We sat there, miserable, letting the mountain bleed off some of the storm. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, feeling like a grade school fuck-up, and stared at the mud collecting in the tread of my boots.
After a minute, he took out a cigarette, shielding it from the wind long enough to spark the flame. He offered it to me. I took it, dragging hard, the smoke burning my throat in a way that felt holy.
“You’re not like them,” he said, and for a second, I thought I caught real pain in his voice. “I know what they did to you. I know you don’t owe anyone shit.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and for once his eyes weren’t calculating or cold. Just tired.
“Why did you do it?” I asked. “Back there, with Rex.”
He ground out the butt and shrugged. “Somebody had to. I won’t fucking let anyone hurt you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he said. “Enough,” he said a little softer.
I believed him. Not because he was a hero—Augustine was nobody’s idea of a white knight—but because in this world, the only thing that mattered was finishing what you started. If you left a job half done, the universe came back for you with knives and clubs and broken promises.
He hauled himself to his feet, hand still glued to his ribs. I could see the blood now, dark and ugly, where it leaked through his shirt.
“You coming?” he said.
I stared at the trees. There was nothing out here but rain and ghosts.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m coming.”
We limped back through the woods, the storm washing the blood from our hands but not our memories. The bike was still there, engine ticking as it cooled. Augustine swung a leg over with a grunt and waited for me.
I climbed on behind him, this time wrapping my arms a little less tightly, the space between us not so much a truce as a ceasefire.
He revved the engine. We roared back onto the highway, the mountain swallowing us whole, both of us knowing that the real monsters were still out there, waiting for the rain to stop.
We ate highway for another half hour, climbing higher, the mountain shedding civilization like old snakeskin. The rain beat down in waves, pelting my skull until I felt hollow. The only light was the moon, veined behind cloud, and the one working headlamp on the Leatherback’s bike. Everything else was a rumor of shapes in the dark.
Somewhere near the state line, Augustine veered off onto a forestry road. The bike fishtailed on wet gravel and almost dumped us both, but he kept it upright with a grunt and a curse. I could taste blood in my mouth. There was a sick logic to his direction—no way in hell the localsheriff or Saint Etienne’s brotherhood muscle would risk a chase in these woods in this weather.
We rode until the engine choked on its own misery and Augustine coasted to a stop at a pull-off that overlooked a black, bottomless chasm. He swung off the bike, boots crunching through sodden pine needles, then just stood there for a second, head down, rain tracing little rivers over his neck and into his shirt.
I peeled myself off the pillion seat. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I was so cold I couldn’t feel my toes, and my soaked hair clung to my face, a curtain I could hide behind. My jeans weighed about ten pounds. The whole world was water and bone.
Augustine didn’t say shit for a long minute. He just stared into the abyss like it owed him money.
Finally, I worked up the nerve to speak. “What now?” My voice sounded like a twelve-year-old with bronchitis.
He didn’t turn. “We wait for the sky to clear. Or at least for them to stop looking.”
A flash of lightning made the trees flicker electric blue, then dead black. Thunder rolled up from the valley, drowning out my next breath.
“Are you even listening to me?” I said. The words came out louder than I meant. “There’s nowhere to go, Augustine.They’ll be waiting at every border. You know how the club works.”
He finally looked at me, and for once his eyes were soft. Maybe even sad. “You hungry?”
The question was so normal it almost made me laugh. I barked something that was probably supposed to be a giggle but came out like a dry heave.
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” I admitted, rubbing my arms for warmth.
He limped to the bike and dug around in the saddlebag, eventually producing a Slim Jim and a pack of powdered donuts, both probably older than I was. He tossed me the donuts, then sat down on a mossy rock, chewing the beef stick like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.
I took a donut, my hands still trembling. The powder got everywhere, turning my fingers corpse-white. I forced myself to eat, jaw working on autopilot.