Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
And yet, I turn and look my aunt straight in the face, meeting her gaze defiantly. “He needs to be seen by a doctor!”
I’m so fucking dead as soon as I step out of this building, but hospitals have always been neutral ground. I can only hope it stays that way.
Her nostrils flare in the same way they always did when she thought I was being a naughty child. Her eyes are puffy from not enough sleep, and her mascara is smudged under one eye. She’s familiar, someone I used to celebrate holidays with, but right now, she is working against me rather than with me, and I need to accept that.
“What are you doing, Clyde?” she whispers. “Take him to the basement.”
Where he’ll die. Because who the fuck cares about a Vulture, right?
I huff, rearranging Road a little because he’s damn heavy, and while I love to feel his heartbeat against my back, we need to get moving.
“He needs to be revived at all cost.” I lower my voice. “He has life or death intel.” Whatever gets her moving. I’d lie, steal, cheat, and kill to get him seen by a doctor. As a woman affiliated with the club, she shouldn’t ask any more questions, or interfere with treating Road.
She’ll also call my uncle when she’s able to, but hopefully Road will be taken care of by then. Our gazes meet, and while she doesn’t appear convinced, she runs off, and two more people arrive with a gurney.
I feel eyes on me, including the security camera in the corner, and I know I’m fucked, but at least there’s hope for Road. I took his phone off him, just in case, and I’ll stay here to watch over him. Anything else is in the hands of fate.
Chapter 35
Road
I have the headache of all headaches, and the insistent beep repeating every second feels like a stab each time. My mind’s slow, blood sluggish, so I stay still, hoping that if I remain immobile, dreams might sweep me off the surface and carry me into the peaceful waters of sleep. But that’s not happening, and when the stabbing ache becomes faster, I groan, grabbing at my face before rising off the bed… or rather attempting to, because I’m pulled back down, as if someone’s strapped me to the mattress.
My eyes fly open, then close when I’m assaulted by sun so bright one look is enough to make them throb.
Someone gasps next to me and grabs my hand with warm fingers. “Stay down, Road. How are you doing? Do you want me to call the nurse? Do you need to throw up?”
Clyde.
…Clyde?
Memories of last night are a moving Rubik’s cube with missing squares.
Clyde saving me from his club, only to end up dead at their feet. The sheer guilt of letting it happen. Despair, and a sense that everything was now lost.
I overdosed. On purpose. Because what could I possibly go back to after that? No Clyde. No Vultures.
My life would make no sense without them.
The pain-inducing noise speeds up further, and I open my mouth, trying to speak but finding my throat choked up and stiff. Because Clyde cannot be here. This must be a dream.
Or…. Was I successful? Am I no longer alive?
I thought death would be the end, that I would drift off into peaceful nothing and never have to suffer or worry again, but the hand in mine feels so warm, so material—
Clyde pulls his chair closer, his blue eyes so warm when they meet mine. “Just nod if it’s hard to speak,” he says softly. “I found you at my shack yesterday, brought you here. They pumped your stomach, and you’re stable. Strong as an ox.” He strokes my hand with his thumb, and it’s so soothing I could cry. My sweet Clyde, who said he missed me.
I don’t nod, but don’t shake my head either, narrowing my eyes to protect them from the daylight. “W-what?” I choke out and watch Clyde move in the corner of my eye. And then, the intense glow softens enough for me to glance toward the window. Clyde’s standing over me, his shadow providing all the relief I need.
Still, this is too good to be true.
He can’t actually be here.
“You died. I saw you die.”
Clyde sighs and sits on the bed, most definitely not dead. “I made a deal with Bracer, played dead, but that’s all down the drain now, so it doesn’t matter. Maybe I can still fulfill it? I don’t know. What matters is that you’re alive, and you’re never taking fucking drugs again. What the fuck was that, huh?”
The headache suddenly feels even worse, like a hangover after being forced to drink insufficiently filtered spirit. “I should be asking that,” I mumble, squeezing my eyes to release some of the tension in my eyelids. “I almost died for nothing… what the hell?” I ask and place both of my hands on his as relief floods in, filling me with warmth.