Fiasco (Dirty Aces MC Book 6) by Lane Hart (black male authors .TXT) 📕

mom and her boyfriend were at work, which meant I still had to feed myself and I was fucking lucky if we had any meds. Even the over-the-counter shit is expensive. My mom used to tell me that it would pass, whatever hurt me. Sore throat? It’ll pass in a few days. Throwing up? It’ll be gone in twenty-four hours. A cold? Get your ass out of bed and get to school, Phillip. You know you can’t afford to miss a day, or you won’t pass this year either!

I hated both times that I had to repeat the same grade in elementary school. Everyone in the old class made fun of me the next year when I was with the smaller kids. And the new kids picked on me for being bigger than they were because I was too stupid to move up a grade.

When I was sixteen, I finally dropped out of school. By then, my mom was never around, so she didn’t know or care. Even if she did, it’s not like she could’ve physically dragged my ass to the high school when I was a foot taller than her and outweighed her by fifty pounds. The worst part of dropping out was no more free meals. I had to get a job at a fast-food restaurant working long, shitty hours, but at least I could sneak and eat as much food as I wanted.

“Fiasco!” Mike, our foreman, calls out, snapping me out of the daze I was in.

“Yeah, boss?” I ask when I pull myself to my feet and they actually are strong enough to hold me.

“Stop daydreaming and get back to work!” he says. “Dev is good, but he can’t do the work of two men and there’s rain coming tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, taking one last sip of water before I head back up the ladder.

After the longest twelve-hour shift of my entire fucking life, I find myself driving past the street to my rundown apartment complex. I keep right on going, which I know is an idiotic move. I need to be in bed sleeping off this fatigue, not stalking a gorgeous woman.

I really don’t know what the fuck I’m doing riding down Joanna’s street. No matter how badly I want to see her, I doubt she wants to see me. The Dirty Aces were nothing but a burden on her, one that Nash said he regrets, but they didn’t have any other option when I was dying.

I shiver at the reminder of the pain and then the days of a high fever, how it felt like I was drowning in darkness until my eyes finally opened. That’s when I saw Joanna for the first time taking care of me. Kissing her before leaving yesterday was idiotic, because now I just want to do it again and I can’t. She’s Nash’s sister, and he wants us to leave her alone.

I slow down on my bike enough to see a light on in her living room, but I don’t catch even a glimpse of her as I drive by. Did I really think she would be taking out the trash or checking the mail at the exact time of night I drove by? I’m so dumb.

I turn right at the stop sign, heading for the highway, finally ready to get a shower and get to bed when a dark shadow suddenly darts in front of my bike. I hit the brakes hard to try and stop myself, but it’s too late. I hit whatever it is hard enough that I go flying through the air, landing on my back with a hard thud.

It takes several long moments for the air to return to my lungs from the impact. When I can breathe again, my fingers reach out to my sides as I try to push myself up into a sitting position and I feel grass. Guess I was lucky I didn’t land on the pavement or in the middle of the road. I manage to roll to my uninjured side and then push myself up to my knees, removing my helmet and tossing it down beside me to gasp in more oxygen. A few feet away from me, my bike is laying on its side in the road, the headlight shining in my direction. There’s something in front of it – a large mass bigger than a cat but smaller than a person.

Shit! What the hell did I hit?

My legs are still too weak to stand on yet, so I crawl back onto the road toward the injured animal, afraid of what I’ll find. Please let it be a deer or even a skunk.

When I hear a high-pitched whimper, it’s an all too familiar sound. I know without a doubt what the hell I hit. My chest aches as if my ribs have been cracked wide open. I touch a puddle of liquid that smells like pennies, glad that it’s dark and the light isn’t shining directly on it.

Reaching forward, my fingertips touch soft fur, and the dog whines again either because it hurts or it’s scared I’ll hurt it again.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, girl,” I say as wetness trickles down my face. I stupidly try to wipe it away which only adds the sticky substance to mix with the tears. “Fuck!” I scream not knowing what to do.

All I know is that I can’t just sit here and let the poor thing die because I hit it.

Forcing myself to my feet, I bend down and try to gently lift the animal in my arms, not sure where it’s safe to touch and where it’s not. I hear her panting, but she doesn’t whine at my touch. I’m sure if I was hurting her, she’d make some sort of outcry.

Now what the fuck am I going to do?

I’ve got to get us off the road, but I can’t carry the dog in my arms on the bike, even if it’s drivable, which I’m