Page 112 of Rider Daddies
And now it feels like my body and head are about to separate.
I grit my teeth and allow a scream to rip out of my mouth.
There’s only so long you can keep your body upright and stable before it eventually follows your head.
My ass leaves the seat as Tristan tries to rip my body away from the driver’s seat. The only part of my anatomy still holding on is one single foot, and it’s being lifted higher from the gas pedal more and more each second.
The car starts to slow down, and it veers off the road.
“You want us to crash?” he says in my ear. “Even when you’re dead, you can’t escape me. In fact, it will be easier for me when you’re dead. You won’t be able to run away then.”
Get this man a sedative before he says something even more revolting.
“I own you, Lucia. Dead or alive, you’re mine.”
The words cut through my body like a sharp icicle.
Necrophiliacs don’t deserve to live. Period.
When Mamma and I were about to board the flight of our lives over to the States, I asked her what gave her the strength to leave Papa and book the plane tickets.
She responded:“Sometimes in life, you need to cut out your emotions in order to make the right decision. The moment you start to see things objectively is the moment you start winning.”
I hear her voice reverberating around my body now, bringing strength to my muscles. It’s what gives me ammunition to headbutt Tristan in the temple.
I free myself from the lace bra that he has tried to pathetically knot around me, and get comfortable in the driver’s seat again.
But not too comfortable.
I survey my surroundings. It’s still pitch-black, flat desert stretching in all directions.
I suck in a deep breath like I’m about to dive into the Marina Trench, and step on the gas.
Hard.
My pulse booms louder than the roaring sound of engines as the vehicle builds speed.
When I reach my desired speed, I prepare for the worst. In killing Tristan, I might also kill myself if I perform this stunt badly.
I return to the rearview mirror to see the boys lined up behind me, Willow on the back of one of their bikes, poking her head out.
I don’t have time to gawp at my biker daddies for too long.
Tristan has already punched once. I see him in the corner of my eye re-curling his fists, preparing for strike number two.
I take another deep breath and slam on the brake before I can let him do that. The car screeches against the road, an awful shrilling sound filling my ears.
Time to have some fun.
I enable the parking brake and brace as the car starts spinning with a mind of its own, veering off the road.
Tristan curses over and over again.
I sit tight, my hands still clutching the wheel, because I’m not done yet.
Glass shatters, an off-key clatter of noise filling my ears. I taste blood, feel a pointed shard of glass cut into my skin somewhere.
Swallowing fear, I jerk my hands and steer a hard right.
