Free Resurrection (Wesson Rebel MC Series Book 3) by Shyla Colt Page A

you on your way in?”
    “I ran into a little trouble. I need someone to come and pick us up at Bob’s Gas and Go on the corner of Main and Fourth street. I need a cage to take as much as we can carry. We need to ditch the car.”
    “Consider it done. My boys will be there in five.”
    “Marbles?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Make it three.”
    “The heat’s on you?”
    “Something like that.”
    “We’re out the door now, brother.”
    “Appreciate it.” I hang up and turn to Vita. “I need you to get our things together. They’re going to meet us there. Anything you think could be tagged, leave it behind. They’re going to dispose of the car. So, that should give us more time.”
    She continues to stare straight ahead.
    “Hey.” I snap a finger “Hey!”
    She remains cationic. Her slender body sways with the car as I continue to turn on the streets.
    Is she going into shock?
    I want to spend more time trying to snap her out of it, but I don’t know the roads here and I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. My body is aching and my neck smarts. I’m sure at the least, we have a mild case of whiplash. As I crack my neck and wince, I recall her hitting her head.
    Damn, she might have a concussion.
    I pull into the gas station, park on the side of the building furthest from the street, grab our things, and focus my attention on her. I cup her chin carefully. “Vita, can you hear me?” I ask gently. Her skin is petal soft and she smells delicious. I curse myself for choosing now to notice. “I know we’ve just been through hell and back, but I need you to fight, or they’re going to win.”
    She gives a slow blink and I see the light come back inside her. She manages to focus. “Prophet,” she mouths.
    “That’s right, babe, I’m going to get you out of here, okay? I have all our things.” I can’t help but treat her the same way I would one of my sisters if they were hurt.
    She’s weak, confused, and frightened. “Okay,” she mouths.
    Her unfailing trust in me goes a long way toward melting the ice that encircles my heart. This is the woman I saw that day with Ira. She’s been hiding behind family names, clothes, and dread. I can smell it on her, oozing out of every pore and filling her hazel eyes. The roar of bikes sets me back into motion. I scramble out of the car with our things over my arm and come around to help her out. She clings to my arm and I marvel at the one sixty she’s done. She sways on her feet. Snaking my arm around her waist, I pull her to my side to keep her upright. The bikes surround us and I rejoice at the sight of the Wesson Rebels patch.
    Marbles dismounts and walks over to me. “Got the prospects to take the car off your hands. She all right?”
    “I think she might have a concussion,” I say.
    “All right, we’ll call our doc and have ’em meet you.”
    “Thank you.”
    “What’s a matter, sweetness, cat got your tongue?” Marbles asks her.
    “She can’t talk, man. Altercation a while back ended up with her throat.” I make the universal symbol of a knife across my throat.
    “Shit. Any broad tough enough to take that and keep ticking must be good people. Especially, one that looks this fine.” His eyes rove over her.
    I narrow my eyes. “She’s preoccupied, and Houdini’s little sister.”
    “Shit. The ghost has family?” Marbles laughs. A silver SUV pulls up and he nods. “That’s your ride. They’ll take you to a place out of the way. It’s off the grid, fully stocked and ready to be defended if trouble somehow finds you. We’ll send someone your way in a few days with some clothes and whatnot, once everything dies down a bit.”
    “I can’t thank you enough, brother.”
    “You’d do the same for me.”
    “Damn straight.” I lead her to the car, worried about her submissive demeanor.
    How hard did she hit her head?
    I open the door.
    She climbs in, scoots over, and places her hands on her lap. She wrinkles her nose.
    I buckle her in.