One foot angles in favor of the room, but the rest of me pushes forward. Five seconds to get a drink and then back to the room. Maybe ten. With my stomach in my throat, I brave the enclave, slip the fifty cents into the coin slot and then attempt to shove the dollar into the machine. With a whine, it spits the money back out. With a second whine, the machine cranks the bill out again. “Come on!”
My skin shrinks against my bones. Saran Wrap tight, my flesh feels like it needs to be shed. There’s something wrong out here. Something evil. With shaky hands I try one last time and the machine inhales the dollar.
A push of a button. A racket that could wake the dead. My hand swipes up the water. A flash of black to my right and I suck in a breath to scream.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Taller than me. And he blocks my way.
I stumble back, tripping over myself. The water thumps to the concrete and a hand whips out and grabs my wrist. Air leaves my lungs in a hiss when my body slams into the cinder-block wall.
My mouth opens again and a hot hand presses against my lips. A sob racks me and blue eyes lower to mine. “It’s me, Emily. It’s Oz. Right now I need you to be quiet. Do you hear me? Quiet.”
He’s whispering while he muffles my scream. Quiet is not what I need. My eyes dart around. We’re wedged in a small space between the vending machine and the wall. His body is pressed tightly to mine, so much so that it’s hard to draw in air. Cobwebs touch the top of Oz’s head. A spider the size of my fist swings precariously above us, its legs twisting as it spins its web.
A sound leaves my throat as a tear cascades down my face.
“Quiet,” Oz demands again. “Please, Emily. Be still.”
I blink at the please. His blue eyes soften and my senses go on alert. Almost like my energy is reaching out to find the real threat—a threat my instincts inform me is worse than what’s in front of me.
Oz slowly withdraws his hand from my mouth and the flood of cold air on my face causes me to tremble. He continues to lower his hand to his hip and wraps his fingers around the hilt of a blade stuck inside a leather sheath.
There’s activity beyond us. A slow tapping of a boot against the sidewalk. A scrape comparable to sandpaper against the concrete wall. Then a shadow. Large. Looming. The head of the dark shadow hits near my feet.
“The water bottle.” My lips move.
Oz tilts his head as if he sees the shift in my mood. “I know,” he mouths. “Shh.”
Chaos reigns inside my mind. Oz can kill me or Oz can save me or Oz can do one now and then another later.
The footsteps begin again, echoing closer to our hiding spot. Fear gains in strength, causing a wave of dizziness to wash over me. Oz weaves an arm around my back and circles us so that I’m wedged into the corner and he’s positioned near the threat.
Heat builds between us and my pulse beats wildly at my pressure points. He continues to gently guide me into the extremely small crevice behind the machine. My foot tangles with a cord and I trip to the right. My hand snaps out and I grab on to Oz’s belt loop as both of his hands land on my hips.
We’re crushed against each other. Warmth rolls off his body and onto mine. He must feel it—my fear, the blood drumming throughout my veins. My eyesight nearly shakes with it.
Oz does a strange thing. He smiles. It’s a crazy smile, but beautiful. My body tingles when he swipes his thumb under my shirt and across the sensitive skin of my waist.
He leans forward, his breath hot against my ear. Only one guy has been this near me before. Body against body. Thighs against thighs. Warm breath brushing the back of my ear. We didn’t go far that night. We didn’t go far at all—not emotionally, not physically...just not. And standing here pressed between a wall and Oz, my entire body becomes aware.
“If he finds us,” he breathes into my ear, “you run, Emily. You run and keep running until you lock yourself in the room. Then you call Eli.”
Oz pulls back and our noses almost touch. I strain to listen. No footsteps. No sound beyond my own frantic breaths. Then a thump to the concrete. Like a bottle dropping. My stomach sinks along with it. And there’s a rolling of plastic...getting closer...closer. So close that it’s next to us.
My eyes flash to Oz’s. I’m about to explode out of my skin yet he’s calm, steady, solid. He meets my gaze, never once looking elsewhere. The bottle continues to roll away...away...to the point I believe that the sound I hear is only in my mind. An echo of my fears.
No longer able to handle Oz’s intense stare, I lower my head and my body sags. Oz eases a hand to the nape of my neck, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder. I do, then inhale the calming scent of burned wood. It conjures images of bonfires on the beach. S’mores on the back patio with my father. Nights by the fireplace as a child.
Oz’s hand is hot on my skin and my muscles melt under his strong caress. An eternity passes. Stars are born then die. He relaxes his grip on me and my fingers curl into his belt loops when he tries to maneuver away.
“Did you hear that?” he asks.
The rolling? It’s still in my head and so are the footsteps, but I shake my head no.
“It’s my cell,” he says under his breath, and sure enough I hear a vibration. “I need to answer.”
I release him and he slips his phone out of his back pocket. “I nine-one-one’d Eli and he’s on his way. I need to get you within walls. Stay here and don’t move.”
Oz steps back and I shiver with the cold infiltrating where he had been. My eyes widen. His knife is in his hand. I never saw him free the blade and I never felt him move to do so.
