Page 29 of Property of Thrasher (Kings of Anarchy MC: South Carolina #1)

THRASHER

T he morning had been perfect. Clear blue skies, the sun not yet bearing down with that Carolina summer heat, engines rumbling like a thunder chorus as we lined up for the poker run. It was a charity gig, proceeds going to a kids’ burn center. Something worth showing up for.

Since this was for charity, we didn’t line up like we usually did.

I fell in behind Tiny, who had Lyric perched on the back of his Harley, her hair whipping like a banner in the wind.

Melody rode with me, her arms snug around my waist, head tilted slightly against my cut as though the rhythm of the bike soothed her.

Couldn’t lie—it did something to me, knowing she settled in behind me so well.

We’d put in about thirty miles already, weaving through backroads, taking in the smell of pine and asphalt heating under our tires. The kind of ride that made a man feel alive.

At the front of the pack, Tiny threw up a hand, pointing two fingers before taking the left lane, signaling he was slowing for the next light.

I followed, instinctively matching his movements.

The intersection ahead changed to green before we came to a complete stop. We had right of way, clean as day.

One second, everything was normal. The next, a roar of an engine cut across the air, too fast, too reckless, too damn wrong. A pickup barreled from the right side, blasting through the red light like it never existed.

Time slowed.

I saw Tiny and Lyric in front of me, his head snapping toward the danger, his arm instinctively coming up as though he could shield her with nothing but his body. Her scream tore through the air, high and sharp, before the impact silenced it.

The truck plowed straight into them, steel on steel, flesh and bone caught in the middle.

Tiny’s bike lifted, crumpled, and spun out like a toy in a kid’s tantrum.

Lyric flew—no, fuck—she thrown like a rag doll.

Her body twisting before it hit the asphalt with a sickening thud.

Tiny’s body followed, skidding across pavement, cut and mangled by the unforgiving road beneath us.

“FUCK!” I roared, heart in my throat. I yanked the handlebars, jerking the bike hard left, instinct telling me if I didn’t, me and Melody were next to barrel into the truck. My Harley shook and the back tire got swirly under the sudden maneuver, tires squealing, and I knew I didn’t have control.

“Hold on!” I barked back at Melody, though there wasn’t time.

I laid the bike down, steel screaming as it ground against asphalt.

The force ripped us sideways, slamming my leg, my shoulder, the side of my skull against the pavement.

Pain shot fire through my nerves, but adrenaline kept me moving.

Melody hit the ground beside me, rolling once before she came to a stop, her helmet skidding sparks across the concrete.

Everything was chaos.

Engines braking hard behind us, brothers yelling, the screech of rubber, the wail of someone’s horn in the distance.

I scrambled up, body aching, helmet hanging loose by its strap. Melody was next to me, groaning, trying to push herself onto her hands. My gut twisted at the sight of blood smeared along her arm.

“You good, baby?” I rasped, voice hoarse. My hands were already on her, checking her over, running along her limbs like I could will her whole.

She nodded, dazed, tears clinging to her lashes. “I-I think so.”

Relief damn near buckled me, but it was short-lived. My head snapped up.

Tiny. Lyric.

I stumbled forward, ripping my helmet off and tossing it aside. Tiny lay crumpled on his side, his bike a mangled wreck a few feet away. He wasn’t moving. His chest heaved shallow, ragged breaths, blood seeping from a cut above his temple.

Lyric… fuck. She was worse. Her small frame twisted wrong, one leg bent at an angle nobody should be in. Her skin looked pale even against the blacktop, lips tinged with blue. She gasped like a fish out of water, hand weakly pawing at her stomach where blood soaked through her shirt.

“No, no, no—” Melody dropped beside her, my voice breaking. “Lyric, stay with me. You hear me? Don’t you close your eyes. Stay with me.”

Her gaze rolled toward her, unfocused, glassy. She tried to speak but coughed, blood bubbling at her lips.

“Call nine-one-one!” I barked.

Brothers had already scattered—phones out, traffic blocked, curses flying. Somebody shouted they had EMS en-route.

Thank fuck.

I pulled my cut off, then my shirt and pressed it against Lyric’s stomach, putting all my weight into it. She whimpered weakly, tears leaking down her temples. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

“Stay with me, sweetheart. You’re tougher than this, yeah? Tiny needs you. You’re his whole fuckin’ world. You hold on.”

Behind me, I heard another groan. Tiny shifted, his hand twitching like he was trying to reach her. He couldn’t even lift his head. His breaths came shorter, jagged, wet with something wrong in his chest.

