Falling For The Biker: The Vice President's Girl

Wren "Oh my god," I heave, trembling. "Oh my god." Ezra pockets my phone, rubbing my back and holding my hair. My throat is raw, eyes watering. The image filters into my mind again, and another round of vomit spills from my lips. I retch, stomach cramping. When I'm settled enough, Ezra hands me a bottle of water and a mint. "Thank you," I croak. He helps me up and into the car, and I stare at the road as he drives, unblinking. The image of Tristan bruised and bloodied takes all the space in my head. I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, the hard pounding of my heart.  Who would do such a thing? His new wife? Why? I have so many questions, they pop into my mind one by one without any answers. I just hope he's okay, I really hope so. A hand brushes my arm and I jerk violently, my head whipping to see it's just Ezra's hand. "Didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs. "How's the nausea?" My throat thickens, and I wipe my tears. "It's fine, thank you." It's silent again except for the low rumble of the car. Somehow, I notice the bikers are slowly following behind us, not as close as they were. And I appreciate the privacy, knowing Ezra probably told them to stay behind. "I'm sorry you had to see that," Ezra says, voice tight. "Why would someone even do that? And send it to me?" I ask nobody in particular, voice shaking.  I look over at Ezra. "Why?" His hands tighten on the steering wheel, jaw tight. "I don't know, Birdie. You shouldn't have to see that." "I mean why would someone even do that, Ezra? Is he even alive?" "Maybe he's not as perfect as he seems-" "What does that have to do with anything?" "I didn't finish." He glances at me. "You didn't know he was going to get married to someone else, he probably has a double life and is not as perfect as you make him out to be." I frown, vision blurring. "What are you trying to say? That he deserves to be beaten to death? Did you see that picture?" "Yes, I saw it," he replies. "What I'm trying to say little bird is-" he raises a brow, "-maybe he has some skeletons in his closet that you don't know about." I blink back the tears but some still fall. "It st-still doesn't justify the-the... god, he might not survive it." "He will," Ezra assures. "Sometimes the blood makes everything look worse than it is." "He was stripped!" I wail. "Chained like an animal to the balcony. Why humiliate him like that?" Ezra's jaw tightens. "The same way he humiliated you on the internet?" My jaw drops in astonishment. "It's not the same thing, Ezra. What is this even... are you on my side or not?" "I don't take sides." He glares, white-knuckling the steering wheel. "And if you think for one moment what he did to you was not humiliating enough, then I suggest you see a fucking therapist." "Wow," I scoff, utterly speechless. "You're even colder than you were three years ago, that's why you're still single." His lips curl into a snarl. "And you're no better. Couldn't even keep your fiancé." My heart caves, fresh tears fall down my face. Ezra parks the car at the clubhouse. "Wren, I'm sorry." "Why?" I ask dryly, sniffling. "You said what you've always felt." "You know I didn't mean-" "Save it, Ezra." I snap, ripping the door open and storming into the clubhouse. "Hey little lady," Torch greets, but one look at my face has him backing up. "Damn, who do I gotta kill?" "Ezra," I reply, marching up the stairs and into my room. The door slams so hard it vibrates on its hinges. I dump my bag on the chair and plop down on my bed. Then, I cry for Tristan. I weep for the love I still feel for him. My phone screen blurs from my vision, but I manage to find his number and I dial again. "P-please," I whimper, a slobbering mess. "Be okay. Please, be okay." "Tristan Fuller here," His voicemail comes through, and I listen to it because I've missed his voice. "I'm unavailable at the moment but leave a message."  And I redial. I try again, and again, and again, hoping for something different. But it's the same voicemails, his voice soothing as always. Tristan and I were together for two years. We met at a coffee shop a week after I arrived Seattle. He helped me settle in, helped me find a job as an assistant. He was the sweetest guy I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, and our relationship was sound. Healthy. It was clear to anyone that we were head over heels in love with each other. That's why it's hard to believe he just switched on me. I know something must have happened, and if only we can talk about it... he has to survive this. A knock sounds on my door, and it pushes open. "Oh darling." Lizzy pouts when she sees me. "VP said you might need some company. He sent me up here." I still manage to roll my teary eyes. "Of course, he did." "Can I come in? Or do you need privacy?" She asks. "I just want to be left alone," I reply. "Just for a bit." "Alright hon, that's fine. Everything's gonna be fine." I sincerely hope so. "Thank you," I whimper, lips wobbling. "Do you know if my brother's back?" She shakes her head. "He isn't." "Okay." Lizzy pokes her head back out, the door still slightly ajar. "She doesn't need company, VP," she calls to the person-who I assume is Ezra-out there. "Tell her you'll check in on her later." Ezra's low voice sounds from outside my door, but I still manage to hear it. Lizzy pokes her head back in. "I'll check on you later, okay, Wren?" "Tell him to leave me alone," I bite out, glaring. She gives me a tight-lipped smile and shuts the door while I go back to mourning my ex fiancé. I don't know how long I cry, but I eventually cry myself to sleep. *** An incessant buzzing drags me out of my sleep. My eyes are dry and puffy from crying, like they've been stuffed with cotton balls. I look around and find my phone lighting up, the buzzing is coming from it. I shoot up, the sleep immediately leaving my eyes, and the blanket falls from my body. A frown forms on my lips. I don't remember covering myself with a blanket. But I toss the thought away, scrambling for my phone. Taking a deep breath, I blink hard at the screen willing the letters to come together. And they finally do. The caller ID, "Babe", is bold enough for me to catch it. My breath stutters. It's Tristan. Oh my god. I jam my fingers on the button and pick up the call. "Tristan, baby," I sob. "I got a p-picture of you. I-I... how are you? I'm so-" "It's not Tristan." A deep voice I don't recognize cuts in. "He was rushed to the hospital," the person says. "But unfortunately, he didn't survive." My heart stops, the world tilts on its axis.  He continues speaking, but my brain crashes out, the words zooming in and out of my head. "...multiple broken ribs..." "...head injury..." "...blood loss..." "...didn't make it..." The phone falls from my hand, and I scream.