Page 59 of Wicked Spite
“Fine,” she sighs after a beat, her resolve crumbling. “But I need to change first. You’re lucky I used quick dry polish.”
“Do it fast,” I tell her, releasing her reluctantly. “Meet me downstairs.”
She nods, and without another word, slips past me. Her scent lingers, teasing my senses as I head to the walk-in closet, yanking the door open with more force than necessary.
My hands are shaking as I grab the bag—a deep red duffle that’s seen better days. I open it and throw a couple of things in it into a black backpack.
“Fucking Graham,” I mutter under my breath, slinging the backpack over one shoulder.
I leave my room and make my way downstairs, each step heavy with anticipation and something primal lurking under the surface.
Outside, the night air works hard to temper my anger, but all I feel is spite. Spite for my brother, my wife, and my own fucking life. It’s a wicked thing, a beast of a feeling clawing at my throat and my eyes. Infecting me until all I feel is a shell of myself. Reagan needs to hurry up because I need to get on two wheels and fucking fast and I need her right now. There is no one else to play with for me. Not once I said those vows tying us together. Everyone else simply ceased to fucking exist.
My demons need to be let out, and my wife is the unlucky participant. Maybe it will scare her away. Part of me hopes it does. A bigger part of me hopes it doesn’t. Wanting heraround is more dangerous than anything else I’ve ever experienced.
I throw the backpack on, settling it against my back, and lean against my bike, waiting impatiently for her to hurry her ass up.
Five minutes feel like an eternity before she finally appears, striding toward me. She’s changed into a fitted leather jacket and tight jeans that hug her curves in all the right ways. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her.
“About time,” I growl, before moving behind her and taking her hair into my hands and quickly braiding it, tying off the end so we can leave. I press a kiss to the braid, inhaling deeply so the only thing filling my lungs is her.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
“Ready,” she replies, slipping on her helmet. Her eyes lock onto mine through the visor, challenging and inviting all at once.
“Get on,” I say, swinging my leg over the bike. She follows suit, her body pressing against mine as she settles into place.
“Hold on tight,” I warn, firing up the engine. The roar of it drowns out everything else, a visceral growl that echoes in my bones.
Her arms wrap around my waist tightly.
We peel out of the driveway; the tires skidding slightly on the gravel before catching grip.
The countryside blurs around us in shades of dark green and blue. The scent of earth and pine mingles with the exhaust as the cold winter air blows through us. Thank fuck it doesn’t snow here. Every twist and turn of the road feels like a dance, the bike leaning into each curve with grace.
We pass through small towns, their quaint charm a stark contrast to the life we live. Part of me wants to just keep ridingand never stop, but I know that’s not realistic. I can’t leave my brothers and even if I could, Robert would track my ass down and make me pay for it.
“Left or right?” Reagan asks, pointing ahead at a fork in the road. The sign to New Haven City looms, but I veer left without hesitation, choosing the narrower path surrounded by dense trees and foliage.
The air grows cooler, the scent of earth and pine sharper.
“Where are we going?” Reagan’s voice holds wariness. She trusts me enough to get on this bike, but not enough to let her guard down completely. Smart girl.
I don’t answer her, instead choosing to let her doubt and tension build.
I slow the bike to a crawl, the path no longer fit for speeding. Finally, I stop altogether. A tap on her leg signals her to dismount. She slides off gracefully, and I follow suit. Our boots hit the soft, damp ground, the scent of pine and rich soil flooding our senses.
“Okay, what in the Wrong Turn is this?” she quips, looking around, her eyes narrowing as if trying to read the secrets in the trees.
I pull off my helmet and run my hand through my hair, making sure my curls aren’t stuck to my head weirdly. I’m a little vain about my hair and I make no apologies for that.
My wife follows my lead, taking off her own helmet and shaking out her hair even though it’s braided back. “Is this where you take me into a shack in this creepy-ass forest and sacrifice me in some odd satanic ritual? If so, I would have dressed in my most virginal outfit for extra points.”
I shrug off the backpack and open it, reaching in and feeling the cold material of the mask in my hand before pulling it out. The thought of what’s about to happen sends ashiver of anticipation down my spine. I slip the mask over my face, concealing my identity.
“You know Halloween was months ago, right?” Reagan hisses, her voice thick with annoyance.
“Always with the smart-ass mouth. I need to fucking gag you.” I say, smirking even though she can’t see it. I sigh theatrically, as I put my hand back in my bag and pull out my long knife. “Can’t a guy have a little fun?”
