I desperately wanted to, and I rock the bike side to side while bobbing and weaving.
Lorien holds tight…
… and screams.
Lorien
There’s singing in my head. It’s a random song… one I’ve never heard before. But it’s only four lines on repeat.
It stops before starting again.
All the while Liam has decided to give me the motocross experience.
Okay, real talk? I don’t know what motocross is. But the motorcycle dudes I see who look so imposing? They’re always straight up and down, cool as a cucumber, practically aloof. We’re doing bends and dips.
I told him I didn’t know how to do this. He told me to not fight the leans. I know why now. Everything in me—and I mean everything—wants to find a way to stay upright. And leaning isn’t that.
