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.
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