Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3)

by Max Henry

  Does he want me to recount the exact way I got away? What happened for me to finally be able to run, only to not know if my mother is now dead or alive?

  I swipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, heaving a deep breath as I push off the stool. I’ve heard plenty that sharing your feelings, explaining your triggers, and exploring your fears is therapeutic. But I can’t see the sense in that theory. If you have a sore, you let it heal. You don’t pick at it until it’s a festering mess that reminds you of its existence every time you move. You leave it alone, let it go away on its own. Surely the pain of abuse and neglect is the same?

  Then again, maybe not? After all, here I am, twelve years after I ran from that mangled mess, still stewing over the things I can’t change. Perhaps ignoring how I feel has been neglect of my own? Worst of all, maybe Sawyer was right? I do need to let it all go and cry, break down in the right way.

  I rise and loop my way through the bikes until I end up back at the internal door. With a flick of the switch, I bathe the garage in white light; what’s left of the fluorescent lights hum and buzz as they warm up.

  I’ve always come here when my mind’s been torn, and every time I’ve walked out with a clear decision on what to do next. Only this time it feels different, as I pick up a rag and start cleaning King’s bike like I have a thousand times before. When I haven’t been able to think about anything but my interactions with Sawyer for the last week, what does that tell me?

  There’s something there, something a part of me clearly longs to explore.

  But again, he left. He rode out the gate without saying a word.

  What does that say about how he truly feels about me? If he can pursue me with such ferocity, and then switch it off, was I just a game? Sport to keep him occupied?

  I guess what Hooch and King tell me is right: I need to avoid the risks a man like Sawyer brings and focus on finding a guy who’s reliable. Somebody who respects me, wants me, and would be patient with me. I know it’s right. My head tells me that’s what I’d be told if I asked anyone around here for advice. But with the comfort of the familiar comes an ache for the unknown. I feel as though, hidden by the lies I’ve told myself since I started a new life with Fallen Aces, is a woman who knows better than what she’s been taught.

  Not from experience.

  Not with fact.

  But from pure gut instinct.

  I almost listen to that intuition, throw away everything Apex, King, Hooch, and Sonya have tried to teach me over the years about moving on from my past and do what I feel is right. But another part of me yawns and nods its groggy head at what my gut tells me: my heart.

  I’ve never trusted that fucker.

  A heart can be broken. A heart can attach you irrevocably to something or someone that was never yours to keep. And a heart can make you act foolishly, impulsively, and dangerously. A heart is only good for the blood it pumps through your veins. Not for decision-making, and certainly not on this level.

  So why is it I can’t ignore what my heart tries to say?

  Because what you think is right is what you’ve been taught, not what you’ve learnt. Don’t let other people tell you how to live your life.

  I guess that’s it. I pushed Sawyer away, rejected his theories, because even though he showed such clear interest in me for who I am, even though I’m clearly attracted to him, fascinated by him, he’s not what I’ve been taught to think I need. I’ve been told over and over, had it drilled into me over the years, that to settle my mind, to make me happy, I need to find a life partner who’s the opposite of me.

  I need a normal, safe man.

  Somebody approachable, outgoing, and whose influence will hopefully rub off and instill good habits in me.

  The more I think on it, though, the more the thought seems ludicrous. I’m about as far from the white picket fence type girl a guy could get. The thought of domesticated bliss—school runs, baking, housework, and social clubs—makes me want to vomit.

  But it must be right. It has to be? Why else would so many people all tell me the same thing? Stop thinking about my past, look forward, and act happy. That’s what I was told is the cure, so why would Sawyer and his demands to do the exact opposite of all that, be the right thing to do?

  I’m so damn confused. Do I go with my head, believe what I’ve been taught? Or do I go with my heart and learn something new?

  I guess when it comes down to it, whose judgment am I going to trust more? That of a bunch of people who seem to have a handle on life? Or my own, skewed and inexperienced as it is?

  Nope. As always I have to trust what I’ve been told repeatedly. That a man as unstable and unpredictable as Sawyer could never be good to me.

  That my heart is so scarred from the past it doesn’t understand what it needs.

  That I’m best to leave Sawyer in Cali and forget that any of what went down between us even happened.

  Because underneath it all, his heart probably doesn’t understand what it really wants either.

  FIFTEEN

  Sawyer

  Some fucker has the music turned all the way up out in the bar area, the deep bass tones reverberating off the four walls off my room and assailing my hangover with deathly precision.

  I roll my head to the right and stare at the door, willing my lax body to get its shit together and go sort the inconsiderate punk out. Fuck, for all I know it’s Tap who’s turned the tunes up just to fuck with me. It’s the kind of shit he’s been doing every time I fall off the wagon—which is daily.

  Do-gooder bastard thinks I need to lay off the drink and drugs. Mr. Upstanding Citizen tells me that a clear head is my best bet at moving on from the mess I left behind and being a better man.

  What would he know . . .?

  Exactly. Never should have told that asshole why I wanted to move into his chapter. Never should have confided my weakness in him.

