Bounty:Fury Riders MC(7)

By: Zoey Parker





Who the hell was she? What had I gotten myself into when I picked her up off the ground? And why did that asshole want to hurt her? I hoped it was something as simple as him wanting to rob or rape her—not that rape was simple, but it would mean she was a stranger.



Otherwise, she was fucked, because the Vicious Wolves didn’t back down once they got their teeth into someone.



I wasn’t sure where to go. If they were following us, the clubhouse would be the safest place. It would also be the worst. I didn’t want a war tonight.



My eyes went between the road in front of me and my mirrors. I needed to know if there was any chance of being followed. I couldn’t lead anyone to the rest of my club. They knew where our headquarters was located, but leading them there after I beat the shit out one of their guys would be a bad move.



After five or six blocks, I could see there was no one, and I dropped the speed a bit. The last thing I needed was to get pulled over with blood on my knuckles.



“Where are we going?” She sounded panicked. I didn’t blame her, but she could have at least sounded a little grateful. I didn’t have to help her. I didn’t answer. She’d find out soon.





Chapter Four




Erica





I was fairly certain I’d throw up all over the back of his leather vest by the time my misadventure was over. I wanted to close my eyes and take deep breaths, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt myself getting dizzy. It was being on the motorcycle. I couldn’t seem to get used to the feeling. The panic probably wasn’t helping.



It was a struggle not to lean the side of my face against his back, just to rest my head and calm myself. Who knew how he would take it. Besides, what I’d seen him do to that man didn’t give me confidence, even if the pig deserved it.



What had I seen before that? Was the man in the alley dead? I shuddered, my arms tightening around the stranger’s waist. How could one person be so evil and cold toward someone else? But there was no doubting what my eyes had seen. The knife had disappeared into the man’s stomach like it was butter.



It could have disappeared into me.



“I have to throw up,” I moaned, fighting the wave of nausea.



“We’re almost there.” He barked it like I was an inconvenience. He didn’t have to take me with him. Now he was treating me like a piece of garbage.



“I mean it! I have to puke!”



“Calm down. Take a breath. You’ll be fine. I can’t stop right now.” His words were almost lost in the wind, and I had to lean into him to pick them up. I smelled sweat, blood, and aftershave. It was a unique mixture, and it didn’t do much for the nausea.



But I did as he said and took a deep breath. Then another. I told myself to calm down. I didn’t get hurt except for the scrapes along my hands from the glass on the sidewalk. That was nothing. The man in the alley was probably dead. I had a boo-boo.



The thought made me laugh. I was becoming hysterical. Calm down, girl, I thought, taking another breath. You’re fine.



Was I? I didn’t know this man from Adam, and I’d seen what he could do with his fists. What would he do to me?



No. Don’t even think about it. He didn’t have to save me. This wasn’t the jungle—he wasn’t taking me for himself. He was ensuring I didn’t get hurt. I could call a cab when I got to wherever we were going. It wouldn’t be a big deal. I could go home and crawl into bed and consider staying a children’s photographer for the rest of my life because nothing was worth the feeling that I was about to die.



I thought about my camera, back in the pocket of my hoodie. If the memory card was destroyed or somehow stuck inside, there was no chance of using what I had on there. It would all have been for nothing. What a joke. What a cruel, senseless joke. It reminded me of the end of my favorite episode of “The Twilight Zone,” when the man with the thick glasses finally had time to read all the books he ever wanted…before his glasses fell to the ground and broke. I felt like that man.



We sped on and I looked at the man who had saved my life. Who the heck was he? Why me? Was the Universe throwing me a bone to make up for my broken camera by sending a man to save my life? He didn’t look like an angel, and I didn’t think angels typically beat men unconscious. I’d never forget the way it felt to see another person’s face getting punched in like that. Not that he didn’t deserve it—he totally did, and then some. But it was nothing like what I’d seen in the movies. Visceral and loud. I had heard his nose break. It wasn’t a sound effect. I’d heard the real thing. My skin crawled.

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