Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3)

by Max Henry

  The toolbox hits the dirt beside the front of the Ford with a ceremonious puff of dust.

  Abbey literally fucking skips over from the garage and daintily steps on top. “Thanks, pretty boy.”

  Damn sure I slipped a disc or something. Better add heavier deadlifts back in to the workouts. Fuck. It’s worth it, though. Goddamn, is it worth it. Her shorts ride up the back of her legs, the bottom skimming a pretty appealing line around the crease of her butt. She strains on her toes to reach into the engine bay and pull out the dipstick for the oil.

  “Shit, I don’t have a rag. Could you?”

  Fucking bitch gives me those puppy dog eyes.

  And you wag your tail like the whipped little animal you are . . . .

  Could be doing worse. I give the side of my head a healthy slap with the heel of my hand to shut the fucker up and return to the garage to get a scrap of old T-shirt for her to wipe the stick on. She accepts it with a smile when I return, and hesitates, hip leaning on the side panel of the truck.

  “What?” I step back, arms folded.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  She mimics the way I hit my head with her free hand.

  “Shuts him up.” I shrug. No need to lie about it—everybody knows he’s in there.

  “Huh,” she says with raised eyebrows, turning back to the engine.

  My back burns with the sun beating down on my black leather, but I stand there like a damn sentry watching her as she wriggles her way around the engine of the truck, checking all the fluids, and even dashing into the clubhouse for a pitcher of water to top up the radiator. Girl’s thorough, got to give her that.

  Planned how you’ll do it yet? The devil leans forward at his post, chin on his hand as he studies her also.

  Do what?

  Surely you’re not going to let her get all the way back to Lincoln untouched . . . .

  Maybe I am.

  Liar . . . .

  I chuckle, drawing Abbey’s curious eye. Yeah, he got me on that. As if I’d pass up this opportunity when day after day my thoughts about her have gotten a little more detailed and a little more obsessive. My smile fades pretty damn fast though when I realize the truth of it: I’m not going after her for a little fun, or out of sheer curiosity, like I keep telling myself—this shit is dead serious.

  Aw, crap.

  I’ve got a reputation as a jealous and controlling asshole for a reason. When I decide it’s mine, it’s fucking mine. No ifs, buts, or maybes about it. And right now, watching Abbey wipe her hands off on the stomach of her tank top, I’m seeing the words “Property of Sawyer” splashed all over her tight little body.

  Like that’s ever turned out well in the past . . . remember what happened to the last girl you promised you’d make your old lady . . .?

  I wince, dropping my chin and twisting my head to the side as I try to scrub the images of Dana bleeding out on my father’s lawn from my head. Getting attached to women doesn’t go down well for me. There’s a reason why the saying “treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen” came about; for fucked-up assholes like me to keep some semblance of sanity. Relationships and me? Nope, no thank you, ma’am.

  Leave me more fucked-up than I was going in, and that sure as hell says something.

  “Are we ready?” Abbey stands before me, hands on her svelte hips as she studies me curiously.

  “Yeah. Been ready for fuckin’ ages,” I snap.

  She frowns, eyes locked to mine for a beat before she backs away, nodding. “Good. I’ll run in and use the ladies’ while you put that away, huh?” She points to the toolbox.

  Fuck it. At least if I drag that heavy-ass thing back in the garage I’ll have a legitimate reason to be aching all over.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Abbey

  Never did like long-distance drives. Brings back too many memories of my first interstate trip as a toddler. Not quite as fun as you’d think when you aren’t cozied up in the backseat with a pillow and pretzels. A memory that also gives me a fucking good reason to freak the hell out when I’m in confined spaces.

  Rain peppers my face as I tear up the freeway, windows down. I should roll them up, but that means confinement, and unless Sawyer fancies pulling over to wait out a panic attack, then yeah, I’ll keep the windows down.

  If I can touch all four sides without moving, it’s too small, remnants of five hours locked in the trunk of a car while we made that interstate journey on my fourth birthday.

  “Evan! You can’t fucking do that to her,” Mom wails as he shoves me into the dark confines of the trunk.

  “Maybe then the little bitch will think twice about wetting her fucking panties.”

  “She’s still training,” Mom hollers, trying to get past him to pull me out. “It ain’t like she did it on purpose.”

  My barely contained sobs cause me to hiccup, but I don’t want to make a noise. That only makes him angrier, and I don’t want him to take Flopsy too. I cuddle my toy bunny to my chest as he steps back and hits Mommy in the nose with his fist. She cries for the shortest second before standing tall, blood trickling over her lips, and the saddest look in her eyes as he slams the lid closed on me.

