“I am pissed at Ryker. He’s playin’ games with my Watermelon Tits.”
“Your nicknames for each other are disturbing.”
Very. When I first heard them, I thought it was a joke.
“Yeah. Well. Your face is disturbing,” Kade returns like a five-year-old whose mama wouldn’t let him have a cookie before dinner.
“Lame,” I deadpan.
He kicks the rocks with the toe of his scuffed boots. Another adolescent move. “Fuck off. Are you gonna be my backup or not?” Kade snaps his knifes back into their sheaths and offers me a hand up.
Conceding, I grumble as we clasp forearms and he yanks me to my feet. Out of habit, I dust off my ass. I know, it’s not like I don’t already have twelve different DNAs on my clothes. As I said, habit. Nobody like’s a dusty bum.
Not waiting for Kade, I stride across the driveway to the tree line on the opposite side of the cabin where I hid my motorcycle from plain view. I parked it there for safekeeping since I haven’t ridden it in weeks.
“Where the hell are you headed?” Kade catches up and grabs my elbow to stop me on the spot.
I whip around, itching to unsheathe my knife to put him in his place. “What?”
“I asked where you’re headed.” His hand falls to the wayside as if my arm burned him. I pay it no mind.
“Considering your bike’s trashed, the Suburban isn’t drivable, and I don’t think you wanna try to find those fuckers rides in the dead of the night, our only option is to take my bike.”
“Your Ducati?” He’s unsure, swaying from foot to foot.
Huffing in irritation, I turn around and stride faster to my motorcycle. This time Kade doesn’t try to stop me. His long legs eat up the distance at a leisurely pace. Sometimes, it sucks being vertically challenged.
Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I approach my sleek black Ducati, dust off the seat, and straddle the pussy purring bad boy. I slap the space behind me. It’s not much. But Kade’s delectable ass can fit on there just fine. “You’re ridin’ bitch.”
Crossing his arms like his brother always does, Kade shakes his head defiantly. “Like hell I am.”
I fire the ignition, flip on the headlight, and heel up my kickstand. Walking the bike backward to the driveway, I give Kade a chance to let reality set in. Nobody drives my motorcycle except me. There’s no ifs ands or butts about it.
Revving the engine a few times to wake her up, I re-slap the spot behind my ass. “You comin’ or what?”
“I’m not ridin’ bitch,” Kade growls. As if that’s gonna scare me. Please. I’ve met bigger badasses than him in my life. If Big Dick doesn’t intimidate me, nobody can.
“You are if you A, don’t wanna sound like a sexist pig, and, B, wanna check on that signal. So you best pull up your frilly girl panties and get on the back of my bike. Or you can walk your stubborn ass there. If ya start now, you can make it in half an hour. Tick tock.” I two-finger tap my imaginary wrist watch, knowing damn well I hold all the cards.
Kade throws his hands up and flips me a double bird. “Fuck! You’re a bitch.”
Tsking the errant man-child, I pat the space behind my butt again. “Yep.” No use in denying it. “Are you comin’ or what?”
Cursing up a storm, upper lip curled in a snarl, Kade smoothly mounts my bike. The backend bounces beneath the added weight, and I adjust my stance to keep us upright.
“Wrap your arms around my waist, fat ass. Or risk fallin’ off,” I call over my shoulder.
Kade complains but follows my instructions. His hands cup either side of my stomach. Barely touching, but enough to know he’s secure. His feet rest on the fold down pegs. If you were to take a picture, he’d look utterly ridiculous. Bet his club brothers would pay good money to see this. “I dunno who you’re callin’ a fat ass. But are you gonna put on a helmet?” he grumbles.
“Nope.”
“You should.”
I know I should, but my helmet’s in the cabin, and we don’t have time to grab it. I’ll be fine.
“And you should mind your own damn business.”
