Her perfume fought through the wind and gasoline—something high-end and vanilla, out of place against the sweat and engine grease. I wondered if she’d picked it for a funeral, or if that’s just how she always smelled. I caught myself breathing deeper, and then wanted to punch myself in the face for noticing.
We hit the straightaway and the bike leveled out. I eased off the throttle, just enough for her to find her breath.
“You okay?” I shouted.
“Don’t slow down!” She squeezed, voice muffled by my back.
I grinned and gave it more gas. As we tore up the shoulder, I checked the mirrors: nothing but empty sky behind us. The world got simpler at speed. No questions, no bullshit, just the physics of survival.
By the time we hit the outskirts of town, her grip had changed. Less desperate, more calculated. Like she was using me for ballast, not salvation.
I cut a quick left and eased the bike into a wide parking lot behind a boarded-up liquor store. I killed the engine and let the silence crash down.
She didn’t let go, not at first. I waited.
“Melissa,” I said, soft.
She unclenched, then slid off the bike. Her boots hit the ground with a squelch; she staggered but caught herself. Her hair was a mess, her face even worse, but her eyes were sharper than ever.
“Where are we?” she said.
“Safe. For now.”
She scanned the lot. “You think they followed?”
I shook my head. “You can spot a tweaker car from a mile away. We’re clean.”
Melissa paced a tight loop, then leaned against the wall, legs shaking. She stared at me for a long moment, and I saw her do the math: the odds, the risks, her own bruised pride.
“You could have just left me,” she said. Not a question, just a statement of fact.
“I don’t like leaving messes in my backyard,” I said.
She almost smiled, but caught herself. “You ever do this before?”
“Save a stranger? Sometimes. They don’t usually dress like you, though.”
She snorted. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually get my ass saved by a biker.”
I shrugged. “It’s a new day.”
She looked at my hands, then her own. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Then you’re in luck,” I said, and kicked the stand on the Harley. “Because I do.”
She looked at the bike, then at me. “If you kill me, do it fast.”
I laughed, sharp and loud. “You’re the last person I’d waste a bullet on, princess.”
She straightened, pushing off the wall. “Fine. Take me.”
I took her, and we rode.
We chewed up the miles, hands numb and hearts somewhere between our throats and our asses. I kept the throttle locked steady, but every few seconds I checked the mirrors, half-expecting to see a rusted-out Ford or a line ofbikes chasing us down. The only things behind us were fenceposts and heat shimmer.
When we finally pulled up to the Bloody Scythes compound, Melissa’s arms went rigid. I felt the pulse in her fingers, strong and staccato, digging through my cut and into my ribs. The clubhouse was impossible to miss—a cinderblock fortress with razor wire looping the top, faded murals of flames and skulls leering over the main gate. A plywood sign with the club’s scythe-and-skull logo hung from a pole, and every window was bandaged in metal grates. Even on a Tuesday at 8 a.m., there were at least three guards on the porch, all of them packing.
I killed the engine, and the silence was a shotgun blast to the ears. Melissa didn’t move, not at first. She just stared straight ahead, lips pressed so tight they went gray. The club’s colors—blood-red on black—seemed to sap what was left of the daylight.