Page 40 of Dane

“Son of a bitch,” Brielle whispered.

Sutton closed the last distance between us. His smile was condescending yet regretful. I had no doubt Brielle had seen this same expression many times during her time trapped by this monster.

“Brielle,” he said. “I thought that was you.” He didn’t look at me. A power play. A way to let me and Brielle both know he didn’t consider me a threat. Just another way his carefully expensive appearance worked to his advantage. “You look well,” he continued. His voice was warm, his smile shark-like.

I watched Brielle’s jaw tighten, watched her throat work as she swallowed whatever response came first. She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her chin and held his gaze with a firm stare of her own.

I stepped forward a half-step, put my shoulder between them. Sutton’s attention shifted to me.

“Mr. Rourke,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Parole officers usually discourage this kind of association.”

“Not my parole officer,” I said. “She supports this run as much as anyone. Besides, she closed the complaint in my file this morning. Something about the claims being unsubstantiated.” I couldn’t help but grin.

Something flickered in Sutton’s calm facade, the first crack in his composure. He recovered smoothly enough, though his smile seemed forced now. “Congratulations. That must be a relief.”

“My parole status isn’t why you’re here.”

“No.” He looked past me to Brielle. “I just need a moment with Brielle. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Nope,” I said with a grin. “Nothing complicated about it at all.”

Sutton’s smile finally dropped entirely. “Step aside, Mr. Rourke. This is between Brielle and myself. It always has been.”

“Not anymore.”

Sutton moved his hand inside his coat in a casual motion. Too late I saw the gun revealed as he pulled it out in one smooth motion. The crowd nearest us took a half-second to register what they were seeing. Someone gave the signal for the bikes to ready themselves and the deafening roar of three hundred bikes coming to life punctuated the moment. Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

Brielle

The gun didn’t look real. That was my first stupid thought. The engine roar around me became deafening as bikes surged forward. I shouted Dane’s name. The word tore out of me, raw and useless against the noise. Sutton aimed his gun steadily, aiming squarely at my chest. He fired at the same time Dane shoved me out of the way.

I barely heard the gunshot over the roar of motorcycles as the whole group started to move. Dane staggered. His body jerked sideways as he clamped a hand over his side.

I was moving before I made the decision. The crowd tried to take me with the flow and broke heavily away from the scene. And Dane. I used my shoulders to shove my way forward back to Dane before the crush of people became too hard to fight against.

I dropped to my knees beside Dane. His hand was pressed to his side, and I saw the dark spreading between his fingers. I put my hands over his, pressing hard, feeling the warmth immediately. I’d lost track of Sutton entirely.

“Stay still,” I said. My voice came out in a strangled sob. I knew I needed to be aware of my surroundings, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than the man in front of me.

“I’m good, darlin’. I’m good.” He brushed away my hands as he got to his feet. “Where’s Sutton?”

“You are not good. You’re bleeding.” I clamped my hand back over his side, pressed harder as his body tense under my palms, the muscle jumping in his abdomen.

Dane stood his ground, even as the crowd continued to move past us. “Just a graze.” He said absently. Then I saw relief soften his features as he spotted Tiny and several of the police officers in the vicinity. They had Sutton on the ground, the gun firmly out of his reach.

Even face down on the ground, Sutton continued to struggle against the cuffs securing his hands behind his back. He tried to crane his head around, looking for something or someone. I didn’t know. But the police officers -- and Tiny -- were having none of it.

I looked back at Dane. His color was wrong. His normally healthy complexion now looked gray. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. But his eyes were clear, tracking my face with the same focused attention he’d given me since the very beginning.

“Tell me you’re OK,” he said, his voice thinned but steady.

“I’m fine. You’re the one --” I stopped, swallowing a sob. “You’re the one with a hole in you.”

“Not a hole,” he snorted out a laugh. “More like a groove.” He shifted, winced, and I pressed harder with both hands. “Fuck. OK. That -- that hurts more when you do that.”

“Then stop moving.”