I sling attitude, knowing what it’ll do. Next stop Bonerville. Kade’s a walking, talking, erection. When I first met him, I figured it was a freak accident that he got hard. However, when I catch him readjusting a python in his pants more times than not in my presence, I’ve come to the conclusion he has a unique case of priapism. If I was interested in jumping his bones, I might be flattered. But I’m not.
“It’s not safe,” he argues.
It’s almost sweet that he cares. Almost. Not quite.
“Neither is fighting three men at once.”
Having stolen the last word, I click into first gear and gun it out of the driveway, kicking up gravel and dust. My back wheel fishtails as we enter the paved road and I straighten her out without fail. This is the first time I’ve had anyone ride bitch on my Ducati. It definitely maneuvers differently with the added weight, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Kade’s fingers drum against my sides as the cold air whips our faces. The fresh scent of mother earth invigorates me as the throbbing in my shoulder intensifies. I probably should’ve inspected the damage before we left. Granted, there’s no blood running down my arm so it must not be too bad. I can stitch it up later. It’s not my first bullet wound, and won’t be the last.
Through each BFE twist and turn, Kade taps my side, and I follow his silent instructions until the flash of headlights stare back at us from the wrong side of the road. Hell. They’re not even on the road. They’re in the ditch. Speeding up, my adrenaline spiking to new heights, I skid us to a jarring halt at the edge of a field. The rear tire leaves the asphalt for a second, tipping us forward. Kade’s broad chest meets my back in a rush, knocking the air from my lungs. My stomach heaves. To keep from face planting, I lock my arms and ride the rollercoaster of death. Half a second later, we relevel out. Gasping, I draw a fresh batch of oxygen into my lungs. What a rush.
“Damn. That was crazy,” I comment, planting my feet on the ground, balancing the beast. Straight ahead, on the edge of a field, is Vanessa’s crumpled car. Its high beams bathing us in their light. This doesn’t look good.
Shutting off the engine, Kade dismounts the rear of the bike and sets off in a dead sprint, yelling his brother’s name. “Ryker! Do you hear me?!”
No response.
Shit!
Leaving the keys in the ignition, I get my ass in gear. Dismounting in a blur, I eat up the uneven ground with each push of my short legs. My heart hammers against my breastbone, as a cold sweat dampens my forehead, a prize left for my beanie to collect. We both skid to a stop at the mangled car before us. The windows are shattered. Front-end crushed. The hood dented in various spots. From the looks of the tilled up dirt, they flipped multiple times.
Kade whips out his cell and dials 911.
“Do you want me to check for life?” I ask as he frantically rattles off information to the dispatcher. If someone’s alive in there, it’s gonna take too long for the paramedics to get here to save anyone. We’re fifteen minutes or longer from town.
Kade doesn’t answer, he’s too busy handling the call, so I approach the wreck, not wasting any time. The thick scent of gasoline infusing the air is enough to choke a mule. The airbags have deployed, but neither of them are inflated any longer. When did this happen? How long have they been out here?
“Is anyone awake?!” I yell.
Nothing.
Not a good sign.
Upon closer inspection, there’s tiny bullet holes riddling the metal frame. That explains why the passenger side door’s concave like it’s been t-boned. This was a deliberate hit. Should’ve guessed. Those bastards attacked us from all angles tonight. This was a well-planned fight. One they didn’t plan on losing. Too bad they did.
Careful not to step on any metal bits that could pierce through my boot, I approach the passenger window. Oh my god. Jerking my face to the side, I wince at the gruesome sight.
Vanessa’s brain’s exposed, her nose flattened to a pancake. There’s blood everywhere. The metallic scent of death dances with the stench of gasoline. It’s vile enough to make me want to wretch. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I reach inside and press a finger to her throat. Her pulse is weak. Barely a flutter. Upon skin stimulation, she suddenly gasps for air, blood varnishing her lips. There’s a bullet hole in her shoulder. A river of red streams down her arm. There’s no way she’ll survive this. She’s basically brain dead with half her cranium missing. There’s no way to staunch the bleeding, so I sprint to the driver’s side and check on Ryker. He’s out cold. Chin on chest, eyes shut. There’s more blood. Too much blood soaking through his clothes coming from somewhere. Using the light from my phone, I check his pinned legs and, sure enough, there’s a bone poking through the fabric of his pants. Compound fracture. A nasty one.
