Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3)

by Max Henry

  “Because we all need to unload sometimes,” she murmurs toward the floor.

  “Except you, right?”

  “Right.”

  I shake my head, coaxing her chin up. “Wrong.”

  She swallows, eyes fixed to mine, and all I can see in her dark irises is hope: that I won’t hurt her, that she can trust me.

  I look away, dropping my hand as I step back. “You can leave now, if you like.” I can’t promise her any of those things, so why lead her on?

  “I was beaten,” she whispers, fidgeting with her cuff. “I was drugged to sleep, ordered around like a slave, and rented out to his sick fucking friends by the hour . . . all before I turned six years old.”

  My fists ache from the pressure on my knuckles, my nostrils flaring as I try to keep my voice level and calm. “What’s his name?”

  “Irrelevant.” She draws a deep breath and stands taller. “It’s in the past. I got away, that’s all that matters.”

  “Bullshit it is.” She stiffens as I close the space between us, her body arching back when I come toe-to-toe. “That’s why it matters,” I say, pointing my index finger directly at her chest. “That reaction right there is why it still fucking matters what his name is.”

  “What you going to do?” she asks with a hint of disbelief. “Punish him? He’s probably dead or in prison by now, and quite frankly, I don’t care. I don’t want him sharing one more second of my life ever again.”

  “What’s his name, Abbey?”

  She rolls her eyes and looks to the side. “Evan.”

  Did she say . . .?

  Calm down. How many Evans are there in this world?

  “Surname?”

  She shrugs. “I was too young to remember.”

  Not that it matters anyway. Her full name, his, and the area Apex found her in should be enough to go off.

  I sigh and look her over. She stares at the floor, dejected, and almost seeming disappointed that she caved and told me what she has. Fuck it. She opened up and shared, so now I will too. It’s only fair.

  “You said you want to know how I used to be happy. How I used to let everything flow off me like water off a duck’s back.”

  She nods.

  “I was happy, because I didn’t give a fuck,” I tell her. “When you don’t care two cents what the world thinks of you, it’s a lot easier to be yourself.”

  “How can you not care what people say?”

  “Because,” I explain, “they’re tellin’ the truth. Rumors and stories are easy to ignore when none of it is made up.”

  She swallows, turning slightly so she can rest her back against the set of drawers. “You really took six bullets, then?”

  I turn and lift my shirt so she can see the scars on my back and side.

  “Oh.”

  “I took my first life at thirteen, not fourteen—that one’s a little off—but they’re right, I don’t have a bad singin’ voice when your time is up.”

  She smirks, ducking her chin to hide it.

  “You don’t smile much, do you? It makes you uncomfortable.”

  “A little bit.”

  “You feel any better though?”

  The lost look on her face as the light drains right out of her eyes, guts me. I step forward, testing her limits, and place a hand to the back of her neck, soothing her jaw with my thumb.

  “Little bits at a time, yeah?”

  She twitches a smile. “Yeah.”

  I lean in and place a kiss to her forehead, before letting go and stepping back completely. “Now how about you let me finish packing?” Because if this continues the way it is, then she’ll never be rid of me.

  She nods and pushes off the drawers to walk to the bed. “Are you taking this with you?” Her hand lifts to point out the headboard.

  “Nope. Too much hassle.”

  “Can I have it?” Her eyes widen with hope.

  Mine narrow with confusion. “Why?”

  “Because I love it. The design’s so cool.”

  “I had it custom-made.”

  She bops on the spot, hands clasped, as though asking “Well?”

  I shrug. “Guess you can have it.”

  “Awesome.” She skips over, hesitates, and then places a chaste kiss to my cheek before leaving the room.

  Morose to ecstatic in 5.1 seconds. Girl really does know how to switch her hurt off when she needs to.

  Which is why she’s right . . . she doesn’t need your help at all.

