Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
The fight ended not long after that. Whether the other group realized they were losing or decided a dead Redline King would bring more heat than they could survive, I didn’t know or care. My focus had narrowed to the burn under my ribs, the wet heat spreading beneath my shirt, and the effort it took to stay on my feet while the sun beat down on the back of my neck.
I’d taken injuries before. I knew the difference between something that hurt and something that needed attention before it became a real problem, and this was already sliding into the second category.
Tripp knew it too. He crouched in front of me, his face tight in a way I understood better now than I had then, his gaze dropping to the blood covering my hand before flicking back to my face. He’d taken a shallow cut along one forearm, nothing that couldn’t have waited until we rode back to the compound, but his eyes were locked on my side with the kind of focus a man got when he was making fast decisions and didn’t like any of them.
Both our phones had been damaged in the scuffle. Mine had been crushed under somebody’s boot, the screen spiderwebbed and dead, and Tripp’s had hit the pavement hard enough that it wouldn’t turn on when he checked it. That should’ve been the end of our options until we got back to the bikes and rode like hell, except Tripp reached inside his cut and hesitated for one fraction of a second before pulling out a phone I’d never seen before.
The movement was small enough that most men would’ve missed it, especially while bleeding and leaning against a bike in the middle of a sunbaked lot, but I’d spent too many years watching people for tells not to catch it. The phone wasn’t a burner, a cheap backup, or anything a prospect should’ve had hidden on him during routine club work. It was the kind of high-end model I’d seen favored by government types who liked their toys expensive, secure, and nearly impossible to trace without the right access.
Even half-lightheaded from blood loss, I felt something cold settle beneath the pain. Tripp unlocked it with smooth efficiency, his thumb moving over the screen while his jaw hardened. And there was a flicker around his eyes that looked too much like guilt for me to ignore.
He covered it fast, burying whatever had slipped through behind the same calm competence he always wore when shit got bad. Then he called Cage, the club’s doctor, who we relied on instead of emergency services because it saved us a lot of questions, scrutiny, and paperwork bullshit.
Tripp relayed our location, my condition, and the fastest route back in a clipped voice that left no room for panic. At the time, I was too busy keeping pressure on my side and breathing through the burn to ask the questions forming in my head, but I didn’t stop watching him.
Luckily, we weren’t far out of town, and a couple of brothers showed up ten minutes later with an SUV and medical supplies. By the time we made it back to the compound, Cage awaited us in the clinic with his sleeves rolled up and a tray already set out under the bright overhead lights.
I sat on the edge of the exam table while Cage cut away enough of my shirt to get to the wound, his hands skilled as he cleaned the blood from my skin, checked the depth, and started stitching me back together with the calm focus that reminded everyone why he was one of the best trauma surgeons alive.
I barely heard half of what he said. The needle pulled through my skin, the antiseptic burned like a son of a bitch, and every breath tugged at the wound beneath Cage’s hands, but my attention kept drifting to Tripp. He stood near the counter, his posture easy enough to fool anyone not looking too closely. His dark shirt was streaked with dust, his lower lip split, his forearm bandaged, and his face unreadable in the harsh clinic light. What I didn’t see was the phone. Somewhere between the roadside and the clinic, the device had disappeared.
When Cage finished with me, I eased off the table with a muttered curse, pulling my ruined shirt down over the fresh bandage as carefully as I could. The stitches tugged beneath the dressing, sending a sharp pull through my side that made my jaw clench, but I kept my face clear and turned to Tripp like nothing about the morning had changed how I viewed him.
“Go handle whatever you’ve got left today. I need to talk to Cage for a minute.”
Tripp’s eyes held mine for a second longer than they should’ve. He nodded, gave Cage a quick thanks, and walked out of the clinic with his usual controlled stride, as though he hadn’t just pulled a secret fucking phone out of nowhere while I bled on the side of the road.