Page 77 of Life Or Death

“Lucifer.”

I stop, my hand on the doorknob.

She’s sitting in the middle of my bed, the sheet wrapped around her, her hair a mess, her lips swollen, her eyes big, dark, and unreadable.

“Just . . . come back,” she says quietly.

Three words. That’s all she gives me. But they hit harder than anything she’s ever said.

I nod once, then pull the door shut behind me.

Later, when I straddle my bike and kick the engine into gear, there’s a tightness in my chest, and it has nothing to do with the hell I’m about to raise. The wind whips past my face as I hit the highway, and I push the bike harder, faster, trying to outrun the feeling.

But it doesn’t work.

I guess that’s what happens when a man’s greatest obsession becomes the greatest love of his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY

LUCIFER

I work the zipper on my fly and move to the rusty sink. As I wash my hands, my gaze drifts to the dirty mirror above, and I stare at my reflection. The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of a man who didn’t get much sleep. It’s a story about a man who fucked his wife senseless the night before and left her there, in his bed, so he can do the Devil’s work.

Turning the water off, I swipe my wet hands across the front of my shirt, then I reach into my cut and pull out my phone. I’ve been wanting to call her since I straddled my bike, and when we stopped to gas up our bikes, I almost did. But then it was only a couple of hours after we had left, and I didn’t want to wake her if she was still sleeping.

But it’s almost eight hours later, and I’m itching to hear her voice. Maybe then I can get my head straight and concentrate on keeping my men and me alive.

I pull up her contact information as I exit the truck stop gas station, and my thumb hovers over the send button for a second before I finally hit it and lift the phone to my ear. It rings three times, then goes to voicemail. I contemplate leaving her a voicemail but ultimately decide against it. What the fuck would I even say?

I miss you?

I can’t stop thinking about you?

I just want to hear your voice?

If I die, you were the best thing that ever happened to me?

“Fucking hell,” I hiss, angrily shoving the phone back inside my pocket. My boots crunch over the gravel as I make my way back toward where my men are gathered around a rickety old picnic table, eating gas station tacos. I’m still twenty feet away when I catch pieces of the conversation drifting over the rumble of passing highway traffic.

“I’m warning you, man. Drop it,” Dread says, his voice low.

“Why?” Nightmare laughs. “The girl is free game. So what if she’s got some fucked up scars and a limp. I’d still twist her like a pretzel and fuck her.”

I close the distance in four strides, grab Nightmare by the front of his cut, and rip him clean off the bench. He barely has time to register what’s happening before I slam him down onto the top of the picnic table and drive my fist into his face, sending tacos and drinks scattering everywhere.

Shouting erupts around me. Bodies surge in from every direction.

“Prez—”

“What the⁠—”

“Lucifer, back the fuck off⁠—”

Hands grab at my arms and my shoulders. I shrug them off and slam my fist down again. Blood blooms across Nightmare’s face, but it’s not enough. I want to keep hitting him until he’s a bloody mess and he can’t form another word.

Then Shadow and Tormentor get a real hold on me, each taking an arm, and they wrench me back hard enough that my boots drag and kick up gravel.

“What the fuck, man?” Nightmare shouts, rolling to his side and pressing his forearm to his face. Blood pours freely from his nose, and drips from his chin.