Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 63
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 63 - Arielle Hawthorne lives for illegal street racing. Fast cars, high stakes, no attachments. Nate Carter races the same streets with reckless swagger and infuriating charm. Rivals by choice and partners by necessity, they’re forced together as rival crews and the police close in. Their chemistry is dangerous, their trust fragile, and falling for each other may be the riskiest move of all.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Humor Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Body Modification Violence
The One With Too Much Blood
NATE
I’ve been fucking shot.
When the realization dawns on me, the panic I’m feeling only gets worse, if that’s even possible.
I touch my fingers to the red that I can make out and an explosion of pain—excruciating and like I’ve never felt before—sears through my body like someone’s injected me with a hit of poison. The feeling is so intense that I swear to fuck I blackout for a moment.
“Nate,” I hear my name being called and another gunshot rings out—this one closer to me.
I’m so focused on the fact that I’ve been hit with a bullet that I don’t pay it any mind. I lift my shirt to find a small hole in the lower left side of my abdomen. Blood seeps from the wound, running down my muscles, across the band of my boxer-briefs and lower to the denim of my jeans.
I’m in a state of shock, fascinated by the thick liquid as it runs and runs and runs.
“Nate!” My name is shouted again and I finally find some focus as Langley’s hand suddenly collides with my abdomen and a new type of pain rips me to shreds when he presses some sort of padding to the bullet hole.
“Fuck!” I cry out, wanting to punch him in the face for doing so.
Something about the degree of pain I’m in, stops the panic I was suffering from earlier and everything comes back into focus. I’m finally back in the present, observing as Langley steps behind me to lift the back of my shirt. “It looks like a through and through, but we’ll have to go get you stitched up to be safe. Keep pressure on that wound,” he tells me, pointing to the cloth I have pressed to my body, which is slowly turning red with my blood.
As I try to decipher what the fuck just happened, I take a glance around the room. The other guard—the one that was atop Langley, strangling him—has been shot dead. Titus is also dead, with a bullet put between his eyes as well.
Langley picks up my gun and hands it to me, but I have no interest in the fucking thing. He stuffs it into the back of my pants for me, not giving a single fuck as to how I’m feeling about it.
“Come on,” he tells me, holding his gun out in case he needs it.
We’re not about to kill everyone in this building, are we?
The second I take a step forward, the pain consumes me again. I choke back an anguished cry of pain and do my best to suck it up, following behind him slowly. I’m sure he’s been shot many times before, he can at least give me the courtesy to walk as fast or as slow as I need to.
I notice he’s grabbed the briefcase from earlier—a large red splatter on it from when I hit Titus upside the head with it and likely broke his nose. The edges of my vision blur again as my wound flares with sharp pain, but I push past it, following Langley into a room.
I see the other briefcases that Titus mentioned to us and I watch Langley as he grabs a second one. “Can you carry one?” He inquires and I nod my head, holding out my free hand. I take it from him, my grip tight on the handle. I observe him maneuver to a cabinet where he scans over a bunch of car keys. Eventually, he chooses one and scurries out of the room.
I’m inclined to follow him around the corner where several vehicles are parked. He chooses a black Mazda RX8, pops the trunk, stuffs the briefcases in his hands inside and then tells me, “Get in.”
I toss my own briefcase into the back and then do as he says, keeping pressure on the wound. At this point, the entire rag he’d given me is stained red with my blood but I try to ignore my inner feelings of doom. People survive gunshots everyday, I try to remind myself.
It takes Langley two or three minutes to gather all the briefcases as I wait impatiently in the car. I sit there and wait for someone to come and stop us, to pull out a gun and threaten us, to attack Langley or myself, but none of that happens. In fact, Langley doesn’t even seem that panicked about the people around us.
As he’s getting into the vehicle, I even spot one of the workers look at us but he just simply observes us leave. It piques my curiosity as I try to wrack my brain for a reason why these guys seem so unaffected by the fact that we just killed their boss.
Plus, didn’t we leave the cocaine behind?
Langley takes a sharp left and it causes my body to thrash inside the small space, eliciting pain. “How are you?” He questions as he takes another corner. I sure as fuck hope he knows where he’s going.
“If I’ll survive, then I’m fine.” I’m lying, I’m far from fucking fine. It feels like someone’s constantly placing a lit cigarette in the wound and I don’t particularly care for the feeling of having lost this much blood, but I try my best to hide it.
“Where are we going?” I inquire, my head lulling back against the headrest. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, but I do my best to push past the agony and press the rag harder against my body.
“There’s a local guy—he’s in Ezra’s pocket—he’ll stitch you up.”
I groan, both in pain and frustration. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up earlier, because now I’m about to be seen as a patient by a sketchy guy on Ezra’s roster. Can I even trust Langley and this doctor to safely treat me?
I don’t have another option. These are the cards I’m being dealt and I just have to put up with it. It’s not like I can go to the hospital, they’d ask too many questions. Not only would Ezra not trust me in a situation like that, but the hospital would probably be obligated to report at least something to the police.
My pulse hammers in my ears and by the time Langley slams on the brakes outside the back of some building, I don’t know how many minutes have passed. I’ve lost all sense of time, only able to focus on the pain that makes me feel like I’m being torn in two.