“A-are they dead?” Kade’s voice waivers as he approaches. “Is my brother dead? The ambulance is on the way.”
Ryker draws a raspy breath. Still alive. I check his pulse, and it, too, is weak, but stronger than Vanessa’s.
“Not yet, they’re not. We need to stop your brother from bleeding out.”
Removing my belt, I press it to Kade’s chest, and try to yank open the crumpled driver’s side door. It doesn’t budge. Kade tries, too, and ends with the same result.
“Fuck! He better not die!” he booms, brushing the remnants of glass from the window. Leaning through the open space, he tries to work on his brother. There’s no room left for me to assist. He’s gonna have to handle that on his own.
“You good?” I ask, watching Kade rip his brother’s long sleeve shirt off his right arm.
“He’s got three bullet holes in his fuckin’ bicep.” Kade tourniquets his brother’s arm with my belt. “There’s another in his thigh and his shoulder. Jesus. They left him for dead.”
That’s the whole point, I want to say, but figure that’s not helpful. Neither is standing around here twiddling my thumbs.
Vanessa gasps another short breath, drawing my attention to her. I count to ten, and when she doesn’t breathe again, I know she’s on her way to Heaven. If the paramedics don’t make it here soon enough, her baby is gonna die along with her, and nobody wants that. Unless the baby’s already dead, but there’s no way to know without checking.
Fuck it.
What’s left to lose?
Shrugging out of my jacket, I drop it to the ground along with most of my weapons. There’s no way I can get her door open. It’s mashed shut from the impact. So I climb in through the back passenger window instead, mindful not to cut myself on glass in the process.
“What the hell are you doing, Rosie?” Kade growls, working on his brother. “Get out of the car.”
“No. I’m gonna deliver this baby.”
“You can’t do that.”
Ignoring him, I crawl across the back seat to give myself space and click on the top light. At least the car battery is still intact. God must be watching.
“I can. Or the baby will die,” I respond, grabbing the headrest of Vanessa’s seat and exerting all my strength to shove it backward. It takes three good tries before the mechanism breaks and her chair reclines fully, giving me room to perform the C-section. She hasn’t taken a breath in thirty-five seconds. Any longer and her baby will be brain dead along with its mother.
Unsheathing my boot dagger, I lean over Vanessa’s bloodied form, trying not to lay on her out of respect, but this isn’t the ideal place to deliver a child.
Using my knife, I cut through Vanessa’s white shirt that’s soaked in life force, and expose her round belly. A reverse C-section better work. I’ve never delivered a baby in my entire life. Guess there’s a first for everything. Palpating her abdomen so I know I’m cutting in the right spot, I pierce the top layer of skin, careful to cut tiny bits at a time, not wanting to plunge too deep at once. Thankfully, there’s little fat to cut through. When I reach the uterus, I nick it, then rest my dagger on Vanessa’s thigh. Hooking my fingers inside the opening, I rip the skin apart. It’s not as easy as it seems.
“Dammit. Come on.”
I grunt and groan until I’ve gotten a big enough hole for a baby to come out of. All that’s left between the kid and me is a fully intact amniotic sac. It’s a miracle her water didn’t break during the crash. Pushing the baby down as far as I can with one hand, I use my other to puncture the sac. Fluid erupts out of the hole as it breaks. I’m met with a foot. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.
Reaching into the warm, wet cavity of Vanessa’s body, I gently wrap both hands around the baby’s chest and pull it free from its mother. Bringing the miniature, vernix coated bundle to my chest, umbilical cord still attached, I pat its back as I sit on the glass covered seat, not giving two fucks if it slices through my pants.
“Come on, little one. Come on.” I coax the dark-haired preemie to breathe whilst keeping it warm. Its body wiggles, curling into itself to retain body heat. At least the baby’s alive. Thank you, Jesus.
