Chapter 6 Gingersnap

F ollowed? What did he mean by that?

Was the black truck coming back?

“Ginny, baby, I need you to listen. No questions. Just obey me because I have to know you’ll stay safe.”

What the hell was he talking about? Safe from what? The truck with the skull? I didn’t have a clue what that meant or why the person driving it was a threat.

Wait. Is this the person who killed my father?

“Brick?” My voice shook as the emotional implication of what this could mean hit me. Was the murderer after me and Brick now?

“I need you to hand me the gun in my glove box.”

Shit. He’d never ask me if he didn’t suspect something. Right?

My fingers trembled as I opened the glove box, reached for the gun, and handed it over. Brick took it from me, placing it on the seat before his hand held mine, interlacing our fingers. He held my hand tight, helping the quiver subside.

“I always keep a loaded weapon with me, but the safety is on, and I won’t use it unless necessary. Feel me?”

I didn’t trust my voice. Nodding, I gripped his hand tighter.

“I know this is scary, but I’m with you. I won’t let anything happen to you, Ginny. I’m still keeping that promise to Hesh.”

I blinked, processing what he said.

“You’re gonna be fine. I swear it. Keep your head down. Let me keep you safe. Okay, Baby?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Good girl,” he praised and lifted my hand, kissing the top before he released it.

I watched as he reached for the gun, eyes on the road and never bothering to look at the weapon. It occurred to me that he touched it with enough familiarity that he didn’t need to look at it to use it. With one hand on the wheel, the other palmed the gun, Brick staying alert as I saw the headlights from another vehicle lighting up the interior of the truck.

An engine revved behind us.

Oh, God. The black truck was back.

I didn’t think it could get any worse until something bumped into us, rocking the frame of the truck as I screeched. Behind us, the trailer with whatever he hauled back there groaned in protest.

“My bike,” Brick growled, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Bike?”

“My Harley.”

Oh. We got hit again, a bit harder, and I closed my eyes tight, feeling my chest tighten.

“It’s just a little rub, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

A little rub? Was he serious!? Spots danced in my peripheral as I sucked air into my lungs.

Breathe, Ginny!

Brick glanced in the rearview mirror, and I watched a muscle in his jaw tick. He seemed calm despite the danger. My dad had been like that, easygoing and the type to roll with whatever situation life placed him in. Unfortunately, his life in a motorcycle club made him a target. I never found out why he was killed. What did he know? Who did he piss off?

I wondered if I would ever get those answers.

The next “rub” was far less gentle than the previous two. I screamed as I heard a crunch of metal, and Brick swerved to the left. The asshole behind us rammed into the right-side rear panel!

“Fuck!” Brick pressed down on the gas, but the black truck matched our speed. “Stay down!”

He barely uttered those words when I heard the truck pull up on my side. I dared to look out my window, unable to see the driver because of the thick, dark tint. Somehow, it terrified me more not to have a face to put to the person trying to run us off the road.

“Ginny! Down!” Brick ordered.

Right.

I tried to tilt to the side, keeping my head out of view of the black truck’s driver. Not that it did any good. A few heartbeats thumped wildly in my chest before something crashed into my door. The metal crumpled under the pressure, and something sharp bit into my thigh.

I cried out as I glanced down, shocked to find a piece of the inner door had come loose, and the jagged edge scratched my thigh through my jeans. The material had ripped, and now blood oozed from a shallow wound. It wouldn’t kill me, but it sure stung. I pressed down, wincing at the pain.

I vaguely realized that my window shattered from the hard impact when the truck collided with us, and glass had been blown throughout the interior. Several more scratches appeared on my hands, and warm liquid trickled down my cheek.

“Ginny!” Brick roared, pointing the gun toward the truck. “Stay down, Baby!”

Wind filled the cab and tormented us with a shrill blast of swirling snow. My teeth chattered as I kept pressure on my thigh, hoping the person in the truck didn’t shoot Brick. I’d be dead as soon as this truck crashed. If not sooner.

“Brick,” I whimpered, reaching over and gripping his leg with my free hand. I just needed to touch him, feel his warmth, and know I wasn’t alone. I’d never been through anything this frightening in my life.

Even when my father died, I was spared the trauma.

My mother insisted on a closed casket, and I never knew how badly he’d been injured before my dad was killed. Had he been run off the road in a similar way? As a child, I never questioned my mom or asked for the gory, grim details. But now, experiencing this, I felt like I should know.

“I got you, Ginny.”

I heard a couple of quick pops, not from Brick, and whimpered.

Brick fired back, and as each bullet dislodged from the barrel, I jolted. I’d been at a shooting range a couple of times and even fired a gun more than once myself, but there was something different about shooting with the intent to harm or kill, even in self-defense. Or watching someone else do it, knowing they took a life to protect yours.

My chest tightened for a different reason, having nothing to do with the brief panic that made it constrict earlier. This had everything to do with my brave hero. He didn’t hesitate to put himself in danger or do what had to be done. Honestly, I didn’t know if I could do the same in his place.

In awe, I stared up at him, losing what little resistance I had left to the attraction and need growing between us.

As the last bullet left his gun, I heard the truck lose speed, and Brick stepped on the gas, lurching us forward as we left the black truck behind. I didn’t feel any remorse for the guy in the black truck. He deserved what he got.

