Page 34 of Secret Betrayals

Page List

Font Size:

Ping.

Ping.

What in the actual fuck?

My bike jerks to the side, tires skidding, and it takes my brain a beat too long to catch up to what the hell’s happening. My fingers tighten around the bars, trying to steady the sway.

I flick my eyes to the side mirror.

Two bikes. Fast. Closing in hard, weaving through traffic like they don’t give a single fuck about consequences. One of the riders lifts his arm and—fuck me—I know exactly what’s in his hand. Glock. Maybe a SIG. Doesn’t matter.

They’re armed, and they're shooting in broad daylight.

Motherfuckers.

I narrow my eyes, adrenaline spiking, the roar of their engines closing in. They cut lanes like sharks moving in for the kill.

Pop.

Pop.

Shots crack again. I don’t feel the first hit, not right away. But I feel the second. White-hot fire punches through my side,then my shoulder almost instantly after. The burn is instant. Deep. Searing. My whole left side lights up with agony. I curse, swerving hard to stay upright. My bike bucks under me, tires shrieking. I fight to keep it steady, but everything’s off. My balance is shot. Pain is clouding everything.

“FUCK!”

I grit my teeth, my throttle hand twitching. Gotta move. Gotta get the fuck out of here. This shit is bad—real bad.

My mind flashes to the club. To my brothers.

They’re going to lose their shit.

They hate when I go anywhere without one of my Enforcers riding shotgun. Calls it “reckless.” I call it “breathing room.” But this? This is what they mean. This is the exact kind of bullshit he tries to keep me out of, and now it’s biting me in the ass. I swerve again, too hard, and almost eat a damn guardrail. I yank the bike back into control, cursing under my breath as I scan the road ahead, heart slamming against my ribs.

Think. Move. Survive.

I’m not dying on this stretch of highway. Not like this. Not today.

Not-fucking-today.

I lift my left hand off the bars—pain shoots through me like lightning—and yank the bandana from around my wrist. I shove it under my cut, pressing it hard against the bullet wound in my side. It’s sloppy, half-assed, but it’s all I’ve got. I fumble with my zipper, pulling my cut tighter to press it into place.

Ma’s voice flashes through my mind—“That thing’s getting snug. You need a new one.”

Thank fuck I didn’t listen. The damn thing’s tight as hell. It’s the only thing keeping my insides from spilling out right now. I can’t do shit about the shoulder. Can barely move that arm. But I force my hand back onto the bars and gun it, the engine roaring beneath me like it knows I’m bleeding out and pissed off. My head spins. Black spots flash at the edges of my vision.

Stay up. Stay focused.

I don’t knowhowI’m still on the bike. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe sheer fucking rage. But I’m riding. I’m alive. And I’ll be damned if I let one of these bastards take me out before I get answers. I’m not far from town, but far enough from the clubhouse to know that’s not an option. If I try to make it back there now, I won’t make it. I take the next exit, tires screeching, heart pounding in my ears.

I need help. I need backup.

I reach for my phone in its holder, hands slick with blood. It slips—twice. The third time, I catch it before it falls completely. I almost laugh from the frustration. Almost. I try to hook it to my Bluetooth helmet, but the damn thing’s backward in the holder. Can’t get a signal. No voice activation. No, nothing. My fingers won’t stop slipping. Blood coats everything. The touchscreen laughs at me with every useless swipe.

Fuck.

I growl, teeth grinding together, fury mixing with panic. No one knows where I am. No backup. No weapons. Nothing but this bike and the half-fucked-up body I’m riding it with. I recheck the side mirror—those bastards are still on my ass. Idon’t have time to figure out my comms. I only have one option now.

The hospital.