Page 5 of Victorious, Part 2 (The LA Defiance MC #6)

“Phoenix,” she interrupts, her voice steady despite the tears. “We have to go back.”

And there it is.

The conversation I’ve been dreading since this morning.

“Clo—”

“No! Listen to me,” she urges, turning to face me fully. “I know what Maverick said. I know what the orders were. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep driving away from them when they might need us.”

I run my fingers through my hair, frustration and fear building inside me. “And if it’s a trap? If the Cartel is waiting for you to come back?”

“Then I’ll deal with it!”

“You’ll deal with it?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Clover, you’re not bulletproof. You’re not a fighter. If something happens to you—”

“Then at least I’ll die trying to help my family instead of hiding in the desert like a coward.”

The word hits me like a slap to my face. “We’re not cowards.”

“Aren’t we?” she challenges. “Because that’s what this feels like to me. It feels like we’ve abandoned them when they need us the most.”

I want to argue.

I want to explain about tactical retreats, following orders, and keeping her safe.

But the truth is, part of me agrees with her.

Part of me has been screaming to turn around since the moment we lost contact.

But I have a job to do.

“Get back in the truck,” I growl, finally.

“Phoenix—”

“Get. In. The truck, Clover. We’re going to Vegas.”

Her face crumples, and I hate myself for being the one to put that look of betrayal in her eyes. But I made a promise to her brother, and I am not breaking it.

Even if she hates me for it.

Letting out a dramatic huff, she climbs into the passenger seat without another word, Dracula settling in her lap as if he’s siding with her on this one. The silence that fills the truck as we pull back onto the highway is different from before. It’s heavier, more toxic.

This isn’t just tension.

This is resentment.

The hostility in the truck is colder than ice as we drive for another hour, the desert landscape slowly giving way to more populated areas as we approach the Nevada border.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in a glorious sunset, and under different circumstances, it would be a nice way for Clover and me to connect.

But every mile feels as though we’re crossing a line we can’t come back from.

My phone finally chirps with an incoming signal as we hit the outskirts of a small town, and both our heads snap toward the sound like we’re being attacked.

Clover lunges for her phone, hope blazing across her face, but it dims just as quickly.

“Just a roaming notice,” she whispers quietly. “No messages.”

The silence that follows is deafening, so I do my best to quash it.

“There’s a rest stop coming up,” I say, mostly just to fill the silence that’s been extending for too long. “We should stretch our legs… hit the facilities.”

She nods once, her eyes fixed straight ahead, unmoving. Not even a glance in my direction. But somehow, her silence is deafening. It’s louder than if she’d screamed at me, louder than any words she could hurl.

I know why she’s angry.

Because I haven’t turned us around.

Because I haven’t chosen her side.

But she doesn’t see the weight I’m carrying.

She doesn’t feel the promise pressing against my ribs, comparable to a loaded gun, with Maverick’s voice ringing in my head like a war drum.

Protect her.

Even if it means she’ll never forgive me.

I’ll carry that. Gladly. Because taking Clover back to LA, back into that mess, back into the goddamn Cartel’s sights?

That’s not protection.

That’s a death sentence.

I pull into the rest stop, and it’s busier than expected. Kids spilling out of SUVs, truckers nursing lukewarm coffee, travelers leaning on their cars with road-weary faces.

I shift the truck into park, kill the engine, and glance over. “I’ll just be a minute. Gotta hit the head.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Just stares out the window, her jaw tight, her posture still, but not relaxed.

No. She’s too still.

Too rigid.

Like a wire pulled taut, waiting to snap.

Something claws at the back of my mind. A thought I can’t quite catch. Still, I step out, letting the door thud shut behind me. I walk toward the restroom, but every step feels wrong. Heavy. The kind of heaviness that warns this is the moment everything changes between us.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I head toward the men’s room.

I move fast. In and out. My mind is spinning with contingency plans for Vegas—where we’ll stay, how we’ll play it with Sin when we check in with him at Las Vegas Defiance, what I’ll say to get Clover to understand.

But even as I splash water on my face and stare into the mirror, something is gnawing at me.

A cold twist in my gut that won’t go away.

“Get it together, Wes,” I mutter. “She needs you. You just gotta be strong enough for both of you.”

I dry my hands, shoot a half-assed paper towel free-throw into the bin, then yank open the door, and stall, giving myself a pep talk before I exit. “You gotta be tougher,” I whisper. “She doesn’t see it now, but you’re doing this for her.”

Engines hum outside. A horn honks lazily. Tires roll across gravel. Just the usual.

But then, I hear it, tires screeching. They’re high-pitched and urgent, completely out of place at a truck stop like this. My eyes widen, my heart slams into my chest, and I shoot out of the restroom as if I’ve taken a bullet to the spine, sprinting across the pavement.

And that’s when I see it.

The truck— my truck.

Rolling out of the lot, picking up speed.

Tires spitting gravel as it pulls onto the road.

And behind the wheel?

Clover.

Time slows. A single second stretches out like an eternity as realization slams into me with the force of a freight train.

She’s running.

She’s leaving.

She’s going back to LA.

Back to danger.

Back to the Cartel war.

Back to everything I swore I’d protect her from.

And fucking leaving me behind in the process.

I break into a sprint so fast my boots barely touch the ground. My lungs burn immediately, breath tearing out of me in ragged gasps, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The sound of blood pounds in my ears louder than the wind.

My thighs ache. My calves scream, but I push harder.

The world narrows to that one object in the distance—my truck, and the girl inside it.

The girl I would burn the world down to protect.

Gravel gives way to pavement as I charge down the shoulder. My boots slap the ground with brutal force, my muscles burning as I propel myself toward my damn truck.

She’s not gunning it—not yet.