  I love my momma, and I know she loves me. I just don’t understand why she loves him more.

  Fuck these tears. It’s the whole goddamn reason I don’t think about the past anymore. But fuck it if this . . . connection? Whatever it is with Sawyer hasn’t got me mulling over why it is I’m so unhinged. What’s he going to want with someone as equally messed up as he is? Yin and yang and all that bullshit—two wrongs don’t make a right. I’m more delirious than I thought if I think he’s going to want anything more than a quick fuck out of me.

  It really is best that I keep my secrets buried if I want a chance.

  No one looks for anything meaningful with me because of my wild reputation, and it’s fair to say I’m a little tired of it. I read once that everyone we meet is meant for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. So far most people I’ve met have been nothing but a reason—a reason to fuck me up a little more before they go. But then there’re Fingers, Apex, King, and Hooch. Those brutes were my season. They stuck by me while I grew up, a kid too scared of her own shadow to be left alone in a room for too long. The other men at the club used to call me “that savage kid.” They had damn good reason to as well. Pretty sure I lost count in the first year how many times I scratched and bit my way to safety when one of them got too close.

  All I want, though, is a lifetime.

  I want that love, endless and unconditional that promises to keep me safe from the memories that assault me when I’m alone . . . like now. I want a companion. A lover. A perfect match.

  I want to be whole.

  Blue sky peeks through the gray clouds on the horizon as I swipe the remnants of my unwanted tears away. The change promises a respite to this midsummer rain. It’s not cold, though, and that’s a start. I could be driving through a torrential winter downpour, so at least there’s that if I want to look for the positives.

  By the time I’d gone through all my checks, just like Fingers taught me, we didn’t set off until close to lunch anyway. At this rate it’ll be midmorning tomorrow by the time we pull into Lincoln.

  I glance in the side mirror at Sawyer as he trails behind me, helmet on and a skull-printed bandanna covering his face. He looks like a demon straight from hell, chasing me down.

  I’ve never felt safer.

  Why is it that a man everyone’s so damn afraid of makes me feel secure enough to want to curl under his massive arm and find my home against his side? Perhaps that’s just it? When angels fear to tread in your presence, then only a devil will bring the calm you desire.

  He swings the bike toward the centerline and accelerates up level with my window. I look over at him, terrifying and overbearing, yet everything I wish I could have for my own. His hand lifts and he yanks the cotton down over his chin to reveal his full lips.

  “H
ungry?” he hollers over the road noise, eyes squinted as the drizzle pelts his face.

  I nod, and he gives a thumbs-up in response before replacing his mask and tearing ahead of the Ford. We drive with him leading the way for another twenty miles before he indicates off the freeway and takes us several blocks down to a diner I wouldn’t have known was there if it weren’t for him. An oasis in miles of farmland.

  I park the truck a few yards from where he backs his bike in, and wind the windows up before jumping out. Although the rain wasn’t heavy, it’s enough to have dampened my tank to the point it’s stuck to my skin. Sawyer approaches as I’m bent over at the waist, shaking the fabric off me and doing what I can to wring the side of my top out.

  “Why didn’t you put the window up earlier?” he asks.

  I straighten, running my palms up the side of my ponytail to smooth down the wet hairs. “Habit.”

  “Of what?” he asks with a chuckle. “Gettin’ soaked?”

  “Of having freedom.”

  His eyebrow quirks, and I shoulder past him, heading for the diner. Don’t really feel like now is the time when I finally explain. I’ve only just got my shit together as it is.

  He shadows me inside, coming to a stop so damn close behind me that I swear his body heat is going to cause steam to rise out of my damp clothes any minute now.

  “You okay there, Abbey-girl?”

  “Peachy, pretty boy.”

  He gives in with a grunt and reaches to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. The middle-aged man behind the counter eyes Sawyer suspiciously, as though he’s expecting him to be reaching back for a gun to rob the place. Fucking people and their preconceptions. If only they knew that it’s the ones who look the kindest that are the ones you can trust the least.

  “What do you think of him, baby?”

  I look over Momma’s shoulder at the man who waits by his car. His bright eyes twinkle in the sunlight, and he smiles.

  “He seems real nice.”

  “You wouldn’t mind then if Mommy asked him to be her boyfriend?”

  “Nuh-uh,” I say, throwing my arms around her neck. “Can I call him Daddy?”

  “Not yet,” she says with a chuckle. “But maybe soon if we’re lucky.”

  “What you havin’?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, aware that the air-con blowing down from the ceiling vent, although mild, is making my nipples hard in this wet gear. “They got an all-day breakfast?”

  “You ain’t gonna have waffles again, are you?”