Oz peers around the corner. One way. Then the next. The fear is so encompassing that it almost shifts into hysterics.
“Stay put,” he commands. I’m normally not a take-orders-from-a-guy type of girl, but I’m all for following directions since my feet are frozen to the ground.
Oz disappears and a small part of me internally cries. Alone has never felt so...alone.
An electric buzz of the vending machine. The gentle tap of water leaking from a pipe above. Not knowing if the footsteps drifting away are what I should be terrified of.
Because it’s overwhelming, I count. Throwing in the Mississippi in between like Mom taught me. I count slower when I hit fifty, then even slower when I hit two hundred. I start again at zero, pretending that his absence during the first three hundred seconds doesn’t matter.
Oz appears in front of me again and my knees give out at the sight. He extends his hand. “Those two guys are still here, but they walked around the corner. I can slip you back in your room, but we need to be quiet.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
Oz’s shoulders stiffen and his eyes bore into mine. “People neither one of us want to mess with. Let’s go.”
Oz
EMILY’S CHEST RISES and falls at an alarming rate and I pray she doesn’t faint.
She’s smaller than me and she’s curvy as hell. She wears a pair of hip-hugging jean shorts and a tight blue tank that covers enough of her top, but rides short and highlights her flat stomach. I’ve never been so damned captivated by a belly button in my life. Hate to admit it, but with that long chestnut hair and those big dark eyes, Emily is hot.
She’s also in a ton of trouble and if she doesn’t trust me soon and take my hand, she’s going to turn her problems into my problems and that will be dangerous for us both.
“If I was the enemy, Emily, I would have already slit your throat and thrown your body into the trunk of a car.”
“You’re not helping,” she whispers.
“But it’s the truth. Now, let’s go.”
She sucks in her bottom lip and I wiggle my fingers, signaling for her to follow. It’s like convincing an injured animal to eat from my hand. I get why she doesn’t trust me. If I were in h
er shoes, I’d be weighing my options. One of them being jacking the knife in my hand and slicing my way out of this situation.
Emily extends her hand—moment by moment. Centimeter by centimeter. At any point, I could have grabbed her and hauled her out, but something tells me that she’s never faced any level of danger. To expect her to be braver than most is unfair, especially when she’s impressed me with how well she’s handled tonight.
The moment her smooth fingers touch mine, I link our hands together and we’re on the move. As I tighten my grip on her, I secure my knife in my other hand. Eli and Dad have taught me stuff over the years. All of it without Mom’s knowledge or permission. It involves the whereabouts of arteries, kidneys and liver, and each conversation and demonstration involved a blade.
We round the corner and I halt, hiding her from view. A burly guy with fists the size of concrete blocks stands outside the door to Emily’s room. I push Emily back into the walkway and silently curse. “Tell me you locked the door behind you.”
Her face pales out and I have my answer. She shoves at me, but she’s such a tiny thing that it’s nothing more than the beats of a butterfly’s wings. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t bother replying. We go in the opposite direction of her room. Actually, I go and pull her behind me. She yanks at my hand and tries to dig her feet into the ground, but I’m bigger and I’m stronger and I’m getting her the hell out of here.
I peer around the other side of the building and when I spot nothing, I head for the truck, thanking God I had the forethought to drive it to this side before chasing after her. I drag Emily forward and open the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
At the sight of the truck’s interior, Emily tries to create space between us as she jerks at my hold on her wrist. “I’m not going with you.”
Screw this. I lean into Emily and she stumbles until her back smacks the inside of the door.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but you have the biggest illegal motorcycle club in Kentucky literally on your doorstep. We don’t have time to argue. Get in the truck now!”
Her frantic movements stop and I don’t care for the deer-caught-in-headlights thing she’s melded into. With a ragged breath, her eyes shoot to the small tunnel of a hallway we emerged from and I can read her mind.
My arm snaps out and I clutch the edge of the door, blocking her path. “Eli’s on his way and he will protect your parents, but I can’t protect you and them at the same time. You know as well as I do, you can’t stop anything that’s happening. By standing here fucking with me, you are placing them in danger. Not me. Get in the truck, Emily, and let me get help.”
“They’re my parents,” she pleads.
“And you’re stopping me from getting them help. Get in the truck so I can make some calls.”
She swallows and in seconds she’s in the passenger side of the truck. I shut her door, race around, slide in and start the engine. With my cell out and the number dialed, I place the phone to my ear and slowly ease out of the parking lot.
One ring and Cyrus answers, “Eli’s coming in fast and dangerous, son. The text you sent better mean that death’s on Emily’s doorstep.”
Close enough. “The Riot’s at her motel. Emily’s with me. Tell me where to go.”
“You bring her home.”
I check the rearview mirror as I floor the gas and pray I don’t see headlights.
Emily
WE’VE DRIVEN IN silence and, mile after black mile, I keep wondering if I’m in a dream. I’ve lost all sense of direction as we’ve ridden through a maze of back roads and a few minutes ago we ended up on blacktop so narrow I consider it more of a path than a road. There was a crudely made street sign at the turn and it read Thunder Road. Frightening how the name describes the storm I’ve been sucked into.
