Page 19 of My Christmas Biker
Oh, God. The black truck was back.
I didn’t think it could get any worse until something bumped into us, rocking the frame of the truck as I screeched. Behind us, the trailer with whatever he hauled back there groaned in protest.
“My bike,” Brick growled, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Bike?”
“My Harley.”
Oh. We got hit again, a bit harder, and I closed my eyes tight, feeling my chest tighten.
“It’s just a little rub, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”
A little rub? Was he serious!? Spots danced in my peripheral as I sucked air into my lungs.
Breathe, Ginny!
Brick glanced in the rearview mirror, and I watched a muscle in his jaw tick. He seemed calm despite the danger. My dad had been like that, easygoing and the type to roll with whatever situation life placed him in. Unfortunately, his life in a motorcycle club made him a target. I never found out why he was killed. What did he know? Who did he piss off?
I wondered if I would ever get those answers.
The next “rub” was far less gentle than the previous two. I screamed as I heard a crunch of metal, and Brick swerved to the left. The asshole behind us rammed into the right-side rear panel!
“Fuck!” Brick pressed down on the gas, but the black truck matched our speed. “Stay down!”
He barely uttered those words when I heard the truck pull up on my side. I dared to look out my window, unable to see the driver because of the thick, dark tint. Somehow, it terrified me more not to have a face to put to the person trying to run us off the road.
“Ginny! Down!” Brick ordered.
Right.
I tried to tilt to the side, keeping my head out of view of the black truck’s driver. Not that it did any good. A few heartbeats thumped wildly in my chest before something crashed into my door. The metal crumpled under the pressure, and something sharp bit into my thigh.
I cried out as I glanced down, shocked to find a piece of the inner door had come loose, and the jagged edge scratched my thigh through my jeans. The material had ripped, and now blood oozed from a shallow wound. It wouldn’t kill me, but it sure stung. I pressed down, wincing at the pain.
I vaguely realized that my window shattered from the hard impact when the truck collided with us, and glass had been blown throughout the interior. Several more scratches appeared on my hands, and warm liquid trickled down my cheek.
“Ginny!” Brick roared, pointing the gun toward the truck. “Stay down, Baby!”
Wind filled the cab and tormented us with a shrill blast of swirling snow. My teeth chattered as I kept pressure on my thigh, hoping the person in the truck didn’t shoot Brick. I’d be dead as soon as this truck crashed. If not sooner.
“Brick,” I whimpered, reaching over and gripping his leg with my free hand. I just needed to touch him, feel his warmth, and know I wasn’t alone. I’d never been through anything this frightening in my life.
Even when my father died, I was spared the trauma.
My mother insisted on a closed casket, and I never knew how badly he’d been injured before my dad was killed. Had he been run off the road in a similar way? As a child, I never questioned my mom or asked for the gory, grim details. But now, experiencing this, I felt like I should know.
“I got you, Ginny.”
I heard a couple of quick pops, not from Brick, and whimpered.
Brick fired back, and as each bullet dislodged from the barrel, I jolted. I’d been at a shooting range a couple of times and even fired a gun more than once myself, but there was something different about shooting with the intent to harm or kill, even in self-defense. Or watching someone else do it, knowing they took a life to protect yours.
My chest tightened for a different reason, having nothing to do with the brief panic that made it constrict earlier. This had everything to do with my brave hero. He didn’t hesitate to put himself in danger or do what had to be done. Honestly, I didn’t know if I could do the same in his place.
In awe, I stared up at him, losing what little resistance I had left to the attraction and need growing between us.
As the last bullet left his gun, I heard the truck lose speed, and Brick stepped on the gas, lurching us forward as we left the black truck behind. I didn’t feel any remorse for the guy in the black truck. He deserved what he got.