biker pushed in closer, crowding him.
Dean swung the fist holding the wallet around. Connected with the biker’s leather. The biker grabbed a fistful of Dean’s denim jacket and wrenched it off his shoulder.
Dean brought his knee up, fast and hard, digging his other heel into the floor to keep his balance.
The biker slammed him hard against the wall. Dean’s teeth snapped together with a click. But he found his chance to twist and drop, slipping out of the biker’s grabbing hands like a wild cat. He launched himself toward the kitchen doorway, fingertips ghosting the floorboards because he didn’t have time to straighten back up.
The biker’s blade made a snick against its leather sheath.
The back of Dean’s jacket jerked, the biker catching hold of the collar. Dean wrenched free. Something plastic crumpled under his foot. His arms flailed. His wallet slid into the kitchen. The trash skittered out from under his foot as he aimed for the back door—just a rickety wooden storm door, its screen torn.
The dog’s barking rose, fast and sharp.
The biker growled, his boots scrabbling over torn linoleum as he grabbed Dean’s jacket again, yanking Dean back like a yo-yo at the end of its string.
Gasping, Dean let the biker have the jacket, dragging himself right out of it. All he cared about was the fucking door.
He crashed through it in his shirtsleeves. His feet tangled in the drop to the cinder block steps.
The dog was in the middle of the yard, its eyes luminous green in the moonlight.
He hit the ground with one knee, feeling the impact all the way to his teeth. Got halfway up and oofed as the wind flew out of him.
The biker’s weight buckled his elbow, sending him flat on his chest in the dirt.
The dog bolted toward them.
The biker wrenched Dean’s arm backward, twisting it high. He cried out.
Humid breaths hit the side of his face—the dog standing over him, its matted fur smelling like swamp and dead things.
Fingers gripped Dean’s hair, dragging his head back.
The edge of cold steel touched his neck.
The weight on him shifted, and the dog barked, three percussive shouts that jarred Dean’s skull.
The knife pressed. The fingers gripped harder. “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” the biker said. “This can go easy, or it can go really fucking slow.”
Dean clawed the dirt. The backyard was littered with junk, some of it glinting just out of reach.
The knife slid back into its sheath on the biker’s thigh. Dean wondered if there was any chance he could reach it.
“Ain’t nothing personal,” came the hot growl at his ear. Damp breath curled over his skin, bristling the hairs at his nape. A thumb jabbed below his skull.
The dog’s front leg bumped his head, its paw stepping on his hair.
He grasped behind him with his free hand, finding his own shirt, the biker’s leather. The biker’s body angled off him at the hips, putting the knife out of reach. But he kept trying for it anyway.
Pain like white-hot fire shot down his shoulder and coursed up the back of his skull. It tingled like electricity along his jaw. His mouth jumped open. The yell in his chest was knocked right back there with the surprise of the pain. He dug at the ground with his fingers, knife mission forgotten. Panic and the weight of the biker pushed on his lungs, squeezing the breath out of him. He needed to get out from underneath.
The dog’s bark jarred every bone in his skull.
His flesh tore just below his ear with a wet sound that stiffened his toes, made his guts sink cold and heavy.
He needed to focus. He needed to get the fuck out of there.
He wrenched his hips, grinding one painfully into the dirt, and threw his elbow back, hard, connecting with the biker.
The biker didn’t so much as grunt.
He slammed his elbow back again, ignoring the sick slide of the biker’s teeth against tendons in his neck, the pain needle-sharp where nerves had been torn into. A tooth hit one just right and his legs jolted like
Dean swung the fist holding the wallet around. Connected with the biker’s leather. The biker grabbed a fistful of Dean’s denim jacket and wrenched it off his shoulder.
Dean brought his knee up, fast and hard, digging his other heel into the floor to keep his balance.
The biker slammed him hard against the wall. Dean’s teeth snapped together with a click. But he found his chance to twist and drop, slipping out of the biker’s grabbing hands like a wild cat. He launched himself toward the kitchen doorway, fingertips ghosting the floorboards because he didn’t have time to straighten back up.
The biker’s blade made a snick against its leather sheath.
The back of Dean’s jacket jerked, the biker catching hold of the collar. Dean wrenched free. Something plastic crumpled under his foot. His arms flailed. His wallet slid into the kitchen. The trash skittered out from under his foot as he aimed for the back door—just a rickety wooden storm door, its screen torn.
The dog’s barking rose, fast and sharp.
The biker growled, his boots scrabbling over torn linoleum as he grabbed Dean’s jacket again, yanking Dean back like a yo-yo at the end of its string.
Gasping, Dean let the biker have the jacket, dragging himself right out of it. All he cared about was the fucking door.
He crashed through it in his shirtsleeves. His feet tangled in the drop to the cinder block steps.
The dog was in the middle of the yard, its eyes luminous green in the moonlight.
He hit the ground with one knee, feeling the impact all the way to his teeth. Got halfway up and oofed as the wind flew out of him.
The biker’s weight buckled his elbow, sending him flat on his chest in the dirt.
The dog bolted toward them.
The biker wrenched Dean’s arm backward, twisting it high. He cried out.
Humid breaths hit the side of his face—the dog standing over him, its matted fur smelling like swamp and dead things.
Fingers gripped Dean’s hair, dragging his head back.
The edge of cold steel touched his neck.
The weight on him shifted, and the dog barked, three percussive shouts that jarred Dean’s skull.
The knife pressed. The fingers gripped harder. “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” the biker said. “This can go easy, or it can go really fucking slow.”
Dean clawed the dirt. The backyard was littered with junk, some of it glinting just out of reach.
The knife slid back into its sheath on the biker’s thigh. Dean wondered if there was any chance he could reach it.
“Ain’t nothing personal,” came the hot growl at his ear. Damp breath curled over his skin, bristling the hairs at his nape. A thumb jabbed below his skull.
The dog’s front leg bumped his head, its paw stepping on his hair.
He grasped behind him with his free hand, finding his own shirt, the biker’s leather. The biker’s body angled off him at the hips, putting the knife out of reach. But he kept trying for it anyway.
Pain like white-hot fire shot down his shoulder and coursed up the back of his skull. It tingled like electricity along his jaw. His mouth jumped open. The yell in his chest was knocked right back there with the surprise of the pain. He dug at the ground with his fingers, knife mission forgotten. Panic and the weight of the biker pushed on his lungs, squeezing the breath out of him. He needed to get out from underneath.
The dog’s bark jarred every bone in his skull.
His flesh tore just below his ear with a wet sound that stiffened his toes, made his guts sink cold and heavy.
He needed to focus. He needed to get the fuck out of there.
He wrenched his hips, grinding one painfully into the dirt, and threw his elbow back, hard, connecting with the biker.
The biker didn’t so much as grunt.
He slammed his elbow back again, ignoring the sick slide of the biker’s teeth against tendons in his neck, the pain needle-sharp where nerves had been torn into. A tooth hit one just right and his legs jolted like
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