The truck gently jostles back and forth and dips with the occasional pothole. From the limited range of the headlights, I can tell that the sides of the road are thick with brush and trees. Every now and then a low-hanging limb smacks the cab of the truck. There’s no moon. There’s no light. There’s only darkness.
My teeth chatter and Oz turns his head to look at me. “Are you cold?”
I don’t know. Am I? Oz flicks a few switches, points the vents toward me and heat begins to dance along my skin. Even with the added warmth, my teeth chatter again and I run my hands along my arms. The cold...it’s not in a place that a heater can reach. It’s past my skin, past my muscles and into my bones.
“Maybe we should go back for my parents.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he responds.
“Are they okay?”
His phone has rung a couple of times. Oz answers it, listens, then mumbles some sort of an “okay” and drops his cell back into the cup holder. Surely, he’s heard something. We’ve been driving for too long. Forever. But according to the clock, forty minutes.
“We’re almost there,” Oz says as an answer.
“I asked about my parents,” I snap.
His forever-roaming eyes check the rearview mirror again. “They’re safe. At least they were the last time the club checked in.”
I close my eyes as the tension escapes from my neck. “Why couldn’t you say that?”
“Because I don’t know how long that will remain true and I’m not about false hope.” Before the shock of his words can set in, he continues, “The club’s with them, but the next couple of hours are critical. Your job is to lay low and not contact anyone. Do you understand?”
No. I don’t understand any of this. I draw my knees to my chest in an effort to fight the freezing temperatures in my veins. “Where are we going?”
Oz switches the hand on the wheel and leans against his door. “Olivia’s.”
Olivia’s. My head hits the back of the seat. “Oh.” Oh.
“I spend a lot of time there. Sometimes more than at my own home,” he says, and before I can respond he continues, “And here we are.”
My breath is stolen from my body as I take in the sight. It’s an overgrown log cabin with every window lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Running along the wraparound front porch are rosebushes tangled with vines of honeysuckle. It’s beautiful, picture-perfect and surely not the place where bikers live.
“Shocked?” There’s a bite in Oz’s voice and it causes me to stare at him. He parks the truck off to the side of the house and shuts off the engine. “Considering what most people think of us, shocked is the most common reaction.”
Because they are bikers and this...this place is gorgeous. Oz swings out of the truck and I’m surprised when he meets me at my side, opens the door and then offers me his hand. “It’s a jump.”
He’s right. I didn’t notice it on the way up, but now facing the prospect of down, I have a respect for the two feet. He has a strong hand. It’s a bit rough, but not sandpaper. It’s a hand that leads, not a hand that follows, and I really shouldn’t be thinking too much about this anymore.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod then jump. Once on the ground, Oz pulls on my fingers, encouraging me to move forward. I barely trust him so I slip out of his grasp and he doesn’t fight the distance I crave. “The next time someone calls, can I talk to my parents?”
Oz’s forehead wrinkles and suddenly the big, scary guy doesn’t appear so big and scary as his eyes soften. “Let’s go inside. We’ll know more then.”
“What if you’re lying to me?” I ask, because I’d prefer that to my parents being in danger. “What if this was some sort of elaborate scheme to get me to talk to Olivia? I mean, you guys kept my father from me today.” Well, yesterday.
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“What if this is a—” air quotes “—misunderstanding?”
“Not that you’d know, but I don’t jack off to shoving hot g
irls into spider-infested crevices between vending machines, so how about you cut me some slack?”
I blink. Several times. Did he just call me...? And did he just say...? Heat flushes my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and shock. The door on the porch squeaks open and a figure made of solid muscle stalks onto the porch. “Oz.”
The porch light flips on and it’s the man with the long gray beard and ponytail who stood beside Oz outside the funeral home. He’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt and an open red flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Seeing him, I empathize with Jack swaddling the stolen goose in his arms as he faces down the very ticked-off giant.
His gaze lands on us and I don’t miss how it lingers on me. I inch closer to Oz and my side brushes against his. I don’t know why, but my instincts scream that Oz means safety. He presses a hand to the small of my back and it’s as if an invisible force field forms around us.
Oz doesn’t push me ahead. Instead, he skims one finger along my spine. I shiver and this time it isn’t from the cold.
“That’s Cyrus,” Oz says so only I can hear. “He’s Eli’s dad. Your grandfather.”
My heart aches. The pain comes sharp and fast and it hits so hard that I know it will leave a scar. “I didn’t know I had one.”
Eli mentioned Olivia before, but he never discussed his father and I never cared enough to ask or imagine one existed. Maybe Eli did mention him and I blocked it out.
Oz inclines his head to the house. I walk forward and Oz is kind enough to match his pace to my slow stride.
“You’re being nice to me,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
“Did you think I was an asshole?”
Um...yeah. “Well...”
“Your first instinct was right.”
“Why are you being nice to me then?” I ask as we reach the stairs.