Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Now or never,” Pretty Boy mutters.
I’m already moving.
We split again. Crunch hangs back to watch the lot while I take the room closest to me. The keypad blinks green. I push the door open, and the smell hits me first — sickly sweet, sharp, the mix of chemicals and mustiness that clings to every room like this.
She’s there.
My knees almost give out.
Jami.
She’s sprawled across the bed, skin pale under the flickering lamplight. There’s a faint tremor in her arm, a shallow rise and fall in her chest. Her hair’s tangled, her face thin — too thin — but it’s her. My girl. My whole damn heart.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, crossing the room in three long strides. I drop to my knees beside the bed, shaking so hard I can barely reach out.
Her eyelids flutter when I touch her. She opens her eyes just enough for a sliver of hazel to show, unfocused but searching. “Tommy?” she breathes, her voice a rasp.
“Yeah, Tiny,” I whisper, my throat tight. “It’s me. I got you. You’re safe now.”
She tries to smile, but it falters halfway. “Didn’t think you’d find me. Is this a dream?”
“Always,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always going to find you.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but the words die before they can leave her. Her body goes slack, the fight gone out of her.
I can’t tell if she’s passed out or worse, and the fear that hits me is like a knife under the ribs.
“Crunch!” I bellow. “Got her!”
He’s through the door in seconds, eyes wide. “She alive?”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “Barely.”
He moves to the door, signaling to the van outside. Within seconds, Tripp and Red are running across the lot. Pretty Boy follows, scanning the area. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater — slow and loud all at once.
I scoop her into my arms, cradling her head against my chest. She’s light. Too light. Her skin’s cold, and I can feel her heartbeat against my wrist — faint, fluttery, like a trapped bird.
“Hold on, baby,” I whisper against her hair. “Just hold on.”
The hallway blurs as I carry her out, every step echoing in my skull. I can hear Karma shouting orders in the lot, brothers spreading out to cover our exit. No sirens. No alarms. Just the roar of my pulse and the sound of my boots on asphalt.
The van door’s open when I reach it. Tripp helps me lift her inside, laying her on the narrow bench in the back. Someone covers her with a blanket. I climb in beside her, refusing to let go.
Her fingers twitch once against mine. I grip them tighter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. I got you.”
Her lips move — no sound, just a breath. But I know what she’s trying to say. She wants to apologize.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper fiercely. “You don’t ever apologize for surviving.”
Tripp slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. “Hang on,” he calls. The engine growls, the van lurches forward, and we’re gone with tires squealing out of that cursed parking lot and into the night.
I look down at her again. She’s so small against the gray of the bench, her face turned toward me, her chest rising and falling slow but steady now.
My thumb strokes over the back of her hand. “You’re safe,” I whisper. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
No answer. Just the faintest sigh, like the beginning of sleep.
I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes.
“I got you, Tiny,” I murmur. “You just hold on.”
Outside, the road unspools into darkness, the club’s bikes flanking us on either side like guardians. Every mile we put between us and that motel feels like a breath pulled from drowning.
I don’t know what waits on the other side of this night — rehab, hell, redemption. But she’s breathing. She’s here. And I’ll burn every damn thing between us and tomorrow to make sure she gets to the light of a new day.
Fourteen
Jami
The first thing I know is sound.
A low hum, steady, like the ceiling is breathing for me. There’s a beep somewhere, not urgent, just counting time like a clock. Voices drift in and out — one warm and careful, one rough like river rock, one I’d recognize if the world fell apart and I had to pick home out of the rubble.
Tommy.
The second thing I know is the ache.
It’s everywhere and nowhere. My bones feel full made of sand. My skin is two sizes too small and I can’t quite fit inside it. Thirst bites the back of my throat, a dry, mean little animal. My stomach is a fist I can’t open. The ache is honest; it doesn’t lie about what it is. It says: you lived through the night. Now pay attention.
“Jami?” The warm voice leans close. “Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart?”