“Is he okay?” Kade asks in awe, briefly meeting my eyes through the shattered window, blood coating his hands. There’s a red streak across his stubbly cheek that wasn’t there earlier.
“I dunno.” Jostling the bundle, I attempt to work a cry out of its lungs. Another pat on the baby’s bottom and a faint sob finally breaks the surface.
Dropping my head back against the cushion, I sigh in relief.
Sirens blare in the distance.
I don’t think that sound has ever sounded so sweet.
“He needs body heat, Rosie. Put him under your shirt, against your body,” Kade instructs, leaning back into the driver’s window to check on his brother.
Lifting my shirt to my throat, not caring about my scars showing, I do as I’m told, and lay the bundle skin on skin. The little one ejects another miniature sob, pinking its skin up. A new wave of potent relief washes over me.
“Why’d you call him a him?” I massage the baby’s tiny back, drawing more beautiful cries from its lungs, each one louder than the next.
“Because I saw his nuts.”
“Ryker has a son.”
“Yes. Ryker has a son. Now he has to live long enough to see him. He’s not gonna last much longer, Rosie. He’s been shot at least five times, and I think his lung collapsed. I stuffed most of the wounds with cloth, but that’s not helping much. Ryker, if you can hear me, do not walk into the light, you fucker. You’ve got a big balled son to live for. Rosie’s holding him right now. Your little Tiger and daughters need you. Do not walk into the light. The boatman doesn’t need you. Tell God to go fuck himself,” Kade encourages like it might help. Who am I to say otherwise?
The sound of sirens draw closer, lights flashing brightly up the road. Not much longer.
Wrapping my arms around the boy, I close my eyes and send up a silent prayer to the Almighty above.
Dear God, if you’re listening tonight, please don’t take Ryker from Katrina. He might be an asshole, but he’s her asshole. She doesn’t deserve this. Amen.
Three seconds later, Kade bellows a heart wrenching “Fuck,” as the ambulance and firetruck pull up alongside the road, and four men jump out. “No!” he wails. “You can’t die. You can’t leave them! Breathe, you stubborn bastard.” From the window of the car, Kade begins to perform CPR on his dying brother. So much for answered prayers. Heaven’s about to gain another angel tonight. I dunno why I thought God would listen now. He never has before.
I’m so sorry, Katrina. I’m so sorry I failed you.
“Ryker!” Kade screams in agony as he fights the two paramedics who pull him from the window.
Peeling my sweat-soaked beanie off and tossing it on the floor, I kiss the baby boy’s head full of dark hair. “Happy birthday, little one. We’re gonna take good care of you, no matter what.”
The End… for now…
Note from Author
Dear Readers,
I want t
o say thank you from the bottom of my pink squishy heart. Thank you for reading my stories. Thank you for your endless patience with me. Thank you for posting reviews. Thank you for following me on social media. And for some of you, thank you for being a Sacred Sister. Y’all mean a lot to me. Whether you want to believe it or not, I look forward to hearing from my readers on a daily basis. They’re amazing individuals that lend a shoulder to cry on—a helping hand when needed. They’ve encouraged me to move forward over the past year of my life, since the accident stole my desire to write. That’s why this book took so long to finish. And, ultimately, why it has now turned into a trilogy instead of a duet as expected. I didn’t want to skimp on the book. I wanted to give more details than ever, pour in more love, because you, my reader, deserve it. As does Katrina, who’s become my new favorite heroine to write. She’s the ultimate woman that I believe all of us can relate to in one way or another.
Again, thank you for reading Hopeful Whispers. I know the ending wasn’t ideal. But it’s one I’ve had planned for quite some time. Don’t worry. I won’t take another year to release the final book.
Peace,
Bink
P.S. Please consider posting a review on Amazon.
P.S.S. Thank you Rea D, Laura H, and Megan S for allowing your names to be apart of this book! I’m thrilled to add you!
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Hopeful Whispers Page 29
