Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
So he wanted to rob me. A relief really, considering the alternatives. If you survive this, buy a cheap damned bike and dress like a felon.
My muscles trembled to hand over the bike. But rage drew my fingers around my hip, reaching for the gun.
His grip squeezed painfully hard and closed off my air. Blinding agony spread through my throat, burning my lungs. I grabbed with both hands, trying to pry away his fingers, my bulky gloves hindering my ability to latch on.
He raised his free hand and scratched the stubble on his jaw with a vicious-looking blade.
Oh God, I was in deep shit. “Help.” My shout roared through my head, but it escaped without breath or sound. Time slowed as I focused on my laboring heartbeat and my desperate need for air. Surely, he wouldn’t kill me. I couldn’t die silently, right here, where hundreds of people gathered just yards away.
But my hiding spot was too deep inside the alley, smothered in darkness. So damned stupid, Kaci.
The crowd was engaged in the race, screaming and cheering, with their backs to us. Not that they could’ve heard me over the thunder of all those engines and the passing trains above.
Black spots swarmed my vision. My helmet grew heavy, constricting, my feet kicking the pavement.
He glanced over his shoulder and back to me, deep grooves rutting his bald head. “Scream all you want. No one will hear you.” He loosened his grip but didn’t let go.
I sucked in rapid, painful breaths, my fingers gripping his, and choked, “I’ll step off the bike.” And reach for my gun. “Key’s in the ignition. Take it.” So I can put a bullet in your skull, motherfucker.
He stepped back to give me room, but as I slid off the seat, he didn’t release my neck and instead used it to shove my back against the wall of the building. “What’s a rich little thing like you doing in a place like this all alone?”
The sirens grew louder, closer, and I clung to that sound with my pulse in my throat. “Cops are coming.” I kicked out a boot and collided with his shin.
He grunted, and in a blink, we became a kicking, shoving tussle of arms and legs. I yanked at the fingers on my throat and reached for the gun at my back. But he pinned me with his weight and trapped my hand between my back and the wall.
I whipped my helmet forward and crunched his nose. He roared and slammed a knee into my thigh, forcing my legs apart. I wound up pressed against the wall, one hand yanked high up my back and the cold steel of his blade against my throat.
My free hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to stay the weapon that was an impulse away from cutting me. Police sirens rang out one maybe two blocks away. I closed my eyes, opened them. “You’re out of time, Baldy.”
He laughed. “The cops have enough going on out there”—he nodded to the street—“to keep them occupied for a while.”
Fuck, he was right. Soon, they would be chasing bikes all over the city. How long would it take for a squad car to shine a light into this alley?
Too long. I bucked beneath him, screaming and thrashing uselessly, panting with noisy breaths. Jesus, calm down. I loosened my hold on his wrist and relaxed my fingers. Deep inhale. Exhale.
“We’re going to walk toward that door.” He thrust his chin toward the back of the alley.
A door? The realization had been there, but now it bathed my core in ice. He wasn’t here for my bike. Fear gathered in my throat, and it felt way too much like a sob. Not good, not good, oh holy fuck, not good.
The growl of passing motorcycles ricocheted through the alley, but I couldn’t turn my head to look at the street. The race must’ve ended. Everyone was fleeing.
My exhales came hot and fast, stifling the interior of the helmet. “Where does the door go?” A crowded bar? A secluded hallway? Please let it be a bar.
He ground his pelvis against my hip, his erection shooting my pulse into overdrive. “A garage. My car. Let’s go.”
My hands shook, one wrapped around his wrist, the other pinned to my back, inches from the gun. If he disarmed me and I stepped into his car, I was dead. I twisted against his weight, each jerk sliding the blade over my throat.
The rumble of another passing bike sounded close, really close, but I still couldn’t turn my head. The burn of steel cutting the vulnerable spot beneath my chin watered my eyes and gritted my teeth.
My knuckles grazed the butt of the gun. Would he shove the blade in if I moved my arm? I would have to be quick. I jerked my hand.