  TWELVE

  Abbey

  Goddamn, that man is beautiful. If he weren’t such an arrogant asshole, I might be crushing hard on the guy. But looks only get you so far, and for me, that’d be about one week in before I’d had enough of his self-righteous attitude and was ready to throw him to the dogs.

  I let myself be so overcome by his blatant sexuality as he whispered in my ear, filled my senses with everything about him, that I took down my guard and spilled. Something about the moment felt right, it felt warranted that I at least let him know why I’m the way I am. I don’t choose to be a bitch for nothing, to shut everyone out and hold back my secrets just for kicks. There are valid reasons why I keep my history exactly that, reasons that benefit more than just myself.

  “What’s got you lookin’ like you sucked on a lemon?” Fingers asks as I storm back into the garage and get situated in my safe spot.

  “That jackass upstairs has,” I grumble.

  “Sawyer?”

  “Who else comes to mind when I say jackass?”

  He chuckles. “I could think of a few, but yeah, he comes first.” He sets the spanner in his hand down and walks the few feet to where I’m perched on his worktable. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing really. It’s more what he said.”

  “He pickin’ on you again, girl? Because if he is, I’ll go and have a word myself.”

  I smile lopsidedly at Fingers. He’s crooked in the spine, and years of manual labor have taken their toll on his cracked and weathered skin. He’d be no match for Sawyer, but the fact that his heart is in the right place and he’d think of even giving it a try . . . I love the old man for it.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” I say on a sigh.

  He grins. “Where am I goin’?”

  The man’s a terrible liar. He’s sick. I know it. I can see it in his rapid decline in health. He tries to pretend his sight is okay—even with glasses—but I can tell he’s losing vision in his right eye. All that talk of training me up to replace him only confirmed what I’ve suspected for a while now.

  “How long?” I ask.

  He reaches out, placing a wrinkled hand on my leg. “That’s not for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

  Fuck him. He can’t shut me out when it matters most. My chin dimples as I fight the tears. I love this old idiot so badly. He was my father when I had none, reading to me at night by the workshop light. He took me to my first carnival, and even though the guy is terrified of heights, rode with me on the roller coaster when I was too young to go unattended.

  Every damn time I lost it as a kid and started scratching and biting at the people who posed a threat, he was the one who would calmly walk in and take my hand. I trust him with everything, would give him everything, life itself if it were possible.

  “You can’t keep me out of this,” I say with an unsteady voice. “I’m all you’ve got.”

  He shakes his head with a smile. “Rubbish. I’ve got all these men here.” He waves his free hand dismissively at the clubhouse.

  “But they don’t love you like I do.”

  He swallows, and for a moment I almost think I’ll see him shed a tear. But he stiffens that upper lip and nods tightly. “I’ve had enough of talkin’ about it, Abbey. How about you get back to what we started with? What did Sawyer say?”

  I stare him straight in the eye for a moment, knowing there’s no beating the old guy when he’s made up his mind, and then draw a deep breath. “He said I should let go and cry it out.”
r />   “Cry what out?” His brow pinches.

  “Everything. He thinks I keep too many secrets; that I try to be too brave. That I’m weaker than I want to think.”

  Fingers ducks his head to one shoulder. “He might be right, you know.” He pulls his hand away and fidgets with a socket set. “You’ve only told me a little about where you came from, darlin’, but I get the sense there’s a lot more you haven’t got to yet.”

  “I told him about Evan.”

  Fingers’ brow pinches. “What’d he do?”

  “Looked as though he wanted to choke the life out of someone.”

  “He took it well then?”

  “As well as I’d expect.”

  We look at one another and laugh.

  Fingers leans on the table with a sigh. “I’m not sure of his intentions, girl, but maybe a listenin’ ear ain’t such a bad thing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it again, though. Talking doesn’t change a thing.”

  “It cleanses this,” he says, pointing to my head. “And this.” His finger redirects to over my heart.

