Raw and Dirty(65)

“Let fucking go of me!” I scream, kicking and flailing, clawing at his hands as he tugs me towards him. And then I just start screeching, as loud and piercing as I can get. The noise echoes around the cab and the man starts cursing, getting out that gun I saw earlier and pressing it tight against my temple.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps at me. “Jesus Christ.”

“Let me out right now and you can keep the truck,” I say which only makes him laugh.

“Get your ass up and close that door. If you try to make a run for it, I'll shoot you in the leg and take you back home, let the boys pass you around a while. You understand me?” I swallow hard and nod my head, hating the way the gun feels pressed against my skull.

When the man finally releases his grip on my hair, I sit up and bury myself in the corner of the cab. I should've brought my Glock, I think again as I glance at Royal's dash and wonder if he'd keep a gun in there. The man's still looking at me though, so I just close my eyes and let loose a few tears. They're real enough, but I'm not giving up yet.

“You're a feisty one, that's for sure,” the man grumbles, waving at the black truck as it circles back around and flashes its lights at us. The motorcycle riders are still behind us, watching and waiting as my kidnapper pulls forward and continues on his way. He whispers something under his breath, but I can't quite hear him over the pounding of my heart. Oughta be fun. I think that's what he says. I don't really care to find out.

My tongue runs across my lower lip and tastes blood. I must've bitten it when we crashed.

Think, Lyric. Think, think, think. Royal says he's coming, but how will he find you now?

I open up my eyes and glance at the glove box again. If I open it and there's nothing in there, I'm screwed. This guy might punch me out or make good on his threat and shoot me in the leg. What other options are there? I think through a thousand scenarios, but none of them seem right.

In a split second, I make a decision and reach for the glove compartment, wrenching it open and finding a hammer hidden inside. Better than nothing. I snatch it in my hand and manage to take a swing before my guy realizes that yes, I really am stupid enough to try again.

The hammer hits him in the arm and he grunts, but it's not enough. He swerves a little, his right hand flying out to snatch the weapon from my hand. He can't hold me back, drive, and go for his gun at the same time.

I let go of the hammer and dive forward, my hand reaching for the gun at the same moment I feel a hard elbow to the gut, knocking the air right out of me as the truck swerves again, skids, clips the edge of a massive redwood tree.

I kick and flail like my life defends on it, fighting the man for control of the gun. He's bigger than me, stronger, more experienced, but none of that matters right now. In the close confines of the cab, the wheel clutched in one hand, he's handicapped enough that he either has to stop and deal with me or continue to struggle.

I get an elbow to the face—hard—and my vision blurs, blood streaming from my nostrils as I blink back stars and dig my nails into the man's skin. The truck's slowing down, skidding to the side of the road with a rumble, and I register the exact moment that the parking brake is slammed into place by his boot.

He throws me off, reaching into his jacket for his gun.

I tried, I think as I kick my leg out and he grabs it with his left hand, aiming the gun at me with his right. Fuck, I really, really tried. Tears pierce my eyes as a million thoughts scatter through my mind, but I don't stop fighting. I won't. Not until it's really all over.

A shot rings out, echoing in the quiet forest air, the damp scent of the woods drifting through the shattered driver's side window.

My kidnapper pauses at that, just long enough that the roar of a bike comes up on us, tires squealing and skidding across the pavement. I hear another shot, my body going completely still, hoping that whatever it is that's happening is enough to distract my guy from killing me.

This time when a hand comes through the window, I recognize the tattoos. Royal. He unlocks the door and wrenches it open in a split second. The man's quick, turning his gun on the Alpha Wolves President in an instant, but it's too late.

Royal snaps his wrist aside the same way he did to me in the bedroom the other night, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and yanking him out of the truck. I sit there, completely stunned, my eyes wide as I watch him crack the man in the face with his ringed right hand. What a broken, beautiful man, I think, echoing my very first thoughts of Royal as I watch him slam the guy into the side of the truck, his fist coming forward again and landing another hit.

The black truck from before is pulling up, a few guys spilling out the back as it skids to a stop. I open my mouth to warn Royal when another shot goes off and one of the men drops to the dirt. He doesn't take notice of any of it, hitting my kidnapper in the face so hard that his head snaps back. The man tries to fight back, swinging my borrowed hammer around and managing to clip Royal in the shoulder. He may as well have clocked a hunk of cement.