Wyatt stands slowly, taking his time as if he’s telling each muscle to move individually just to drive me insane. I turn the knob, hoping to move out of range, where the fact that he’s standing shirtless in front of me doesn’t matter. Hot boy immunity, that’s what I need. Don’t worry. His personality is doing wonders as an immunization.
He perches his hands on his muscular hips once he’s in a standing position. His hat hair still flat against his scalp like it usually is. “I’d answer Lance as soon as possible if I were you. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. And whatever you think he’s capable of, think ten times worse, Dakota.”
A shiver of fear rattles down my spine, but I stick my chin in the air. They want to see my fear, but I’m not going to give it to them. Not now. Not ever. I whip the door open and cross over the threshold. Wyatt shouts after me, asking me where I’m going while yanking his shirt on. Getting my bike stops me momentarily since it’s hard to maneuver through the narrow doorway, but I get myself and my bike out before he’s even done putting his shoes on.
I start down the steps, the back tire thumping against each stair before I pull the bike out onto the road.
Wyatt runs out of my dorm after me, leaning over the wood banister that hovers over the gulch. “What the fuck, Dakota? I’m supposed to be watching you.”
I ignore him as I take off, then realize I can do better than that and steer one-handed while giving him the one-finger salute. The last thing I need is to be “watched over”. I’ve been taking care of myself from a very young age.
I shake my head, disbelief coursing through me. I pedal as hard as I can, heart thumping. I’m betting Wyatt will be hot on my heels in a minute or so. I have the advantage of knowing where I’m going, but Clary is so small, he could still find me just driving through the streets aimlessly.
The morning sun isn’t as hot as the afternoon sun, but the clothes I threw on are still rimmed in sweat when Dickie’s place comes into view. Relief floods me until I hear the roar of an engine behind me.
A quick glance over my shoulder, and I find Wyatt’s stone-cold blue eyes focused on me as he whips around a corner, tires squealing as he fights for control through the turn. He narrows his gaze as he steps on the gas, headed straight for me. Icy fear and panic send warning bells through me. But he wouldn’t hit me, would he? That’s just crazy.
The closer he gets, though, I’m not so sure. The devil is in Wyatt Longhorn’s eyes, and he’s aimed them straight at me.
7
The faster I try to get away, the more the rickety bike starts to shake. The wheels vibrate, and if it wasn’t for the roar of the engine, I’m sure I would hear the bike coming apart underneath me. I struggle to regain control over the piece of shit, but the bike slips off the pavement and into the gravel. I skid and over correct, and all of a sudden, I’m falling.
I throw my hand up to protect my face and my shoulder takes the brunt of the fall. Pebbles and sharp rocks tear my skin as I come to a grinding stop, my feet tangled up in the bike still.
I groan, kicking the bike off me. I move to my back and my eyes shutter from the sun. “Fuck,” I hiss as I try to get to my feet. Pain shoots through my shoulder, and I cradle it to myself.
The squeal of brakes makes me shoot upright, my body protesting the whole time. A door slams, and Wyatt Longhorn comes out from around his truck. “Jesus, Dakota.” His voice is void of any emotion.
His gaze drops to my shoulder, and it’s then that I really feel it throbbing. I look and find blood trickling down my arm.
“Christ almighty,” Dickie’s gravelly old voice calls out.
My shoulders slump forward in relief. “Dickie.”
He moves closer, his gaze widening when he’s close enough to realize it’s me on the ground in front of him. He has a shotgun in his hand because he’s just that old school. When you’re Dickie and a noise sounds that’s loud enough for you to hear, you grab your gun before you investigate. It’s practically law.
“What in the hell? You okay, sweetheart?”
I investigate the wound on my shoulder further. My shirt is dusty and the scrapes on my shoulder are enough to have blood dripping and pooling. I move my gaze to Wyatt who’s leaning casually against his truck with his arms crossed like he had nothing to do with this.
I sigh. “I’m—”
Dickie moves his attention to Wyatt, interrupting my “I’m fine” response. “Who the hell are you?”
Wyatt steps forward, hand outstretched.
Dickie pulls his gun up to a shooting position, tucking his chin against the butt. “Where I’m from, when a girl falls on her bike, you run over to help her. Only assholes stay back. Are you an asshole, boy?”
Wyatt, who shot his hands in the air as soon as Dickie shoved the gun in his face, stares down the barrel. He swallows, but still has the gall to look almost unaffected, like he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Like staring down the length of that gun could be salvation for him instead of tragedy.
Dickie doesn’t even give Wyatt a chance to respond. Not that he was going to anyway. “You know this asshole, Dakota?”
I pull myself to my feet, brushing my shorts off along with the small stones embedded in my knee. “Unfortunately, yes.” I glance down at my bike. It’s completely fucked now. The tire is bent. There’s no just pumping air into it again to save it. I could legit cry. Between the
