𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 5

— Chapter 5 —
Better Safe Than Sorry

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E L L I O T

"Hiya, fellas."

There were four other riders, and their aggressive motorcycles blocked any possible exit. They approached with unamused expressions—a sharp contrast to me, with my trembling legs and anxious expression conveying anything but confidence. My vivid imagination couldn't help but come up with all the worst possible scenarios that could unfold in the next few moments.

While I was busy freaking out in my head, Noah had forced himself up off the floor, using his slender legs to push his no-doubt bruised body off the asphalt. His coal-black helmet had been kicked to the side, clearly scuffed from all the friction with the road.

"Man, my day cannot get any worse," I heard him mumble flatly, as he dusted the dirt off his gloved hands.

Considering that almost all the Stray Dogs wound up at Joe's at some point, I didn't recognize any of the bikers before us. A rival group, maybe? But why had I never heard of them? Was it only these four that were part of it?

One of the older riders spoke up, a triumphant look on his rough face. "You've got nowhere left to run now, Edge."

"Yeah, well... you look like you haven't run in years, buddy," Noah said back, adjusting his leather jacket. The tattooed older rider immediately grew beet red, clenching his meaty fist with fury.

Why'd you have to go and insult the guy?! I wanted to yell at him. Now we're both dead! Great!

One of the other men glared, burying his fist into his other hand. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? We'll kill you, motherfucker."

"Yeah? Take a number," Noah retorted.

"Let's get him," another, muscular biker echoed.

Noah sighed.

"Why do you guys always have to make things difficult?" He asked. "Just tell Marcus to pay me back. Seriously, it's not like that asshole hasn't had enough time."

The fourth rider snapped back. "He'll pay you back when he decides he wants to, fucker!"

"This is what I get for being lenient," Noah muttered. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he faced them head-on. "Alright, fine. Compromise. Tell Marcus he's got a week left to deliver. Any longer than that and I won't be using my fucking words."

Threats, too? I thought distressfully. Noah didn't even look fazed. It definitely didn't seem to fly with the bikers, either.

The older rider scoffed. "This bastard thinks he can make threats!"

Noah shook his head in disappointment.

One of the other bikers changed the subject, however, finally acknowledging my presence—though somewhat rudely. "Christ, you couldn't swerve this idiot?" He snickered, gesturing to me. Tilting his head to see the toppled bike, he snickered, "the tires on that thing must be shit."

Hold on, I frowned, who the hell is he calling an idiot?

"Oh, now you've insulted Baby," Noah glared, probably referring to his shiny, abyss-black motorcycle.