Page 15 of Serpentine

I point toward the window before crawling out of it. For me, the house isn’t too far off the ground. So I stand beside the window while waiting for her to climb out.

She comes out feet first and turns her back to me. The knee-length coat clings around her curvy ass, and I lick my lips.

Stay on task.

I shake the notions that threaten to stiffen my cock again out of my head.

I capture her under her arms, letting her down softly. I should’ve backed up because I was stuck in their gravity when she turned around, and her blue eyes looked up at me. Our breathing is ragged, and time seems to pause as we stand in the overgrown backyard, just existing near one another.

She lifts a brow, and I shake my head.

I nod toward the left and grab her hand, leading her to where I parked my bike.

They’re going to know I’ve taken her. They’ll know it when my bike throttles out of here, but I must get answers.

When we reach my bike, she halts.

Her cream-colored jacket and dress contrast my black Harley Davidson Road King. I lick my lips as I grab my helmet and hand it to her.

“It won’t fit perfectly, but put it on,” I order, and something in me flips when she listens without hesitation.

This is the fucked-up side of me I have to keep in check.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks.

I get on and motion for her to get on behind me.

“Get on the bike, Bambi. Live for once,” I tell her, and she does, despite what I know she’s got going on inside her.

“Mold yourself to me, Bambi. But don’t stiffen. Move with me. Mind where you put those bare feet. Don’t touch the muffler right here with them or your legs,” I throw over my shoulder, and she nods, my black helmet swallowing her head.

Her small hands come under my jacket and envelop me, and I throttle the bike to life, trying to ignore what her touch is doing to me.

“Hold on, Bambi.”

SIX

MILES

The incessant sobbing from a grown man is something that grates my ever-loving nerves each time we do something like this. His begging and sniffling have me wanting to put a bullet through his forehead. If Braxton were here, he’d have already been on the ground. He can’t stand repetitive noises. The older I get, the more I understand him.

“Please, I’ll do anything. I have a family,” the man begs.

Sully tsks loudly enough that it echoes through the large room in the factory.

The smell of burning plastic fills the air, and my nose has had about enough. A throbbing sets up residence behind my eyes because of the place’s overwhelming perfume.

“Pres, just let me kill him,” Kylo says, whipping his pistol out of the back of his jeans.

The man’s cries grow even louder. I wave Kylo off. Rubbing my temples, I step toward the man, who Sully strapped to a conveyor. The same one where he has many in the town of Twin Pines working day in and day out, with no PTO, no rights to claim, and when they call in—God forbid—he writes them up.

Also, no worker here has seen a rise in years.

So, the town has cried out in its way. For justice.

The Cobras are going to give it to them.

“Now, we talked with you two weeks ago, right? About the well-being of the employees here? The ones under your care?”