Page 21 of Sexting the Bikers
It’s reckless. It’s stupid.
The screen lights up one last time.
Dog:I’ll be there in 10.
I don’t wait for a reply.
The second I hit send, I’m moving.
No tears now. No shaking hands. That part’s done.
I slip off the bed, crouch low, and move to the window again. This time I don’t just tug uselessly at the frame—I study it.
It’s locked, yeah. Reinforced too. But everything has a weakness. You just have to find it.
I run my fingers along the seam of the latch, feeling for give. The lock is old-school—decorative brass, fancy-looking but lazy. Whoever installed it wasn’t thinking about someone like me.
I grab the nail file from earlier—still tucked into my boot—and angle it carefully under the lip of the locking plate. It takes patience, leverage, and pressure from just the right angle.
The metal creaks.
I pause, heart hammering, listening.
Silence.
Good.
I press harder, twist, and feel the lock give with a soft metallicsnap.
“Got you,” I whisper.
The window groans as I ease it open, inch by slow inch. Cold night air hits my face. I breathe it in like it’s the first thing that’s been real in hours.
There’s a drop. Not high—maybe ten feet to the ground. I can take it.
I loop my jacket tighter, tie the sleeves around my waist so they won’t catch. Then I climb onto the sill, boots braced, hands gripping the edges.
One last glance behind me.
The dress still hangs in the wardrobe, a pale, mocking ghost. I slip out into the dark, swing my legs down, and lower myself as far as I can. My fingers burn holding my weight, but I drop the last few feet and land in a crouch.
Grass underfoot. Cold. Damp.
I exhale slowly. I made it.
But I’m not free yet.
I duck low, staying in the shadows, heart pounding with each step away from the house.
5
BISHOP
Idon’t like unanswered questions. And right now, one’s been missing for over forty minutes.
“Where the hell is Dog?” I mutter, checking my watch again, even though I’ve already done it twice in the last ten minutes.
He’s not in the garage. Not in the lounge. Not in the yard. Which means he’s either getting into trouble—or already neck-deep in it.
