Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(59)

"Jesus Christ," she whispers. "Holy Jesus Howard Christ. Uh, sorry."

"Right."

She paces the room and looks at me. "All that stuff about some guy shooting him and telling everybody…"

"Yeah," I confess. "I wish I'd thought of that before I left."

"Alex didn't tell me what happened last night."

I fold my arms over my chest.

"Jesus you're huge," she whispers.

May's lip trembles. "I wanted you to come back," she whimpers, scrubbing at her cheeks as she starts to cry. "Alexis won't stop trying to do whatever and get your dad in trouble. He's crazy, Hawk. If he finds out she's been spying on him and stuff he'll… he'll hurt her."

"She’s in trouble."

May hugs herself and sobs. "I want it to be like before. I want you to be her boyfriend again. I missed you so much. Your brother is a creepy perv and he's been eyeballing me for years."

"What?"

"Lance," she hisses. "He's always looking at me. One time he walked into the bathroom while I was taking a shower and he wouldn't leave until I yelled and Alex came and-"

"Has he touched you?"

"No."

"Stay away from him. If he won't leave you alone, come get me."

She nods. "Okay."

"If he hurts you, I swear I'll kill him."

May nods softly, still shaking. I put my hands on her shoulders.

"You're Alexis' sister. That makes you my sister, too."

A weak smile quivers on her lips and she nods.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Listen to me. We might need to go, at any time. Can you get a bag ready? Stuff you can just grab?"

She nods. "Yeah."

"Good. Do that, keep it somewhere no one will see it, but you can get to it in a hurry. Only pack important things. One bag you can carry easily. Understood?"

"Yes. Sir!"

I roll my eyes. "Right. I have to go. Put my number in your phone."

After she has my number, I duck out into the hallway, shower, change.

By mid-afternoon, I'm in my truck, on my way to get a suit picked out.

I stop at a red light, about to turn and cross the bridge, and it hits me.

Why would he send me some place two hours away?

I start across, mulling it over, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. It's not rush hour, so fairly quiet on the bridge. From there it's a fairly straight run to pick up the interstate and then down to Philadelphia.

Two hours away.

The outskirts of Paradise Falls slide past me. Motels, strip malls, trailer parks, the barnacles of un-suburban sprawl that cling to the edges of any town of sufficient size out here in the sticks.

Behind me, a pair of motorcycles pulls out and cruises along, about three or four car lengths back. Big guys on Harleys. Tats, bandanas, the works. At the next intersection, a pickup pulls out behind them. All black, the chrome on the bumpers painted over black, the whole shebang. Even the wheels are black. There's two guys in the cab, two more in the bed, and they're all dressed in suspenders and high collared shirts. The driver is wearing a straw hat.

You have got to be f*cking kidding me.

I stop at the next red light. The bikers pull up behind me, their rides rumbling. The Amish…Mennonites… whatever pull up behind them and all four of them eyeball me pretty hard, especially the guys in the back.

It's not far to the on ramp and the highway, maybe five miles. I can see it in the distance through the summer haze, the overpass rising over the road before the interstate cuts through a hill and disappears. Big windmills turn in the fields, giants that remind me of alien war walkers from a cheesy movie. I hate those things.

The light changes and I ease on the gas. The truck pulls into the right lane and speeds up, and the four Amish guys watch me with heads on a swivel as they pass. I speed up, and they keep pace along side me. The bikers rev their engines and draw closer.

Uh.

I tromp on the gas. One of the Amish guys in the bed of the truck swings a double-barreled shotgun up, takes aim, and pulls both triggers as I swerve and stomp on the brake. I turn into the oncoming lane and stand on the brake as the bikers flash past me, and it's only then that I realize the back window of my truck has been blown out and I'm covered with tiny cubes of safety glass. I grab at the back of my neck, wondering how I'm still alive. Gray rings of exposed primer surround holes in the bed and window pillar of my truck.

Only a couple of pellets must have hit the window, enough to shatter it. I'm outgunned here. I throw the truck into reverse, back around, and floor it towards town. If I make it back into Paradise Falls, they're not going to follow me and keep shooting at me. I hope.

I hear a pop and my rear-view mirror explodes, leaving a broken plastic stump and a spider-webbed hole in my windshield. They're f*cking shooting at me. I weave back and forth, into the oncoming lane and back again, and hear more pops. A strange calm settles over my mind. I grip the wheel. I work the pedals. I drive the truck.

You never hear the one that gets you. As long as I keep hearing them I'm going to be fine. The bikers are speeding up. The Amish guys in the truck are having a hard time catching up with me. One of the pair of motorcyclists comes up on my back fender, aiming at me left handed. I nose the truck over and he jams on his brakes, narrowly avoiding my bumper tapping his front wheel to send him flying into the ditch along the side of the road. He swerves and slows, and his friend races past him, sweeping out into the oncoming lane.