  I heave a sigh and roll onto my side, using my elbow to prop myself up. A flash of something brown and leather in my periphery catches my attention. I swing my legs off the side of the bed and rub my head with one hand while I reach out to snag it off the floor with my other.

  A wallet.

  And not mine.

  Do you not remember . . .?

  Remember what, asshole?

  Where we went last night . . .?

  I stayed in. Had the last of the coke Hooch gave me when I left Lincoln, and did what I did every other night this past week and a bit: lay about feeling sorry for myself. Right?

  My devil chuckles.

  Damn.

  Thumbing the wallet open, I slide the plastic driver’s license out and frown. The guy who stares back at me isn’t familiar. I’ve got no idea who he is, even less when I check out the name. The wallet contains next to fuck all else: a loyalty card for some coffee house, a credit card, and thirty-five cents in change. I set it down on the bed, and find myself staring at it the whole time I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  With the mystery clutched in my hand, I head out to the hub of the clubhouse, ready to punch a hole through the fucking sound system’s speakers.

  Turns out I don’t need to. As suspected, Tap leans against the low cupboards that house the stereo. He leans down and slides the volume dial around to nil as I approach.

  “Well, I’m awake, asshole.”

  He smirks, arms folded. “Good.” Bastard reaches out and clips me one upside the head before I have time to react. “How’s the hangover?”

  “Better if you weren’t hittin’ me,” I whine, rubbing the sore spot.

  “What’s that?” He jerks his chin at the wallet.

  I shrug, handing it over. “You know whose this is? I found it on my floor.”

  He checks out the ID and shakes his head. “Sorry, brother. Mystery to me.”

  “Huh.”

  “Hand it over to Mick and see what he can dig up for you.” He passes it back.

  I stare at the wallet a beat before pocketing it. “D
id I tell you where I was goin’ last night?”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t even realize you were gone until one of the property girls came stompin’ up to me demandin’ to know where you were.”

  I chuckle; well aware what kind of trick I probably played on her. The whores thought all their Christmases had come at once when I showed up with my things in tow. I’ve only been over this way a handful of times before now, and a few of the lovely ladies wanted a taste of the action they hear so much about from their Lincoln counterparts.

  Only thing is, unless it fixes bikes, has a wicked temper, and a name that starts with ‘A’, I’m not interested.

  So I’ve been sending the girls on wild goose chases about the compound, giving them bullshit clues about where I might be. It’s hilarious. Best free fucking entertainment I’ve had for a long time.

  “You need to stop wastin’ their time,” Tap chastises. “If you ain’t interested, just tell them, would you?”

  “Yeah, alright.” I fold my arms over my chest and widen my stance. “What did you want me out of bed for, anyway?”

  He jerks his head toward the bar. “Got news from Lincoln.”

  “What kind?” I didn’t do my usual and check my Facebook feed before I headed downstairs, too preoccupied with that damn wallet.

  “Your father’s kind.”

  I drop onto a stool as he prepares us a drink, and groan. “What’s the old bastard done now?” More death threats to his ex-wife—King’s woman? Sent the cops over on some bogus tip-off again? Nothing would surprise me.

  “Set fire to the place.”

  Then again . . . .

  Well . . . .

  “Everyone okay?” Namely Abbey.

  Tap nods, setting water down in front of me while he holds a whiskey in his other hand.

  I scowl at the asshole and receive a lifted brow in response.

  “How bad was the damage?”

  “Garage came close to being gutted. Few bedrooms were written off. But nothing structural. It’s all fixable.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep.”

  “Fingers will be torn up about it, I bet.”

  “He got Abbey to give him an inventory on what needs replacing—couldn’t face the mess himself.”

  “Damn.” I swallow, reaching out to fidget with the bottle of water. “She okay? I mean, she was always in there with him and that.”

  Silence has me turning to look at Tap. Smug prick smiles at me.

  “What?”

  “Call her up, if you’re worried.”

  I snort. “Yeah, no thanks.”

  “She might like to hear from you.”

  “When my old man trashed her safe place?” I shake my head. “Don’t think so.”

  Besides, she made it pretty damn clear what she thought of my advances before I left. So damn clear that I’m starting to think she was right, and I misjudged my own intentions.

  Maybe I did want to take advantage of her? Maybe it wasn’t that I found some kind of solace in her disturbed mind, but that I thought if I broke in, infected her thought patterns she’d become as obsessed with me as I am with her.

  But why? Why do I want the timid little kid who until now mutually shared my hate?

  You just worked it out for yourself, you smart, smart man . . . .

  Okay, easy on the sarcasm, asshole. You’re saying I want her because she doesn’t want me?

  My devil slow claps my observation.

  “Something troublin’ you?” Tap asks as he lifts his glass to his lips.

  I fidget with the label on my bottle and frown. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean, if I ask you somethin’ can you promise not to say anything to anyone about it?”

  He eyes me skeptically. “Okay.”

  What’s the matter? My devil taunts. Cat got your tongue . . .?

  I beat a hand to my temple and then spill. “I don’t think I know what love really is.”

  Tap chokes on his drink. “Sorry, man. I just . . . I didn’t expect that to be the kind of thing you were thinkin’ about.”

