Page 2 of Enemy
I’m on the move before he can gather his wits.
Just as I’m about to reach for the gun, he crashes into me from the side. He might be a little shorter than me, but with the added speed, he’s like a bulldozer. We hit the floor and I don’t waste any time before punching him like he’s my new training bag.
I can take this fucker, all right, but the ticking in the background is messing with my head. How much time do we have? Thirty seconds? Sixty? Five minutes? Who the fuck knows?
I kick at his legs and grin when he stiffens in my grasp, offering me the opportunity to slam my fist into the side of his head again. He loses balance, and when his braid falls across my face, I’m sensing smoke, and whiskey, and all that nice, masculine shit. I got a whiff ofhim when we got in a fight last year, and it’s been on my mind in all types of unwanted ways. But the scent of his hair won’t stop me from covering him in a layer of bruises.
At the next punch I try to land, he grabs my arm and rolls us around with strength I wasn’t expecting. All of a sudden, Clyde’s on top of me, ass squarely on my hips, and I only get one glance at his scowl before he slams me in the face.
“Which one of you fuckers killed my brother?” he yells, leaning down.
That would be me. But why would I let him in on all my secrets before I buy him dinner?
The ticking in the background pulls me right back to reality, and I spit out blood gathering under my sore lips. “If I die, so do you, you fucking idiot!” I say gesturing in the vague direction of the bomb.
Clyde grabs the front of my bloodstained T-shirt and leans down so close I can almost feel his stubble against my skin. He doesn’t even blink as he stares into my eyes with a promise of painful death. “My club will avenge me, and at least you’ll be fucking dead.”
Wow.What did I ever do to him personally? Well, besides shoving a hook under his brother’s ribs and hauling him up with a building crane, but he doesn’t know that was me.
There might also be the fights we’ve had over the years, broken fingers, bikes set on fire…
“You’re fucked in the head,” I say, but when he shifts over me and tightens his thick fingers on my throat, cutting off my air, the storm raging in his gaze sends an unwanted shiver down my back. Clyde Turner might be a maniac, but he is a hot maniac, I can give himthat.
When the edges of my vision start to fade, I reach for the knife attached to my hip and stab it into his side.
He cries out and falls over, eyes filled with so much vulnerability, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“Motherfucker!” Clyde screams and kicks me, but then it all ends.
The explosion is deafening, my vision goes white, and time stops.
All I know is the ache in my head, in my back, my face. Even opening my eyes feels like too much effort, so I lie prone, engulfed in heat and a dull ringing I can’t seem to shake off. A grunt is what finally makes me open my eyes, and the view above leaves me confused. The ceiling of the warehouse has caved in, most of the pillar that supported its weightmissing. I cannot see fire, but smoke is rising above me, and the pale steel making up the building is lit up with the warm glow of flames.
That’s when memories flood back.
The shootout. Fighting Clyde Turner. The bo—the fuckingbombmust have gone off.
I attempt to sit up, but it’s like trying to crawl out from under a fallen motorcycle when near-blackout drunk, and I fall back, staring at the slab of metal resting on top of me. That explains why I feel so damn wasted.
The side of my face aches so bad I don’t dare touch it, but something’s dripping down my ear. Once more, I try to push up the slab of metal, but the effort only aggravates the wound in my side, making me dizzy with pain.
I have to catch my breath or I might puke.
I lay there for a while with a sinking feeling in my gut.
I’m gonna die here. I can’t feel my leg, fire is eating away at the building, and fuck knows what other wounds I’ve got, because I’m half-numb. Maybe it’s brain damage? A broken spine?
A cough to my side makes me turn my head. First, I spot the gun covered with dust, then fingers inching toward it, but no matter how much Clyde extends them, he can’t reach the weapon. Stupid fuck. Like I’m not dead already. At this point, shooting me would be mercy.
His face is covered with a layer of dust so dense that I only spot him under all the rubble when a flash of red blood comes out of his mouth with another cough.
And yet, somehow, he still manages to look hot. Damn him. Waste of a handsome man.
“Can you move?” I ask, surprised by the strained note in my own voice.
His blue eyes are bloodshot when he turns them to me with the fury I would have deserved if I had been the one to set up the bomb. “What’s it… fucking look like?” he utters, then tries to spit at me, but his red saliva doesn’t go far.
Clyde’s breathing is ragged, and I can just about imagine his lungs filling with blood. It’s not as satisfying as I imagined his death would be. Actually, the whole thing is a giant disappointment. I imagined myself bleeding out after someone stabbed me to death, or after getting half my face shot off, not in a burning building, trapped like a bug under someone’s thumb.