I slump forward just as Langley opens the passenger’s side door. I want to ask him why he’d help me, why he wouldn’t just leave me for dead, but the words don’t find my mouth. I simply don’t have the energy to do anything other than let him help lift me from the vehicle.
Taking steps forward is like climbing a mountain—each step feels like ten—despite leaning near all my weight on Langley. He urges me forward, knocking in a specific pattern on the metal door. He impatiently taps his foot on the concrete before I hear the sound of it swinging open and a deep voice recites Langley’s name.
“We need help,” he utters.
Isn’t that shit obvious? I’m fucking bleeding out here.
The doctor grabs my other arm when I attempt to take a step forward and collapse into him. “Shit, how long has it been?”
“Maybe twenty-five minutes,” Langley explains.
My back hits some sort of surface and when I hear a faint bark nearby, I realize that the doctor I’ve been brought to is actually a black market veterinarian. I don’t even have time to think about it because I hear ripping as my shirt is cut up my body to allow him easy access to my wound.
My body is partially rolled and I hear the vet point out, “Through and through, so that’s good. I won’t need to fish a fucking bullet out of him.”
“Clean him up,” the vet says before I hear his footsteps scurry out of the space. I can make out conversation, likely between him and his receptionist, or maybe his patients.
However, I can’t focus on that as Langley passes a towel to me and orders me to stuff it in my mouth. I’m not an idiot, I know what’s coming, but when he pats that alcohol-soaked rag to my wound, I bite down on the towel in a scream. The pain is excruciating and my back arches off the table because it feels like someone’s injected gasoline into my veins and I’m rejecting it.
When the vet returns to the space, Langley continues cleaning me up and I bite down hard when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. I try to distract myself, observing the vet as he locks the door, washes his hands, puts blue gloves on and then prepares a syringe.
I lay my head back on the table, wincing when I feel the syringe pierce my skin. However, the pain begins to fade almost immediately and I mentally thank him, whoever the fuck he is.
“Get me the kit,” the vet demands and I listen to Langley’s footsteps as he scurries to a cabinet to grab what the vet has asked for. He hands him something and all I can do is listen as a zipper hisses and something else clangs onto the metal table.
“Can you feel this?” The vet asks me as he presses a finger into my abdomen near the gunshot wound.
I nod my head, removing the rag from my mouth to inform him, “Yeah, but nothing like before. Just please, get it over with.”
“You sure? I can give you more, numb you completely.”
“Just do it, please.”
I don’t want anymore of whatever the fuck he wants to give me. I don’t even know what he’s given me and though I can assume it’s some sort of anaesthetic, I don’t want any of it. I just want the bleeding to stop.
He doesn’t respond and I lay back again as he thumbs through his kit. It only takes a minute or two and then I feel pain as the needle pierces through my skin while he begins to stitch me up. I wince, the pain on the edge of unbearable.
I realize that if he hadn’t given the anaesthetic, I’d probably be passed out by this point, but I don’t want to think about it. Instead, I try to pretend I’m literally anywhere else than where I actually am.
For fuck’s sake, I’m in a fucking veterinary office, staring at weird doctor shit in jars as some underground vet stitches up my gunshot wound. I don’t know where I expected my first day working for Ezra to go, but it sure as hell wasn’t here.
I guess I should look on the upside. There are two good things that came from today. The first—I’m not fucking dead. I can’t lie, the first time I came to learn that I’d be working for Ezra, I was about ninety percent sure he’d off me within the first day. Second good thing? Langley saved my life. He could’ve easily left me for dead there. He could’ve shot me and acted like Titus or one of his guards shot me and killed me.
But he didn’t.
I don’t really know why, but I don’t want to second guess it. I just want to be happy that he saved me.
Well, maybe not saved me. I doubt I would’ve died from a through and through to the abdomen but still, I wouldn’t have had any single fucking clue what to do about it and now I’m getting some sketchy ass medical attention. It’s better than absolutely nothing.
Eventually, the vet tells me to roll over and I do as he requests so that he’s able to sew up the exit wound. I watch Langley while he’s doing something as a distraction. He fills a glass with some water and removes some medication from the vets things, bringing it over to me.
“Here,” he offers, “Take this, it’ll help.”
My eyebrow arches in skepticism and distrust.
“It’s a painkiller.” He puts the things down in front of me, scoffing when I don’t immediately take what he’s given me. Just because he saved my ass, doesn’t mean I trust him. “Or don’t. I’m not the one who got shot. Suffer. See if I give a fuck.”
He crosses the room in three quick steps and then seats himself on a chair near the desk.
When there’s a particularly strong shot of pain from my back, I concede, taking the pills and filling my mouth with water so that I’m able to swallow them. I settle, trying my best to get comfortable, if that’s even remotely possible.
I reach beneath the collar of my torn shirt, grabbing the piece of jewelry dangling there as if it’ll provide me with even the slightest bit of strength. My thumb traces over the mountain range etched into the surface.
I placed the ring on a chain late last night. It’s the only thing—the only physical reminder—of Arielle that I’m able to keep close that isn’t immediately obvious to anyone but the two of us. I figured I could’ve worn it on my hand, but something about that felt wrong. I felt like Langley or Ezra would be more likely to see the piece of jewelry on my hand and would question me about its meaning.
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