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WILLOW
I glanced behind us to see if anyone was coming as we waited for the gate to trundle open, Colt revving his bike as if telling the gate to hurry. The moment there was room, he squeezed past, and I held him tight as we made a right, our speed requiring us to take the full width of the road to make the turn. I looked behind us again as we rounded the corner. I still saw no headlamps, but he didn’t slow, his Harley roaring as we accelerated hard down the divided road that led to the entrance to our community. After we’d flashed past two streets, riding far faster than the posted speed limit of thirty-five, he braked violently before throwing the bike left. After several more rapid accelerations, followed by equally fierce braking before he hurled the bike around a corner, he slowed his aggressive riding.
We rolled to a stop at a light, and I began to shake as my body started purging itself of the adrenaline from my fight or flight reflex. “Easy!” he begged. “Not so tight!”
Sniffing, I fought my tears as I tried to loosen my hold around his waist. As he pulled away, I started crying and my shakes became worse. Now that the crisis was over, and the immediate danger was past, I was going to pieces. I held him, unable to relax my embrace as I sobbed into his back for a moment as terror and stress washed out of me. I thought of myself as a strong, resourceful woman, but I was ill equipped emotionally to deal with what was going on, and I couldn’t stop my tears. After a moment, I began to gain control over myself, but I was still sniffling as we rolled to a stop at another light.
“Which way to the airport?”
“What? Airport?” I asked, not understanding his question.
“I’m fucked up, Willow. I can barely ride and we’ve got to go to ground. Which way to the airport?”
“Which one?”
“I don’t fucking care!” he snarled. “The closest one!”
His request forced me to focus, and that helped me to finish getting control of myself. I glanced around as he pulled away from the light to get my bearings. Hobby and George Bush were about the same distance, but George Bush was easier to get to and didn’t involve us going into downtown. I tapped him on the leg and then pointed. “Next right. Get on the 10 east,” I yelled.
He nodded as he pulled to a stop at the light, watching traffic. We were past rush hour, but Houston never slept. “I’m sorry as barked at you,” he said as we waited for a chance to turn.
“It’s okay. Are you hurt badly?”
“I’ll live,” he said before we pulled smartly away into a hole in the traffic.
It was an easy ride down the 10, then onto the Sam Houston Parkway. As we rode, I could tell he was hurting as he gradually hunched over more and more, and I worried that his injuries were worse than he knew. Less than an hour later, we pulled into the Sheraton near George Bush and rolled to a stop under the portico.
“Go inside and get us a room,” Colt growled, his voice tight as the bike throbbed beneath us. “Get one on the lowest floor you can in case we have to run.” I nodded as I stepped off the bike and began removing my helmet.
When he didn’t switch the bike off, I paused. “Aren’t you coming in?”
He shook his head. “No. We don’t need any questions over my appearance. I’m going to wait here and make sure we weren’t followed. If you hear the horn, you hide somewhere inside and call the cops. I’ll try to lead them away.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I warned as I set my helmet on the pillion.
“I don’t think anyone was following us, and there are plenty of hotels around. That’s why I wanted to be near an airport. I think we’re safe enough at the moment, but better to be sure.”
With a nod I turned on my toe and hurried inside. It wasn’t that late, the huge clock on the wall behind the desk saying it was only minutes after nine.
“May I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked with a bright smile.
“I need a room, on the ground floor, for the night.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the first floor is conference rooms and the like. Our guest rooms start on the second floor. Will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine.”
I kept glancing at Colt sitting on his bike as we went through the normal routine of number of beds, number of people in the room, checkout time, and other shit that made me want scream to at her to hurry up. I finally passed my credit card over, thankful that I’d instinctually grabbed my purse on the way out of the house.
“Here you go, Ms. Larke,” the woman said as she slid the room card across the desk to me. “You’re in room 216.” She leaned forward and pointed to my left, “Right down that way, up to the second floor, and your room will be on your left.”
I pulled the key to me. “Thanks.” I hurried to where Colt was waiting. “We have a room. Second floor,” I said as I picked up my helmet.
He nodded, and slowly pulled away, turning his bike around before backing it into the nearest parking spot. I grimaced in sympathetic pain as he slowly dismounted. As he neared the door, he forced himself to stand straight, but I could tell it cost him. He was a mess. His face was smeared with blood, he had a nasty bruise forming around the cut under his left eye, and his shirt was dappled with blood where he’d bled through it.
“Which way?” he grunted as we approached the entrance to the lobby.
“Left.”
He nodded. “Stay beside me on my right.”
I moved into position, keeping myself between him and the woman behind the desk. He turned his head to look out of the windows as we passed, but after a quick glance, the woman returned to what she was doing and paid us no additional attention.
We moved through the lobby as quickly as he could, and though I could tell he was trying to hide it, he was limping slightly. I stopped at the elevator, but he shook his head and pushed open the door to the steps. We slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor, Colt helping himself up each step by pulling on the handrail with his left hand, his right arm tucked in close to his side.
“Why didn’t we take the elevator?” I asked, my face twisted in sympathetic pain.
“I don’t want anyone to see us,” he grunted as he laboriously climbed another step. When we reached the second floor he paused. “Check the hall.”
I opened the door. “Clear.”
I led him to our room, swiped the card key, and pushed the door open. Inside, we put our helmets on the dresser and then he immediately began struggling out of his shirt and pants. I helped as much as I could while trying to be as gentle as possible. I bared my teeth as he was slowly revealed, every part of his body covered in scrapes, blood, and cuts. He stripped down completely and then examined himself in the full-length mirror mounted to the wall. His back and ass were littered with cuts, and while none of them were severe, there had to be dozens of them, some with tiny shards of glass sparkling in them.
“Jesus…” I hissed. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up and get that glass out of you,” I murmured.
I went to the bathroom, wetted a bath cloth, and picked up one of the complementary drinking glasses. He’d sat on the edge of the bed while I was in the bathroom and was looking at his feet. I crawled onto the bed at his back, being careful not to touch him. The soles of his feet, like his back, were littered with tiny cuts, and walking had to have been incredibly painful.