Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
That was worse. The not knowing.
We were released a couple hours later after having all the gravel picked from our exposed skin. Just bruises, scrapes, nothing life-threatening. But Tiny wasn’t so lucky. Neither was Lyric.
Word came down from a nurse who recognized our cuts, knew we were with the accident victims. Tiny had a brain bleed. They were monitoring him, but it was bad—serious enough they had a neurosurgeon on standby, but he wasn’t stable enough to get the surgery yet.
Lyric was already in surgery. Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen maybe, maybe worse. She’d been unstable when they wheeled her in.
Melody crumpled when she heard it, breaking down into sobs she tried to muffle against my chest. I wrapped her up, pressing her tight to me, my own throat thick with rage and fear.
The image of that truck, barreling through the red, would not leave me. Neither would the sound of impact, the sight of Tiny’s body flying, Lyric’s scream cut off mid-air.
I wanted blood. I wanted the driver in my hands. But for now? All I could do was sit in a too-bright waiting room with Melody shaking in my arms, praying to a God I wasn’t sure listened to men like me.
Hours passed. Brothers filled the hospital lobby, leather cuts draped over plastic chairs, grim expressions etched on every face. The club was family, and when one bled, we all did.
I sat stiff in a corner seat, Melody still tucked against me. My hand never left hers. Every time a nurse walked by, every time a door swung open, my chest seized.
Finally, a doctor came out, speaking quietly to the nurse’s station. I shot to my feet, hauling Melody with me.
“What’s the word on Braxton Davis and Lyric Truman,” I demanded, my voice rough, dangerous.
The doc adjusted his glasses, looking at me warily. He was younger than me, but had that clinical detachment that made my blood boil.
“Sir, your friend—Tiny, as you call him—Braxton Davis suffered a traumatic brain injury. We’ve identified a subdural hematoma. He’s in ICU, under close observation. Right now, we’re stabilizing him and reducing intracranial pressure. He’s not out of the woods.”
Melody clutched my arm tighter. “And Lyric?”
The doctor sighed, his tone softening. “She’s in surgery. Internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen and significant abdominal trauma. They’re working to repair it, but… it’s critical. The next twenty-four hours are going to be very important.”
Critical. The word echoed like a gunshot.
I nodded stiffly, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth would crack. “Thank you.”
He gave a sympathetic nod before disappearing back through the double doors.
Melody buried her face against me again, sobbing quietly. My own vision blurred, but I blinked it back. I couldn’t break. Not here. Not now.
I was Thrasher. Enforcer. Brother. Protector. But in that waiting room, under those sterile lights, I was just a man desperate not to lose the people he loved.
“DK,” I called out and he came over. “Get Guru looking into this. Make sure it wasn’t retaliation for the club shit before. I don’t see how they would tie us to the shit, but I got a feeling this wasn’t a regular accident.”
He nodded instantly taking out his phone and calling Guru who was back at the compound looking at the street cameras to see the accident over again.
I kept my arm around Melody because it felt like the only thing that kept me from flying apart. Every time the double doors slapped open, some part of me braced for a doctor with bad news, for a nurse who’d say to prepare ourselves. The waiting room hummed with the low growl of brothers murmuring to each other, the squeak of vinyl chairs, the steady rhythm of my own pulse thudding too hard in my ears.
Melody went still all at once.
At first I thought she’d fallen asleep upright, her cheek tucked against my cut. Then I felt the little tremor run through her and she drew in a sharp breath that scraped raw on the way out.
“What?” I said, already tightening my hold. “What is it, baby?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her hands had been knotted in my shirt; now they fumbled at the hem like she was trying to peel it back, like she needed air. I shifted her so I could see her face. It was drained, pupils wide, that washed-out look people get right before they pass out. But she wasn’t going under. She was remembering.
“Talk to me,” I said, softer. “Right now.”
Her throat worked. “I know them,” she whispered.
Everything in me went cold. “Who?”
“The driver.” She swallowed again, eyes flicking to the doors like they might flood her with sirens and screams all over again. “The truck… I saw his face when he—God—when he turned his head. I know him.” She shook her head once, ragged. “Logan.”