Page 73 of Overdose
Voicemail.
“Fuck,” I snarl, gripping the throttle like I could snap it. My boot slams the kickstand up. “No. Nope. Not fucking happening.”
I need backup. But not my guys. Not yet. So I call the one fucking person I hate enough to trust.
It rings once.
Noir picks up. “What happened?”
“Something’s wrong. Get to the motel. Now.”
“Fuck.” A pause. Then, “Alright, I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.” No more words. No point.
I yank the helmet on, strap it fast. Gloves next—slammed on, no finesse, just speed.
Every second wasted is one she might not have.
I fire the engine. It roars to life, loud and pissed.
Then I’m gone. Tire screaming, wind ripping at my jacket, the night blurring around me as I tear toward the motel—praying I’m not too fucking late.
Headlights blur past in streaks. Wind hits like knives. But none of it matters.
All I hear is her laugh—sharp, reckless, wrapped in smoke and sugar. The way she looked that night. High as fuck, dancing like the world couldn’t touch her.
Fuck—how it felt to finally have her.
That moment when all the sharp edges dropped, when the attitude slipped, and she let herself fall apart in my hands. A girl like her doesn’t hand that over easily. Doesn’t let anyone see the cracks.
But she let me, and now she’s not answering. Ruck’s not answering.
I already fucking know.
I take a corner too fast—rear tire kicks out, gravel spits, the whole bike bucking beneath me.
I nearly eat asphalt.
I don’t slow down.
Because there’s only one reason it’s this quiet.
I’m already too fucking late.
I pull into the lot,gravel crunching under my tires as I slow to a crawl. And immediately, I know something’s wrong.
Too quiet.
No Ruck leaning against the railing with that bored-ass look like he’s been doing me a favor just by breathing. No hookers on the walkway or posted up on the picnic table trying to bum smokes or flash a little leg for attention.
It’s dead.
Too fucking dead.
I kill the engine, slam the kickstand down, and swing off the bike. The second my boots hit gravel, I’m yanking off my helmet, tossing it onto the seat like it’s too fucking heavy to hold. My gloves hit the pavement next—one, two—before I’m rolling my shoulders, shaking out the tension.
Then my hand drops to the blade under my jacket. No hesitation. No second thought. Fingers curl tight around the grip like muscle memory, like I’ve been waiting for this moment all goddamn night.
I don’t call out. Don’t make a sound. Just move—low, fast, quiet. A shadow cutting through the dark. Every hair on the back of my neck stands up, instincts screaming.
