Page 4 of The Devil's Weakness

But not now. Not when I know the Devil’s Skull will kill me for hurting—killing?—one of their own. The Devil’s Skull Motorcycle Club doesn’t fuck around. They’re outlaws who live and die by their own set of rules. You mess with them, and you pay the ultimate price.

From whisperings of murders throughout the Valley, mysterious disappearances, to talk of drug trafficking, and God only knows what else. You don’t want to find yourself on their shit list.

Exactly like I’ve just done.

I close my eyes to think, but the same pair of black eyes emerge through the darkness, forcing them open again.

Maybe if I can figure out whether he’s breathing, I can try to wake him up enough to get him moving, then get the hell out of here before he sees me or my car. I slowly inch closer to him.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t move.

“I'm so sorry; please forgive me,” I mutter as I get closer to him.

I crouch down at his feet and reach for his leg. When my fingers make contact, I shake him gently.

“Can you hear me? If you can hear me, say something.”

Nothing.

I take his hand into mine.

“If you can hear me, move your fingers or squeeze my hand.”

He doesn’t respond and a second later, a couple of horses from Miller’s Farm canter by from out of nowhere, spooking me. I gasp from the shock of it, and the feeling of pins and needles shoots through me as my nerves shred to pieces.

“I’m going to call for help. You’re going to be okay,” I tell him, knowing that there’s a chance he’s already dead.

Climbing back up the embankment, I reach into my car and pull out my cell phone.?

My hands are shaking, and I’m thankful for the Face ID feature that will unlock my phone. But once I get ready to dial 911, I remember that they’ll be able to see my number when I call.?

Not if you block your number first.

With a minuscule amount of relief, I press *67 before dialing 911 and pray that I can get off the phone and out of here within the next minute or two.

“911, what’s your emergency?” An older woman on the other end of the phone questions.

“Hello, there’s been an accident,” I state. “A man got thrown from his motorcycle.”

“Where are you located?” she asks.

“The intersection of Deep Run and Wine.” I take a seat in my car as I hear her typing on the computer through the phone.

“Okay, I’ve alerted dispatch, and an ambulance is on its way. I’ll just need some infor—” I don’t give her a chance to finish her sentence.?

I turn my car on and peel out, making an illegal U-turn and head back from where I came. I need to get out of town for a few days, at the very least. I can call Michael or Ellie tomorrow to make sure no one has been around asking about me or that they’re not out on a witch hunt. In the meantime, Michael will need to wait a little longer. I need to go home and pack a getaway bag.

Chapter Two

Dinnertimeat the clubhouse is always a crowded affair, and it’s one of my favorite parts of the day, though I don’t let it show. I didn’t grow up sitting around a table with my family, holding hands and saying prayers, talking about what we did that day, or any other type of bullshit like that. Having grown up with alcoholics instead of parents—who were more interested in drinking their meals than cooking—I’d go hungry for several days and nights before they remembered they had a son to feed. Even then, I’d be lucky to get a raw hot dog or some dry corn flakes.

“We have that memorial ride for the Salisbury Sinners coming up, so let’s make sure to take a look at that brake pedal of yours before then,” Stone declares, talking to Pretty Boy, our Sergeant at Arms.

Most of the Club is sitting around the large table, getting ready to chow down on the delicious lasagna that Bon-Bon fixed for us when Stone’s cell phone rings. I watch as our Club President pulls his phone from his pocket and accepts the call.

“Yeah,” he answers.

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