Not with the weight of her equipment in the back and Dracula in her lap, but the seconds are slipping through my fingers like sand.

Fifty feet.

Dracula’s yowl cuts through the air, similar to a battle cry, and I almost choke on a bitter laugh.

“Shut up, you furry traitor,” Clover’s voice carries across the open stretch, frustration laced with something else— panic. The truck wobbles slightly, her attention split between driving and a pissed-off cat clawing at her chest, and it’s just enough.

Forty feet.

The lactic acid building in my legs feels as though it’s eating me from the inside out as I push harder and faster to get to my damn truck, attempting to speed off down the highway, but the traffic is heavy.

Thirty.

My lungs are on fire. Sweat stings my eyes. I’ve never run this hard in my life. Not in Defiance battles, not running from the cops. Not even when I was escaping the fallout of the Steel Serpents.

But this? This is survival.

Because if she gets away, I lose her.

Not just physically.

I lose her trust.

Her faith.

Her.

Twenty feet.

A kid goes to step out onto the street in front of her, and she slams on the brakes like a madwoman.

The rear of the truck fishtails slightly, the tires smoking as I increase my speed while the kid stares at her through the windshield.

Clover yells at her to get out of the way, waving her hands about like a person possessed.

Clover’s eyes meet mine in the rearview as I gain on her, but then she turns back to the street ahead and floors it.

“Fuck, Clo!” I scream, pushing harder to reach her, racing past the kid who’s staring at me as I pass her in awe.

But I know I have to do something dramatic.

The tailgate is down, begging me to make my move.

Ten.

You have to jump, Wes!

With all my might, I launch myself off the ground like a goddamn missile, heart crashing against my ribs, every muscle screaming as the wind rips past my ears.

My body slams onto the tailgate, knees buckling with the impact, and I lurch forward, hands scraping across the truck bed, my skin instantly tearing with the force as the momentum throws me toward the side, my legs flailing with the momentum swing.

The metal sears hot against my palms. Instant friction burns as equipment slams into me from every side, bruising my ribs while I scramble to stay upright.

Inside the cab, Clover screams. “What the fuck, Wes?”

Fueled with adrenaline and anger, I drag myself over camera bags and Pelican cases, crawling toward the cab as if I’m crossing a damn battlefield.

Dust stings my throat as it swirls around the truck like a tornado.

The wind shoves against me as though it’s trying to force me off the back and fight for Clover’s freedom.

“Pull over,” I demand. “Clover, stop the goddamn truck!” I shout.

“ No ,” she screams back, wild and breathless.

The truck jerks as she punches the gas, and I nearly fly out the back. I grab the side rail with one hand, the other flying into the air with the force, as I cling on for dear life while the truck roars down the highway.

She’s really doing it.

She’s actually going to drive back to LA.

She hates driving.

She once cried while parallel parking a Prius.

We are so fucking screwed.

I reach the rear window again and wedge it open with my fingers, then slide through with a grunt, landing in the passenger seat with a thud, just in time to see us barrel into traffic. She’s driving like the road owes her something. Like if she goes fast enough, she’ll outrun the pain.

“ Jesus, Clover !” I shout, grabbing the dashboard as we lurch into the next lane. “You trying to get us both killed?”

“I have to go back,” she yells, hands locked on the wheel. “I can’t leave them.”

“You don’t even know what chaos we’re driving into.”

“I don’t care!”

We swerve again, too fast. She overcorrects. The tires shriek, the entire truck fishtailing for a terrifying second. My hands rush to the ceiling, thinking we’re going to roll over, before she rights it again.

My heart hammers in my chest as we nearly sideswipe a compact sedan, horns blaring, middle fingers flying from inside. And I can’t even tell if I’m still breathing at this point. “Fuck, Clo, that’s a car.”

“I saw it,” she screams like a banshee, overcorrecting and swerving off the road this time.

“That’s a fucking tree!”

She steers it back onto the road, the truck bucking like a damn bronco as she glares at me as if I am the devil incarnate. “I fucking saw that too!”

“You gonna make us both see the gates of heaven next?” I mock.

“Shut up,” she screams, her voice raw. “I can do this!”

Shaking my head at this insanity, I huff. “You’re barely holding it together.”

“I k-know how to d-drive!” she snaps, but her voice shakes with sheer panic.

“Your brother’s a mechanic and a biker, why the hell can’t you do this better?”

“I’m a social media expert, not Letty, leave me alone ‘ before I leave tread marks on your face ,’ ” she screams back, overcorrecting again.

I can’t fight back my smirk at her Fast and the Furious reference. “You’re definitely not Letty, Clo. She’d never drive like this.”

She turns to face me, letting out a loud scream of frustration, taking her eyes off the road, and in doing so, veers onto the other side.

A horn blares as we drift into oncoming traffic, and I watch in horror as a semi has to swerve.

An airhorn screams as it diverges off the road, brakes screeching, gravel flying.

“Jesus, Clo, eyes front. Eyes front!” I snap, bracing for impact.

Her eyes flash with pain as she turns from me to look at the road. Her breathing is ragged. Shoulders are shaking. She’s unraveling right in front of me and using speed to hold it all in place.

“You said I was a survivor,” she chokes out. “Let me survive.”

We veer too far again, only this time I see it too late. The curve. The edge of the road.

We’re not going to make it.

“Let go,” I roar, lunging across the cab.

We both grab the wheel, fighting for control.

“Stop it,” she sobs, pulling against me and slapping at my hands. “Let me go back!”

“I can’t lose you,” I yell in her face.

The truck hits the shoulder, bucking and jolting us about the cab while sand blasts the windshield. We fishtail, hard, until we finally come to a grinding, bone-jarring stop in a cloud of dust and heartbreak.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Both of us are panting frantic breaths as we stare at each other.

Holy fucking shit!