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“Don’t move, help is coming.”
His bottom lip trembled, and his eyes were at half mast. “Your name?”
She blinked and drew in a breath. “Cheyenne.”
The corner of his mouth curled as he tightened his clasp on her hand. “That’s pretty.”
Even in the most horrific and dramatic experience, she smiled. It was a sweet compliment, especially coming from someone in such obvious pain.
“I’m Mick.” His lips meshed together as if he was gearing up to say something but losing the battle. “Please, Cheyenne.” He gulped and struggled for breath. “Just take it.”
Somehow, the exchange of names had changed something. He was Mick, and she was Cheyenne, and she had to do what he’d asked. Maybe it was the desperation in his tone. His last words were a plea to her. She drew in a breath and stared back at the man. If he did survive, it would be a harsh and painful recovery. It was a big if too. Her eyes teared, bracing some of the pain he must have been feeling. Without giving it another thought, she grabbed the envelope and shoved the crumpled package down the back of her jeans and untucked her shirt to cover it.
“No cops, I promise.”
The corner of his lip curled slightly, and she smiled back. “Ya gotta hold on, Mick, okay?” A tear streamed down her cheek, and she swiped her shoulder against her face to wipe it away.
He slowly nodded incoherently. His lips meshed together, opening and closing. He struggled and then moaned. “Meg.” His eyes were trained on her until his lids slowly lowered, and he whispered again. “Meg.”
She held on tight to his hand but felt his grip loosen. Oh God, no.
The stammering from behind was what tore her gaze from him. It had all happened so fast. Two police officers, accompanied by an ambulance, raced over to them, and things got crazy. She reluctantly released his hand when she was pulled away, but her gaze never left him. There was so much chaos and loud screaming from all around. All Cheyenne could do was stand by and watch. She curled her arms around her stomach and said a silent prayer. Please, don’t let him die.
The voice sounded from far away, even though they were a mere three feet from her.
“We’re losing him.”
“Pulse is faint.”
Cheyenne stepped back, making room for the gurney rolled out in the middle of the highway. Maybe it was shock, but she felt frozen, watching the paramedics try to revive him. The man lay silent and still. No, not the man. Mick. Her eyes teared and quickly streamed down her cheeks.
He’s not gonna make it.
****
There was an accident…he didn’t make it.
Trax had gotten the call about twenty minutes ago. It was one he wasn’t prepared to receive. A life-changing call.
Mick was gone.
There were few details, or maybe there were more he missed. He zoned out, trying to wrap his head around the news. He wasn’t sure how long he had stood in his garage, silently gripping the phone. Could have been minutes or hours. Grief had an odd way of making time stand still.
Mick is dead.
It wasn’t the first time death had knocked on his door. Trax was the only surviving member of his immediate family. His younger brother had died at the age of thirteen. He’d been hit by a car while riding his bike home from school. An accident, horrific and life-changing, but an accident. It was his first experience with loss and grief. It wouldn’t be his last.
A few years later, it was his mom. She’d been sick for a month or two, refused medical assistance, and continued to smoke two packs a day. By the time she gave in and saw the doctor, it was too late. Stage four lung cancer took her a few months later. His father hung on but eventually succumbed to the pain of losing his kid and wife. He drank himself to death. Trax couldn’t blame him. So much grief in such a short time was enough to make anyone throw in the towel.
Then there was Trax, the lone survivor.
If anyone should know the heartache and be able to grasp it, it was him. Yet, there he was, completely blindsided by Mick’s death.
Mick. His brother. His friend. His mentor. The man who had vouched for Trax when he prospected with the Ghosttown Riders nine years ago. Gone.
The short drive seemed longer than it had ever been. He pulled into the side lot of the clubhouse. He was one of three motorcycles pulling in. He dismounted and then hurried inside. When he’d gotten the call from Rourke, he’d had few details. Mick was on his way back from a pickup and had been hit on the highway. He died on the scene.
It was surreal. He’d just spoken to him in the morning. They had plans. They were meeting up for drinks at the strip club. After all, Trax owed Mick. It was Trax who was supposed to make the pickup. Mick offered when Trax had mentioned being backlogged on some repairs.