  “Even if I do tell him more, where do I start? When all of it is as disgusting as the rest, where do I begin?”

  “With whatever comes easiest.” He pats my knee and then crosses back to where he’d been working as he says, “I wouldn’t force it though, Abbey. I know you’ll talk when you’re ready, and that’s what he needs to understand as well. If he’s goin’ to be the one to hear you out, then that’s fine, but the man has to respect what he’s bein’ given.”

  ***

  “I want to know one thing,” I ask later that afternoon as I approach where Sawyer sits on the back deck with Bronx, one of the Butcher Boys.

  “Give us a minute, would you?” he asks his company.

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome stands and nods to me as he passes by. I watch Bronx walk over to the new pool table indoors, and then duck around Sawyer to take the vacant seat.

  “Who knows everything about you?” I ask.

  “What you gettin’ at, Abbey?”

  “Is there somebody who knows every part of who you are, everything that happened when you were a kid, everything that goes on in that head of yours?”

  He eyes me quietly, and then turns his attention out over the yard as he takes a drink. “Some people know a few things, others know the rest, but nobody knows all of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too much to take on all at once.” He sighs, running a hand over his thigh. “I know what it does to me day in and day out, so why the fuck would I inflict that on somebody else?”

  I nod, my gaze hard as I study his profile. “You just answered your own damn question.”

  “What question?” He frowns, settling his icy-blue gaze on mine.

  “Why I won’t let it all go and talk about what kills me in here.” I slam a fist to my chest. “Because why drag somebody else into my hell?”

  He casually sets his tumbler down on the deck beside his feet, and then leans on one arm so his face is inches from mine. “Baby, I’m already in hell. You can’t drag someone down who’s already livin’ on the bottom.”

  I’ve got nothing. He’s made a fair point, but it doesn’t change a thing. I still don’t feel the need to shed my skin and show the depth of what ugliness hides beneath.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t drag you any lower,” I say quietly, “but I’d sure weigh you down so you had no chance to find your own way back to the surface. I’ve already told you too much.”

  He leans back, a sexy one-sided smirk in place as he runs a thumb over his lips. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to float up to the sunshine on the surface. I like it on the bottom, lurking in the dark.”

  “Why?” I ask incredulously. “Why the hell would you choose to live in that kind of mental hell?”

  “Because I never feel as at home as I do when I’m using my God-given gift.”

  “Which is?”

  “Makin’ even the toughest asshole regret the stupid shit he’s done.” He places both palms to his neck and stretches out his shoulders. “I’m a killer, Abbey, a fuckin’ good one. And you know why? Because the things that make an ordinary man cringe don’t even faze me. Somethin’ upstairs is broken.” He pauses. “And it’s that inability to feel bad for what I’ve done that sets me apart.”

  I sigh, flopping back into my chair also. “Even so, it doesn’t change my mind, Sawyer.”

  “Because there’s something else holdin’ you back,” he says dryly.

  “How do you mean?” I turn my head slightly to study him.

  “Your concern for my welfare is cute, Abbey, but it ain’t the reason you don’t want to tell me any more than you already did.” He turns his head, his eyes hard as they meet mine.

  Damn, he’s good. “Are you sure your gift isn’t reading people?”

  “It comes a close second,” he teases. “So what is it? What’s your reservation?”

  I look over at him as he stares out at the back fence. He’s classically handsome, with that strong bodybuilder-style edge. Muscles or not, he’d be a good-looking guy, but with all that added bulk, that added power, it makes him what he is, even before you hear the stories. He exudes control, arrogance, and a certain entitledness in his attitude.

  He believes he has a right to everything he wants, and so, he gets it.

  Usually.

  “I guess . . .” I sigh, letting my gaze drift over his bare arms as he fists his hands on his thighs; it causes his biceps and forearms to twitch and flex. “I guess I don’t understand why you want any of this.”

  “This?”

  Flex.

  Twitch.