  I bring both hands to my ears, elbows propped on the bar so that I effectively hide my face from him. Talking about these things is always hard, and exactly for that reason—people don’t see me as capable of anything but bein’ one crazy-ass motherfucker.

  “I guess,” Tap answers. “Love is when you care more about the other person’s wellbeing than your own. It’s when you put their needs before yours without a second thought.” He frowns, appearing pained at the idea.

  Interesting . . .

  And equally as gutting. Because as much as I care about what happened to Abbey, until now I’ve still put my own intentions first. I pushed her to open up faster than she wanted to because I wanted to know. I forced myself on her because I wanted that intimacy, to know how she felt, what her taste was like. I mocked her flaws to make me laugh.

  I didn’t do anything because it was what she wanted or needed.

  I did it all for me.

  How can that be love? How can that be anything other than my predisposition to be a selfish, thoughtless asshole?

  I guess Dana didn’t change me quite as much as I’d hoped.

  I guess there isn’t any chance at making a better man out of me.

  May as well stick to what I know, keep going it alone, and forget all about anything but doing what I’m good at.

  Making people hurt.

  SIXTEEN

  Abbey

  Four weeks later

  The warm spring sun heats my shoulders as I lean against the outside of the Fallen Aces LA clubhouse. The sun is an unrelenting motherfucker this time of year, almost as though it loves to leap out of that box it’s kept itself in all winter and remind you what you were missing. Everybody bitches about the cold weather, saying they can’t wait for it to be warm again, but nobody ever really means it.

  Who the fuck likes to be hot? Summer is a pressure cooker designed to bring out the worst in people, push them to their limits—mentally and physically. I could relay a hundred relationships that I’ve seen deteriorate over the warmer months.

  Which means it makes sense why King would choose spring to gear up toward a war he should have fought years ago.

  “Nobody will suspect you,” he’d said, handing me the keys to the beaten-up truck the club shares, and four hundred dollars for gas and food.

  He meant for me to stop a little over halfway and spend some cash resting up in a motel—after all, the trip from Lincoln to LA is roughly twenty-two hours on a good day. But I pumped the extra bills into a twelve-pack of energy drinks and lead-footed it here. After all, the sooner this shit is over with, the better.

  I hate being the messenger; they always end up shot.

  Especially when the person I have to deliver to is the one man I want to avoid.

  Right on cue.

  The rumble of an approaching bike vibrates through my chest. I close my eyes, head tipped back to the sky, and breathe in that glorious fucking sound. Once upon a time I hated the throaty resonance of a Harley, but that was before I learned that even the devil was once an angel who could be trusted.

  And here comes his goddamn child.

  The security gate slides open with stealthy precision. I adjust my bra, giving my modest cleavage a boost. My tank top has a slash that runs directly over my chest, leaving the fabric to fold over and reveal the goods. The thought of being touched by him, let alone ogled has my skin abuzz with nerves. But needs must, and if you want to catch the prey, sometimes you need to offer the right sort of honey. Which for Sawyer happens to be a hot piece of ass. And as he so clearly pointed out a few weeks back, especially my ass.

  Sent me because I fly under the radar pfft. King’s going to have some explaining to do when I get back.

  Giving my glossed lips a last smack, I settle one of my booted feet against the wall and watch as pretty boy backs his bike in the enormous open garage acro
ss the yard. The converted shed rivals a fucking airplane hangar, at least fifty feet long with hoists and all the necessary workshop essentials lining one wall. Lincoln may be the mother chapter for the Aces, but LA has that California edge to it—always keeping up with the Joneses.

  Sawyer dismounts, eyes trained on me as he pulls the key from the ignition. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left Lincoln to try and ease the shit his father was dishing out on Ramona and Mack. It might have shifted the heat off them, but the rest of us still suffer.

  His massive paws pocket the metal, and he starts toward me, slow and measured.

  That’s it, big boy. Come to Mama.

  The rattle of his buckles and chains as he walks reminds me of the old-time westerns Apex would sometimes watch with me when I was still a mute youngster under their feet; the thud, thud, thud of his boots on the dirt as ominous as his appearance.

  They don’t call him the smiling assassin behind his back for nothing.

  He’ll win you over with a well-chosen compliment, and turn the gun on you in the next breath. And considering he only did the first half to me before he left, I’m still waiting to find that barrel against my temple.

  Let’s play.

  “He sent you, then? Interesting.” The low resonance of his words ends on a lion’s purr.

  I tip my head back to look into his bruised face—evidence he’s still working, still collecting for the reaper—as he blocks out the sun with his size. He’s over six foot of bulk, which means my five-foot-three petite stature fits snugly into his shadow.

  And as much as I’ve tried to tell myself my memory is a goddamn liar, it still comforts me.

  “Apparently, I fly below the radar.”

  His eyes roam lazily over me, settling on the full sleeve I had tattooed a few weeks back; a giant fuck you to my fear of being touched. My breath hitches, betraying the confidence I was trying for, as he reaches out and hooks a thick finger in the leg of my cut-offs. Breathe through it. Breathe. You got through it without giving in before, you can do it again.