Destiny stirred in my arms.
“Nuclear,” she mumbled. “That’s me.”
Nate blinked. “She’s funny when concussed.”
“She’s not concussed until Doc says she’s concussed.”
“She crashed Edge’s bike and started a car apocalypse. I’m making an educated guess.”
I kept walking.
The trail ahead dipped between two low ridges. My boots slid in loose sand. Destiny’s fingers had curled into my shirt now, holding on with what strength she had left.
I told myself she would’ve grabbed anyone.
I told myself it didn’t matter that I liked the weight of her against me.
I told myself a lot of lies in the space of those fifty yards.
Nate’s phone buzzed. He checked it.
“Prez is two minutes out.”
“With the truck?”
“Yeah.”
I almost laughed.
Of course Prez was bringing the truck.
Our president rode a Cybertruck when he wasn’t on two wheels, and every bastard who gave him grief for it shut up the first time it took rounds on the passenger side and kept moving like it had been mildly insulted. Bulletproof glass. Reinforced panels. Electric torque that made it move like a silver brick launched by God’s own slingshot.
Ugly as sin.
Fast as hell.
Perfect for nights when the world went sideways.
Destiny’s head shifted against my chest.
“My phone,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Regan.”
Her voice cracked on the name.
I looked down.
Her eyes were barely open, but panic moved there now. Real panic. Not drug haze. Not fire rage.
“Regan knows I’m breathing,” she said. “Don’t let her think I’m dead.”
A girl who had just burned down half a party and crashed a stolen motorcycle was worried that her stepmother thought she was dead.
That told me more about the Rourkes than any club story ever had.