“Fuck!” I snarled, torn between them.

Sirens wailed in the distance, the sweetest, ugliest sound I’d ever heard.

The next half hour blurred. EMS swarmed the scene, pulling Tiny and Lyric onto stretchers, strapping oxygen masks to their faces.

Melody and I both got checked—cuts, bruises, road rash.

They wanted us to ride in too. I didn’t argue, though every instinct screamed to fight them, to stay by my fallen brother and his girl.

I left Frootloop at the scene to wait for the tow truck to come pick up the mangled pieces of my bike and Tiny’s while the rest of the club followed the ambulances hauling us.

The hospital lights were harsh, sterile. They took Melody and me into a bay, cleaned us up, stitched a shallow cut above my brow. My arm throbbed where the pavement had chewed into it, but I didn’t care. Melody sat on the bed beside me, pale and trembling, her hand clenched in mine.

“They’ll be okay, right?” she whispered. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from crying.

I wanted to tell her anything but the truth. I wanted to tell her yes, of course, everything would be fine. But I wasn’t a man built for pretty lies. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice low.

That was worse. The not knowing.

We were released a couple hours later after having all the gravel picked from our exposed skin. Just bruises, scrapes, nothing life-threatening. But Tiny wasn’t so lucky. Neither was Lyric.

Word came down from a nurse who recognized our cuts, knew we were with the accident victims. Tiny had a brain bleed. They were monitoring him, but it was bad—serious enough they had a neurosurgeon on standby, but he wasn’t stable enough to get the surgery yet.

Lyric was already in surgery. Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen maybe, maybe worse. She’d been unstable when they wheeled her in.

Melody crumpled when she heard it, breaking down into sobs she tried to muffle against my chest. I wrapped her up, pressing her tight to me, my own throat thick with rage and fear.

The image of that truck, barreling through the red, would not leave me. Neither would the sound of impact, the sight of Tiny’s body flying, Lyric’s scream cut off mid-air.

I wanted blood. I wanted the driver in my hands. But for now? All I could do was sit in a too-bright waiting room with Melody shaking in my arms, praying to a God I wasn’t sure listened to men like me.

Hours passed. Brothers filled the hospital lobby, leather cuts draped over plastic chairs, grim expressions etched on every face. The club was family, and when one bled, we all did.

I sat stiff in a corner seat, Melody still tucked against me. My hand never left hers. Every time a nurse walked by, every time a door swung open, my chest seized.

Finally, a doctor came out, speaking quietly to the nurse’s station. I shot to my feet, hauling Melody with me.

“What’s the word on Braxton Davis and Lyric Truman,” I demanded, my voice rough, dangerous.

The doc adjusted his glasses, looking at me warily. He was younger than me, but had that clinical detachment that made my blood boil.

“Sir, your friend—Tiny, as you call him—Braxton Davis suffered a traumatic brain injury. We’ve identified a subdural hematoma. He’s in ICU, under close observation. Right now, we’re stabilizing him and reducing intracranial pressure. He’s not out of the woods.”

Melody clutched my arm tighter. “And Lyric?”

The doctor sighed, his tone softening. “She’s in surgery. Internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen and significant abdominal trauma. They’re working to repair it, but… it’s critical. The next twenty-four hours are going to be very important.”

Critical. The word echoed like a gunshot.

I nodded stiffly, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth would crack. “Thank you.”

He gave a sympathetic nod before disappearing back through the double doors.

Melody buried her face against me again, sobbing quietly. My own vision blurred, but I blinked it back. I couldn’t break. Not here. Not now.

I was Thrasher. Enforcer. Brother. Protector. But in that waiting room, under those sterile lights, I was just a man desperate not to lose the people he loved.

“DK,” I called out and he came over. “Get Guru looking into this. Make sure it wasn’t retaliation for the club shit before. I don’t see how they would tie us to the shit, but I got a feeling this wasn’t a regular accident.”

He nodded instantly taking out his phone and calling Guru who was back at the compound looking at the street cameras to see the accident over again.

I kept my arm around Melody because it felt like the only thing that kept me from flying apart.

Every time the double doors slapped open, some part of me braced for a doctor with bad news, for a nurse who’d say to prepare ourselves.

The waiting room hummed with the low growl of brothers murmuring to each other, the squeak of vinyl chairs, the steady rhythm of my own pulse thudding too hard in my ears.

Melody went still all at once.