  “Closeness . . . with me.”

  He grumbles, laying his hands flat on his legs as though the fidgeting annoyed him. “You think my interest in you isn’t legit?”

  “Is it?” I ask. “I mean, you’ve never cared before, so why now?”

  His chin lifts slightly as he swallows hard. “I don’t know why ‘now,’ but I do know why.” He glances down to his lap before turning in his chair to face me. “Do you see what’s goin’ on here?” His thick finger waves between us.

  “We’re talking?”

  “More than that. We’re comfortable talking. We’re just sittin’ here in each other’s company, chewin’ the fat, and neither one of us is bein’ an asshole to the other or tryin’ to get away.”

  I look down at the casual way I have my legs, one tucked up on the seat, and pay close attention to what my body tells me. It says he’s right. My heart rate is slow and measured, my palms aren’t slick with sweat, and there isn’t a single muscle in my body that feels tense, on edge, or ready to run.

  I’m comfortable with him.

  Relaxed.

  At ease.

  “You feel it, Abbey-girl?” he asks, sliding off the seat so he kneels before me.

  My previously calm heart picks up the pace, but for once it’s not from fear or anxiety.

  “I do.”

  “That,” he says with conviction, “the feeling of bein’ where you’re supposed to be, is the reason why.”

  “I still can’t do it,” I say. “I can’t unload everything I’ve kept shoved down on you like it’s easy to, because it’s not. And no matter how much you ‘get’ me, or how at ease you make me feel, it still doesn’t change one thing.”

  “What?” He reaches out slowly, my gaze tracking his hand until I lose sight of it as he slides it under my jaw and just holds me.

  No rubbing, not even a slight squeeze. He just places it against my flesh as though I’m a wild animal he’s trying to earn the trust of.

  In a way, I guess I am.

  “It still doesn’t change the fact that dredging up the past doesn’t help my future.”

  He shakes his head slowly, mouth turned up on one side. “But it does.” A fire ignites in his eyes, and for a second I come to believe that it’s no
t him, but the devil in his head that looks back at me.

  I draw steady deep breaths, reminding myself of how calm I felt mere moments before as his thumb tracks over my cheek. My lips suddenly feel dry, and I wet them with the tip of my tongue. Sawyer’s gaze falls to the movement, and something flips. His previously lax hand goes rigid, almost painful as he takes hold of my neck, his thumb at the pressure point of my jaw.

  My heart races, my muscles on fire.

  “I don’t know how to take it slow,” he says, as though it’s an apology for what he does next.

  The back of my head slams into the chair as he lunges forward, his massive weight crushing me the same as his mouth does mine. I can’t deal. It’s too much. There’s too much of him on me and I feel as though I’m going to implode. But deep down inside, somewhere in the empty chambers of my heart, I know this is what I need.

  I’ve avoided the triggers to my past, escaped the things that’ll spiral me back ten or even fifteen years for too long.

  It’s time I faced those demons head-on and showed them I’m not afraid to fight any longer.

  He widens his mouth, accepting my tongue as I tilt my head and deepen the kiss. His free hand shoves painfully behind my back, and with a jerk, he slides me down the chair so my body is even more aligned with his. There’s no denying how I affect him, not when the evidence is painfully pressed into my thigh.

  “You say one thing with your mouth,” he whispers, laying a gentle kiss on my nose, “but your body tells me the truth.”

  “My body is a liar,” I say, placing both palms against his chest awkwardly.

  “Nope.” He chuckles, arching his back to he can press his forehead to mine. “Your body knows the truth. It’s your head and your heart that are at war.”

  “You can’t fix me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  He grinds his hips against me, and like the harlot I am, I moan.

  “What do you want then?” I tilt my head to the side so he can press a kiss to my neck.

  I shiver when his tongue traces a path to my ear instead.

  “I want your jagged edges to match mine. I want to combine our dark and ugly hearts into something unbreakable.”