Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

fists, which doesn’t really help, but feels like it should. Concentrate. I send the PK out, slipping into the nearest Harley, finding the key mechanism. The tumblers inside.

There. Got you. Pushing the tumblers up and holding them. One… at… a… time…

The bike roars to life. Even with the gunfire, the blat of the engine is so loud that it nearly takes my head off.

“Yes!” I yell – right as the bike explodes away from us, wobbling wildly, the engine roaring. The back wheel actually fishtails, very nearly smacking Annie in the head.

I stare in horror as our noble steed rips right into the middle of the gun battle, bullets already spanging off the metal frame. The bike crashes onto its side, bodywork screeching. As I watch, goggle-eyed, it takes out one of the bikers at the ankles. He didn’t see it coming, too focused on his targets, and it hits him so hard that he actually somersaults.

I have no idea why the bike leapt forward like that, and I don’t have time to find out. Or the PK to do so: I really have drained the tank. Nothing but grey static and that awful, thundering headache.

Annie grabs me, pulls me in close. Hunches around me, as if her body can stop bullets.

I try again, but there’s nothing. Nothing we can do but wait for it to be over.

I’m expecting a calm. This isn’t the first time I’ve faced death, and I know what it usually feels like. It’s an acceptance – an awful, languid acceptance. There’s nothing more you can do.

This time, it’s different. I’m not calm. I’m fucking furious. Furious with myself: a hot, embarrassed anger.

A while back, when I was seriously looking into going to chef’s school, Tanner asked me a question. If I had to give up my dream of being a chef, but doing so would save countless lives, would I do it? I hated the answer. Hated how simple and clear it was, with no wiggle room.

Now, though? Seconds away from having a bullet rip through me?

I should have given her another answer. I should have told her to get fucked. I should have found another way. Because it’s not anger I feel, not really. It’s something much worse.

It’s regret.

I don’t know how much time passes. I go deep into myself, the bitter feelings pulling me in. It’s only when Annie pushes away from me that I come back, blinking.

Before I can ask why we’re not dead yet, Annie grabs me by the shoulder, turns me to face her. Her eyes are huge with worry. “Are you hit? Come on, baby girl, tell me if you got hit.”

“… What?”

“Are you hit?”

“I… I don’t think so?”

Before I can ask her what she’s doing, she pulls me roughly to my feet. My instinct is to duck back down, get out of the firing line. Only… nobody’s shooting any more.

No – that’s wrong. The gunfight has just moved. It’s inside the depot now, the Legends retreating, the National Guard pushing up. As I turn to look, a guardsman sprints towards the depot entrance in a roadie run, one of his buddies close behind him.

“Are you OK?” It’s Nic. He’s holding a terrified Leo, the boy clutching him so tightly that it’s a wonder he can still breathe.

“Yeah, but—”

Annie crouches a short distance away, next to a biker. A very dead biker, a pool of blood spreading out from his head. She’s holding something aloft – a set of keys. She must have gone through the dude’s pockets.

“Quick,” she says, jogging back to us. “Match the bikes to the keys. Before they come back.”

I goggle at her, still not a hundred per cent sure this isn’t a dream. “But—”

“Let’s fucking go. Nic—” She tosses him the key she grabbed. “You and Leo take one bike. Teags and I got the other. Do not turn the ignition on without engaging the clutch.”

“Which one is the clutch?” Nic snaps.

“Should be a lever on the left handlebar.” Annie digs in my pocket without asking, snagging the key I grabbed before.

There’s still gunfire coming from the entrance to the depot. Angry shouts, screams of pain. The air stinks of cordite. How in the name of blue fuck did we slip through the cracks here? How are we not dead?

I am not a fan of standing around doing nothing. No situation has ever been improved by staring stupidly at it. But right now, as Annie and Nic zip between the bikes trying to find the ones that work, it’s the only thing I can do.

Annie and Nic find the right bikes at almost exactly the same time. Annie’s is an enormous black Harley, with one of those silly little raised passenger seats on the back. Nic’s is a few bikes down the line: a sleek, neon-blue ride with a bulging gas tank. Annie is holding on tight to the handlebars, her left hand wrapped around a thick lever.

I have an absurd urge to tell them to find one with a sidecar. I’ve always wanted to ride in a sidecar.

“Get on!” Annie yells at me.

I snap out of my stupor, jogging across and clambering aboard, perching on the passenger seat and wrapping my arms around Annie. The seat is one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever sat on, way too small, finding the bony parts of my ass in seconds. Nic jams Leo down in front of him, the two of them chest to chest. An odd thought bounces through my mind: We should have helmets. You shouldn’t ride bikes without helmets. It’s dangerous.

Yeah, you know what’s more dangerous? Hanging around a gun fight. The sooner we get the fuck out of here, the better.

“Turn left out the gate,” Annie yells at Nic. He doesn’t reply, just pops the kickstand, and takes off. Or tries to. The bike immediately stalls, wobbling like crazy. Nic has to jam his feet into the concrete surface to keep it upright.

“Work the clutch,” Annie snarls at him. She