Ride me like you stole me

3

Jax slams into me before I can move. We hit the concrete hard, his body curled over mine, the ledger crushed between us.

The canister spits white smoke across the floor.

"Don't breathe it!" he shouts.

"What is it?"

"Tear gas, maybe worse. Move!"

My eyes already sting. My throat burns like I swallowed fire. Jax grabs my wrist and hauls me toward the back of the garage, one arm over his own mouth, the other dragging me through a wall of choking fog.

"The back door!" I cough. "It’s locked!"

"Then we break it."

He drives his boot into the door, once. The frame screams. On the second kick the lock gives way and the door bangs open into the rain.

Cold air hits my face like a slap. I stumble outside, gasping, tears streaming down my cheeks. Jax pulls me behind a stack of rusted oil drums and pushes my head down.

Through the haze, I hear the truck's door open. Boots on wet gravel.

"Check the back!" a man yells.

Jax goes rigid. "Two of them."

"Can you fight them?"

"Yes."

"Can you win?"

He looks at me, and for one second his eyes soften. "Not while you're standing here."

My heart lurches. "Then what do we do?"

"My bike's in the alley behind your house."

"That's forty yards away!"

"Then run fast."

"Rae." His hand cups my face, rough and warm. "Trust me. Just this once."

I should say no. Every smart thought in my head says no. He lied to me. He was sent to use me. He's a Saint, and the Saints killed my father.

But the footsteps are getting closer, and I'm out of choices.

"Go," I whisper.

We bolt.

Rain slams into my face as we sprint across the yard. Wet grass slides under my boots. Behind us a man shouts, "There! By the fence!"

A gunshot cracks.

Wood splinters off the fence post beside my head.

"Keep running!" Jax roars.

We vault the back fence together. I land hard, my knee blazing with pain, but Jax hauls me up without breaking stride. And there, in the shadows of the alley, sits a massive black motorcycle gleaming under the rain.

"Get on!"

"I've never..."

"Get on!"

I throw my leg over the seat. Jax swings on in front of me, thumbs the ignition, and the engine roars to life like a beast waking.

I wrap both arms around his waist and press my cheek against his back, the ledger wedged tight between us, his leather jacket soaked and cold against my skin.

Another gunshot rings out.

The bike tears forward.

We shoot down the alley and skid onto the main road, tires screaming against wet asphalt. The world becomes a blur of streetlights and rain. The wind steals my breath. Jax leans low, and I lean with him, the machine moving like it's part of his body.

"They're behind us!" I shout.

"I know!"

"How many?"

"One truck!"

I twist to look. Two headlights burn through the rain, closing fast.

"Faster!"

"I'm trying, Rae!"

The truck surges closer. Its engine snarls like an animal. Jax cuts hard left down a side street, and my stomach flips as the bike leans so low my knee nearly scrapes the road.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere they can't follow!"

"Where?"

He doesn't answer.

The truck hits the corner behind us and fishtails, then straightens. Closer. Closer. I can see the driver's face now, a hard jaw, a shaved head, cold eyes locked on us.

"Jax!"

"I see him!"

"He's going to ram us!"

"No, he's not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know how Dec trains his men. They want the book, not a crash."

The truck slams into our rear tire anyway.

The bike shudders. I scream. Jax fights the handlebars, muscles locked, and somehow, impossibly, he holds us upright.

"You said they wouldn't ram us!"

"I was wrong!"

"That's your answer?"

"I'm busy!"

The truck hits us again. Metal shrieks. Sparks fly. I bury my face in Jax's back and cling to him, praying to every God I know.

Then the road changes.

The pavement gives way to gravel. Trees crowd in on both sides, black shapes against the storm. A chain-link gate looms ahead, topped with barbed wire.

A sign flashes past in the headlight beam, dripping rain.

PRIVATE PROPERTY. BLACK SAINTS MC.

"Jax," I whisper, horror rising in my chest. "You're taking me to the clubhouse?"

"It's the only place safe from Dec's men."

"It's Dec's clubhouse!"

"Not tonight."

"What does that mean?"

"It means trust me."

"I don't even know you!"

"You know me better than anyone has in years."

The words hit me harder than the truck did.

The gate swings open ahead of us. Two men in leather cuts step out, shotguns slung across their chests. One of them lifts a hand, and the truck behind us finally peels away, brakes squealing as it backs off.

Jax roars through the gate. It clangs shut behind us.

Safe.

For now.

The bike slows, engine rumbling low, and we roll into a gravel lot lit by floodlights. A long, low building squats in the center, flanked by rows of gleaming motorcycles. Music thumps faintly from inside. Men and women in black leather turn to stare as we pull up.

Every single one of them is watching me.

Jax cuts the engine. The silence is deafening.

"Rae," he murmurs, "whatever happens inside, don't let go of the book. Don't tell anyone what it is. And don't trust anyone."

"Not even you?"

His throat works. "Especially not me."

I swallow hard. "That's not comforting."

"It's not meant to be."

He helps me off the bike. My legs are jelly, my knee throbbing, my clothes soaked through. I clutch the oilcloth bundle against my chest like a lifeline.

The clubhouse doors swing open.

A tall man steps out, silver at his temples, a gold ring on every finger, a warm smile that doesn't touch his eyes. He walks toward us slowly, boots crunching on gravel, hands open like a friend welcoming family.

Everyone falls silent.

Jax goes rigid beside me.

"Well, well," the man says, his voice smooth as velvet over steel. "Jax, you found her."

His gaze slides to me. Slow. Hungry. Cold.

"Raven Mitchell," he says. "Welcome home."

I have never seen this man in my life.

But I know exactly who he is.