Brick didn’t have another choice. If he didn’t try to stop that truck, they’d run us off the road, and we’d crash in the icy, treacherous conditions. He’d total the truck and the Harley behind us in the chaos.

Brick reached for my coat and placed it over me. “Try to get warm, Ginny. I’m figuring out what we’ll do next.”

I was shivering too hard to answer.

We hadn’t driven for more than a minute when Brick smacked his palm into the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

“Is something wrong?”

“That motherfucker shot my radiator!”

I slowly sat up, bracing myself against the seat, and noticed the smoke pouring from the engine. One glance at the dash showed the gauge and the needle rising higher. The engine was overheating.

Shit. We wouldn’t be driving this truck any further.

Brick reached the same conclusion, slowing down until it was safe enough to pull over and park. He sighed as he turned toward me, his brows furrowed. One hand rose to swipe across my cheek, pulling away as he wiped blood on his jeans. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Baby. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You did your best, Brick.”

He shook his head. “You need medical attention. We’re too far from a hospital or urgent care.” He reached into the center console and pulled out a first aid kit. After rummaging around, he found a large bandage and some antibiotic ointment. “This might sting,” he warned before applying it over the scratch and then pressing the bandage down.

Ouch. I bit my lip but didn’t cry.

“Good girl,” he praised for the second time today. “I’m proud of you, Sweetheart.”

“Thanks.”

“You have anything I could use to wrap around your thigh and keep the bandage in place?”

“I’ve got a scrunchie.”

He arched a dark blond brow.

“It’s a hair tie,” I explained. “A fat one.”

He snickered but didn’t make any jokes. “That’ll work.”

Brick reached behind the seat and pulled out my luggage. I unzipped the smaller case and found my scrunchie, yanking it out. With Brick’s help, I managed to slip it over my boot and jeans, tugging it in place around my thigh.

“Is it too tight?”

“No. I think it’ll work, but I don’t know how long it will last.”

“We just need it to hold onto. I can get you to safety.”

He didn’t say home, which alerted me. “Where are we going?”

“Slight detour. I’ve got a friend that lives in Green River.”

“How close are we?”

“Another hour with these roads. Do you think you can make it?”

On foot? No.

Wait. “Are we riding your Harley?”

“Yeah, Sugar. And we’re bundling you up before we step outta this truck.”

“I can make it if I can snuggle you for warmth.”

It was a bold statement, but he grinned in response.

“I know.”

He leaned forward and grabbed my coat, helping my arms through the sleeves. A few minutes later, I had on my gloves and scarf, the hood tightened, and fur lining my face.

“That should do it. I don’t have a spare helmet, so you’ll wear mine.”

“No,” I argued. “I’ve got this warm hood and coat. You don’t have anything.”

“Not risking your safety.”

“And I won’t get on the back of your bike unless you wear your helmet.”

“Ginny,” he growled.

“Brick. Try me. See if I don’t walk instead.”

He blew out a breath, whether in frustration or humor, I didn’t know. “Fuck, you can be a handful. I forgot about that. You and that sass. Always had it, even when you were little.”

“And you love it. So hush. I’m cold, and we need to get moving.”

He couldn’t argue since I was right.

“I want to make a quick stop, and you won’t like it.”

“Stop where?”

Brick thumbed at the road, indicating the black truck we left behind. “I need to know who chased us down, Ginny. It’s the only way to be sure who we’re up against. I don’t like not knowing who my enemies are or not having the intel I need to make a move.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now get your ass on my bike,” he ordered as we left the truck, and he uncovered his Harley. She was beautiful and sleek, with polished chrome and dark red paint. The tank had been painted in a brick design with the Saint’s Outlaws logo over it.

“It’s breathtaking,” I admired, stepping back as he undid the straps and slowly brought the bike down the ramp. “I need to bring my luggage. There’s Christmas presents in them.”

Brick nodded. “Alright. I don’t have space in my saddlebags, so I’ll have to tie them down with bungee cords. It won’t look cute, but it’ll keep them with us until we reach our destination.”

“Are they going to get dirty?”

Silly question? Yes. I still wanted to know.

“Ginny, baby, we’re both gonna get dirty and soaked, so is the luggage. Nothin’ to help that. It’s wet out.”

Good thing I had smooth, hard cases. “I understand. Just asking.”

His lips twitched. “Get on. I’ll take care of it.”

Once the bags were secured behind me and attached to the sissy bar, we rode away from the truck. Brick had unloaded all his belongings and placed them in the saddlebags. I also noted he sent a few texts, presumably to let his club president and members know where to find his truck and the black one that tried to run us off the road.

I didn’t say anything when he pocketed his gun and placed it inside his leather vest. My father explained to me years ago why he wore a cut and what it meant. I understood the significance.

When we pulled to a stop a short distance from the black truck, I stiffened.

Brick flipped up the visor on his helmet. “Don’t look. It’s not worth the nightmares that follow.”

I believed him.

It didn’t take long for him to search the interior or walk back to me, taking the position in front of me on the leather seat. As his ass landed on the bike, he squeezed my leg.

“I know who’s after us.”

“Who?” I asked, almost afraid to find out.

“Crimson Skulls MC,” Brick spat.