THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 19: The Drop

The warehouse lot erupted—Rico’s shout cut through the night as his crew charged from their car, boots pounding gravel, fists swinging. Tyler’s Jeep felt like a trap, windows fogging with our breaths as Rico tossed the fake cash, bills scattering in the May wind. “Ryder!” he roared, voice raw, scanning the dark. “I see you, you little s**t!”

“Move!” Jake hissed, yanking me down as Tyler fumbled the keys, engine stuttering. Rico’s crew—two guys, big, tattooed—split, one circling the crates, the other kicking the tarp where the bag had been. Headlights flared, pinning us, and Jake grabbed my wrist, pulling me out the back door.

“Bike!” he barked, dragging me toward his motorcycle, parked ten yards off in the shadows. Tyler yelled something—“Go, I’ll stall!”—and peeled out, Jeep swerving to block Rico’s truck, tires screeching. I stumbled, sneakers slipping, but Jake hauled me up, adrenaline buzzing like fire in my veins.

Rico spotted us, cigarette dropping as he bolted our way, scarred face twisted. “You’re dead, kid!” His crew followed, one pulling a bat from his belt, metal glinting under the warehouse floodlight. Jake swung onto the bike, slamming the key in—engine roared to life—and I jumped behind him, arms locking tight around his waist.

“Hold on!” he shouted, and we lurched forward, gravel spitting as he gunned it. The bat guy swung, missing by inches, the whoosh loud in my ears. Rico’s truck revved, chasing, but Jake swerved hard, cutting through a gap in the fence—chain-link rattled, scraping my leg—and we hit Route 9, wind howling.

Headlights blazed behind us, Rico’s truck gaining, horn blaring like a war cry. I pressed my face to Jake’s back, his jacket cold, heart hammering through the leather. “Faster!” I yelled, voice lost in the roar, but he heard—bike surged, weaving past a semi, the town’s edge blurring into fields and black sky.

Miles flew—five, ten—until the truck’s lights shrank, then vanished. Jake slowed, veering off into a ditch by an old barn, overgrown with weeds, engine cutting to silence. We rolled to a stop, hidden by tall grass, and he yanked off his helmet, panting, turning to me. “You hurt?” he asked, hands grabbing my shoulders, eyes wild.

“No,” I gasped, sliding off, legs shaky but whole. “You?”

He shook his head, pulling me close, arms crushing me against him. “f**k, Mia, that was too close.” His voice broke, muffled in my hair, and I clung back, dirt smudging my cheek, his heartbeat slamming under my hands.

“Tyler,” I said, pulling back, breathless. “He’s still there—”

“He’ll make it,” Jake cut in, firm, but worry flickered in his eyes. “He’s got the Jeep—fast enough to lose ‘em.”

I nodded, trusting—hoping—and sank into the grass, Jake dropping beside me. The ditch smelled of mud and spring damp, stars sharp overhead, Rico’s roar a fading echo. My phone buzzed—Ellie: “Rico’s crew’s ex-cons—watch your back.” Too late for that.

“They knew,” I said, voice low, showing him the text. “Fake bills didn’t fool him.”

Jake cursed, kicking a rock, dust swirling. “Tyler’s cousin—had to tip ‘em. Rico’s not playing now—he’ll come harder.”

“Then we hit back,” I said, fierce, sitting up. “He’s after us—me too. We can’t just hide.”

He stared, jaw tight, then grabbed my hand, pulling me to my knees, face inches from mine. “You’re crazy,” he said, half-laughing, half-awed. “Rico’s not Lexi—he’ll kill us.”

“Not if we’re smart,” I shot back, gripping his jacket. “He saw me—he’s not stopping. We end this.”

His eyes searched mine—dark, stormy—then softened, a spark flaring. “Together,” he said, voice rough, and yanked me in, lips crashing into mine. It was messy—mud on my face, his hands tangled in my hair—tasting of sweat and fear and him. I kissed back, desperate, hands fisting his shirt, the ditch fading to just us, heat cutting through the cold.

He broke it, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, echoing that night at his house, but fiercer now.

“You do,” I said, firm, brushing dirt from his cheek. “We do. But we need a real plan—Rico’s not done.”

He nodded, pulling me up, grass sticking to our jeans. “Tomorrow—school, Tyler, Ellie. We regroup, figure his next hit.”

“Deal,” I said, squeezing his hand, steady despite the shake. He grabbed his helmet, kicking the bike awake, and I climbed on, arms tight again, the engine’s growl a promise—we weren’t running anymore.

But as we hit the road, a crack split the air—gunshot, sharp, close. Jake swerved, cursing, and I twisted—Rico’s truck, headlights off, barreling from a side lane, a glint of metal flashing from the window.