Ruthless: A Dark & Dirty MC romance by Christa Wick & C.M. Wick

Author:Christa Wick & C.M. Wick [Wick, Christa & Wick, C.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-05-14T04:00:00+00:00

9

Avery

Callan hustled me out of the hotel room. We couldn’t just hop on the bike and ride out of the hotel’s single drive. Not with the cops potentially on the way and the loyalty of the clerk in question. Callan pushed his bike up the steep embankment on our side of the parking lot. As early as it was, there was no traffic on the other side of the small hill.

He hadn’t spoken to me since telling me to cut up the shower curtain. Everything since then was communicated in grunts and hard nods and head jerks. I didn’t challenge him on it. I could see the tension that possessed his entire body. I could feel the sick shake of adrenaline that still infected my limbs and knew he had at least as much of the chemical pumping through his blood.

With the bike finally on the curb, I climbed on behind him and tried to hide the tremble in my hands as I fastened the helmet on my head. We had come up from Florida and had planned on heading north east from Atlanta until we got too close to the Washington DC area with its massive level of surveillance.

I didn’t have a clue whether that was still the plan until we hit the onramp of I-85. We stayed on the freeway until Greenville. In Greenville, we stopped at a mom and pop grocery store. Callan had me stay near the front of the store, positioned at a magazine rack where I could look out on the parking lot while remaining relatively hidden. Once he had cleared checkout and we were back outside, we crossed the small shopping plaza to a hardware store. This time, he kept me with him while he picked up black spray paint and some kind of metal filler. The last thing he did before we left the plaza and Greenville was pry the chrome lightning bolts off the bike and toss them in a dumpster.

From Greenville, we took back roads, our direction more or less parallel to the interstate while avoiding it. He had filled the holes from the discarded bolts with the metal filler. The container stated a drying time of ninety minutes. We were a few minutes beyond that hour and a half when we stopped again, this time at a little roadside park commemorating a long dead war hero.

With me off the bike and holding my backpack and the store bags, Callan pushed the motorcycle into the trees until we couldn’t see the park and its buildings. Finding a small clearing, he put a flat rock under the kickstand and grabbed the bag from the hardware store.

Shaking the can of spray paint, he nodded at the other bag. “You should eat.”

They were the first words to come out of his mouth since Atlanta and it bugged me. Someone had a gun to his head a few hours ago and he’d almost killed the man because of it. We left that man gagged with his hands tied behind the base of a toilet.

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