Page 78 of Hit Man
“Hush. You’re okay, Aubrey. Turn right onto the next side street and pull over. Let me take care of things from there.”
I do as he says, his body once again leaning into the turn and keeping us upright.
Then everything happens in slow motion.
The bike hits something in the road.
We both fly off the seat and for a few horrifying seconds are airborne.
With lightning-fast reflexes, he uses his body to anchor us back in place. His muscular thighs squeezing the sides of the seat, his arms like two steel safety harnesses on either side of me. Somehow I manage to hang onto the handlebars.
A close call.
But it’s all for nothing. Our efforts futile because right after it is a pothole the size of a small crater that runs from one side of the road to the other mere inches away.
I hit the brakes and the bike swerves.
This time, we’re airborne and flying through the air.
“Hang on,” Diego snarls, pulling me into him, using the weight of his body to turn us, so that when we hit the ground, he takes the brunt of it with me landing in the protective curl of his body on top of him.
“You okay?”
I choke back a sob. “Yes.” No. I’m not okay. Not even close to being . . .
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash.
Diego stiffens beneath me as he rolls us up to a seated position. I can only stare at him through my tears and watch as he manipulates his jaw, opening and closing his mouth like his jawbone’s been knocked out of place and he’s trying to readjust it.
I want to ask if he’s okay. But I. Can’t. Breathe. We survived the crash yet . . . my gaze falls onto the Harley and its front fender . . . which now appears to be part of the handlebars . . .
“My baby,” Diego mutters, his tone ripe with pain.
I cry harder.
Next thing I know, I’m cradled in his arms. “An adrenaline rush can be a bitch if you’re not used to it. Let it out.”
An adrenaline rush? That makes sense. That helps.
“Don’t bottle it up. If you don’t let go, it’ll eat you up on the inside.”
I cry until I can’t manage another tear. His black T-shirt is drenched, the smooth skin of his neck wet, an unhappy tale of everything I’ve been through now passed onto him in a moist mess.
“You done?”
I raise my chin, blinking, and look him in the eyes. “I think so.”
“You have somewhere to go?” He looks away toward his battered bike and grimaces.
I pause. No. No, I don’t. “Yes.”
He stands and pulls me to my feet. “Good. Hang low and keep out of trouble.” He runs his hand through his hair and seems to decide something. Without making eye contact, he turns away entirely and with long strides, heads toward his motorcycle.
I watch him upend the Harley, cursing up a storm. Watch as he paces back and forth, kicking the dirt and muttering beneath his breath. All signs of the tender man from moments ago gone.
His bike. I wrecked his bike.
I’m in a daze. Dealing with the aftermath of my emotional breakdown on top of another near-death experience. With great effort I will my feet forward, stepping over garbage and litter and away from the man who appeared out of nowhere.
