Page 2 of Spinner's Luck

The heroes in my comics didn’t exist.

No one was coming to save me.

And I’d never be the same again.

CHAPTER TWO

THREE MONTHS BEFOREthe final moments ofBolt’s Flame, this is where Spinner’s story began.

I loved the wind.

It was a balm against my skin, carryingaway the weight of everything I couldn’t let go. I gripped the handlebars tighter, leaning into the curve as the motorcycle vibrated beneath me. Out here, on the open road, the noise in my head quieted. The constant spinning—the madness that had been my shadow since I was a kid—finally slowed.

But the peace never lasted. It was short-lived, like the stretch of pavement ahead. Always more road, always more to run from.

I pulled into the lot outside Shorty’s Tavern, killing the engine and letting the silence settle. The others rumbled in behind me, the low growl of Harleys filling the night air like thunder rolling through the hills. Devil had sent us into town to check on some intel. The work was routine, but my gut told me it was a dead end. I didn’t trust information that came so easily, especially not with Dragon Fire sniffing around our territory trying to stake their claim like wolves scenting blood on the wind.

Thunder parked beside me, his grin as sharp as the chrome on his bike. I liked Thunder, but there was something dark he kept hidden behind that I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. “You look like shit, Spinner. You sleep last night, or were you up playin’ with your toys again?”

“Fuck off, Thunder,” I muttered, pulling off my helmet. The small black spinning gadget in my pocket felt heavy against my leg. He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent half the night in my room, flicking it between my fingers, watching the blur until my eyes burned.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, heading for the bar’s entrance.

Inside, the place was the same as always—shitty lighting casting long shadows, sticky floors that clung to your boots, and a reek of sweat mixed with cheap perfume. The speakers pumped out some grungy rock ballad, too loud for the customers to talk without shouting.

This was my spot when I needed to disappear for a while, tucked away from the world and close to Devil’s Ink, my tattoo shop down the street. But tonight, the air felt heavier. Off.

My eyes scanned the room, automatically clocking the exits and the regulars, when I saw her.

Shewas here.

I froze, the breath catching in my throat. My heartbeat kicked up like I’d hit a patch of gravel at full speed.

The woman I hadn’t been able to get out of my fucking head since the night she disappeared—first from this very bar, then from High Voltage—sat at the far end of the counter. Her dark hair was pulled back, vivid blue eyes scanning the room like she owned it, her fingers toying absently with the rim of a glass.

Lucy.

She hadn’t noticed me yet, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Last time, she’d left before I could figure out what the hell was happening between us. One minute, we were talking—something about her just hit different—and the next, she vanished like exhaust on the highway. Every damn time.

Now, seeing her again, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for round three.

“Spinner?” Chain’s voice snapped me out of it. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

“Nothin’,” I said, but my eyes stayed locked on her.

Lucy’s gaze finally found mine, and for a second, the noise in my head stopped. No spinning. No madness. Just her.

She tilted her head, something between a smirk and a challenge playing on her lips. Then she turned back to her drink, like I was nothing more than one of the bars shitty decorations.

I couldn’t stop my feet as they started toward her. “I gotta hit the can,” I said over my shoulder, not wanting to share Lucy, even for a second. Right now, I needed answers—why she kept disappearing on me.

“Lucy,” I said when I reached her.

She looked up, those piercing blue eyes cutting through me like a hot wire, searing straight to something deep inside me. “Spinner. Thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Hard to forget someone who keeps runnin’ off,” I said, sliding onto the stool beside her.

She tried to play it cool, but the flicker of something—relief, maybe—flashed in her eyes before she smothered it. Her smile stayed tight. “I don’t run. I just know when to leave.”

---