Page 31 of Wreckage of My Life
I feel more than hear a bullet grazing my ear, then the front of the car pushing on the back of my Harley. I am pretty sure I got no chance now when I feel myself losing control of the bike.
I pull a hard left, heart slamming in my chest when I fly over a deep ditch. I let go of the handles of my bike when I don’t think I can land on the two wheels, and throw myself to the side. The high corn field I find myself in is cutting into my hands, but I don’t have time to worry about it when I feel a sharp pain in my ribs after I hit the ground only feet away from where my bike lands.
The engine stops and the silence is deafening, but I know they’re still there. The headlights from their car are shining in the corn field, and they start shooting blindly my way. Only through some miracle, I don’t get hit.
“You think we should go in there, make sure he’s dead?” A most definitely feminine voice sounds, and I swear I know who it is.
“Fuck, I think I see a car coming. We gotta go,” her male companion echoes in the quiet night. The fucker’s voice sounds familiar as well.
“Are we still gonna get paid though?” She sounds worried about her paycheck, oblivious to what getting caught would do to her.
“Fuck that, we’ll say he’s dead.” With that, two car doors slam shut, and I hear the car taking off.
The pain in my ribs is unbearable. I’m pretty sure at least one is broken, and I feel paralyzed in place. I have no idea how long I lie here in the cornfield, when the sound of a song shakes me out of my pain induced stupor.
Shakira, Shakira.
“The fuck,” I slur in pain to myself, but even that is just too painful.
It takes me a couple of repeats of the same word until I realize it is the phone inside my jacket. With everything in me, I manage to pull it out, but by the time I slide the bar on the screen to answer, I don’t have the energy to say much. I drop the phone and the call disconnects.
“Fucking yell,” I moan through the incredible pain. I can’t think where I have my phone, and the one with the weird ringtone must be Wyatt’s.
As if whoever called earlier could feel my distress, they call again.Shakira, Shakira. I take a deep breath, sweat breaking over my forehead when I turn on my side to pick it up from where I dropped it a minute ago.
“Wyatt?” A happy voice calls out when I finally manage to answer again. “What are you doing?”
I want to talk, but the pain is hindering me useless. All I can do is breathe into the phone. I crack one eye open and realize that it says Ali on the caller ID. Wyatt’s friend.
“Are you okay?” She must’ve heard my heavy breathing into the phone, and now she’s worried.
“Hel…p,” is all I can manage before I feel my head dropping to the rough ground, and everything goes black.
14
Wrecker
I moanin pain when someone grabs me by the shoulder and flips me on my back. I had one or two cracked ribs in my lifetime, but the pain from this one feels worse than before. Or maybe I’m getting soft. All these thoughts of leaving the club are getting me off my game and just about killed.
“Ali,” I hear my brother’s voice calling. It sounds far away while also close. I’m trying to figure out what would his woman be doing in this cornfield with me when I remember me asking for help when she called earlier. Fuck, how long was I out?
“Wyatt, we’re down here,” she about starts jumping up and down to get his attention. There’s some shuffling and I’m sure she just ran to him. “I thought you were dead,” she whispers, but I can still hear her in the quietness of the night. “Dylan is not okay.”
I find it funny that she recognized me, especially in the condition that I’m in. We met maybe twice, three times tops, over the years since she and Wyatt became friends. Either way, I’m grateful for it right now.
“Okay, baby, let me take a look.” I snort, but only in my head, at hearing the endearment. He is so pussy whipped, but she’s not having it. They’re just best friends, whatever the hell that means.
I finally see his large frame approaching me. Never have I been this happy to see my little brother.
“Wy,” I groan, the word coming out more like a pained whisper. “Took you long enough.”
“Dude,” he lifts one side of my leather jacket, probably looking for any gun wounds. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“They ran me off the road,” I am fairly close to hallucinating when I say that. “They didn’t get me,” I continue, slightly annoyed when I hear Ali whimpering somewhere to the side. “But I think I got a couple of broken ribs,” I admit.
Wyatt nods in understanding as if he’s talking to a small child. “They’ll tape you at the hospital. You need X-rays.”
That can’t happen. “Wy, my guns…” Because there’s one in the holster under my shirt, and another one in the secret compartment under the seat of my bike.