  “Nope. Think I’ll have the giant cinnamon roll.” I jam my hand down in the front pocket of my cut-offs to pull out the bills I’ve got stuffed in there.

  His hand rests over mine, his thumb stroking my hip. “I got this.”

  “Well aren’t you the gentleman?” I sass, doing what I can to ignore the giddy feeling creeping into every inch of my body.

  “Sometimes.” He smiles, twitches a frown, and then smacks the side of his head with the heel of his hand before turning for the counter.

  Fucking voices. It pains me to watch him struggle with it. Nobody’s ever told me if he’s tried therapy, or if his psychosis is just one of those things that people accepted was a part of him and therefore didn’t need changing.

  I search out the restroom while he orders, well aware that we’ve been on the road a good four hours and the next gas station might not have public restrooms to use. An older lady exits with her young son as I approach the door. She gives me one of those smiles that screams “If I’m nice to you, you won’t hurt us” and shepherds the kid toward a table where a man and young girl eat.

  It still baffles me that people find me intimidating when for most of my life I’m the one who’s been forced to run from the evil in our society.

  The stalls are empty, and after I’ve done my thing I take the moment of silence to regroup and find my reserves. This trip has worn me down more than I’d hoped, and my ability to hold it together without a fifth of whiskey in one hand is slipping away.

  I hit the road a while back in the hopes that facing my fears head-on would rid me of them once and for all. Kind of like those people you see who are afraid of spiders, and so have a tarantula placed in their hands to try and shock the fear out of their system.

  It works . . . at first. And then there’s nothing but this crippling panic when you start to wonder how you ever thought this newfound bravery would last forever. I set off from the Lincoln clubhouse with a backpack full of dreams, and returned with a paper bag bearing broken promises. King pushed hard to sober me up, and it worked, all until I let the handsome devil out there leave me dazed and confused when he moved to LA.

  “Abbey, you in there still?”

  I push off where I had my hands either side of the basin and turn toward the cracked door. “Yeah, pretty boy, I’m still in here.”

  “Food’s ready. You’ve been gone a while.”

  Go on, say it . . . “I was worried about you.” What I’d give to hear those words from a man who loves me more than like a daughter. I’ve had plenty of compassion and understanding from our presidents, past and present, but never from a man who loved this girl as she was, and for nothing more.

  “I’m coming now.”

  He steps back as I pull the swing door wide, something akin to concern in his eyes before he shuts those brilliant blue irises away and grimaces. Fucking voices.

  “Where we sitting, handsome?” I say jovially, trying my best to bullshit the world as well as myself that everything’s okay.

  Everything is fine.

  I’m doing good now.

  Totally okay.

  I’ve got more confidence than I could shake a stick at.

  Liar.

  “Picked us a booth by the window. Thought you might like some sun now that it’s out, to dry yourself a bit.”

  Sure enough, the clouds have parted and the warm afternoon rays reflect off the puddles in the parking lot. Weather never did have a habit of matching my mood.

  “What did you get?” I ask, eyes wide as I slide into the side of the booth that has my cinnamon roll. His plate must be at maximum weight tolerance with the amount of food on it.

  “Grilled special.” He smirks. “I eat it all and the meals are free.”

  I snort.

  “What?”

  I pick up the fork and use the side to rip into my roll. “I mean, you’re a big guy and all, but . . . .”

  “But . . . .”

  “That’s a lot of food.”

  “Three sausages, three eggs, eight rashers of bacon, two buttermilk biscuits, fried mushrooms, and two waffles, to be exact.” He leans back, smug, as though proud of himself.

  “Your heartburn, not mine.”

  In the time it takes me to eat half my roll, he’s devoured two-thirds of the food on his plate. I swirl a bite of cinnamon goodness in the syrup that covers the base of my plate, watching him eat the biscuits like some animal in a zoo. His eyes lift, finding mine, and the blue intensifies as he smiles around his mouthful.

  “Consider me wrong,” I say, watching as he shoves half the biscuit in his mouth in one bite.

  “Told you I’d pay for the meals,” he mumbles with a hand covering his mouth.

  I chuckle. “You won’t be paying a thing.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Exactly, Abbey-girl.”

  Clever bastard. “You come here a bit then?”

  “Yeah, I’ve stopped before on my way through to visit Mack.”

  His son. “You miss him?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he says as though it’s the stupidest question in the world. I guess it could be.

  “Why did you leave him?”

  He eyes me intently as his jaw works. I watch his throat again as he downs the food, and then shrink a little under the intensity of his stare.

  “Just tell me, girl. What happened to you before Apex found you?”

  He polishes off the last of his meal while I look everywh
ere around the diner but at him. The scrape of his plate as he slides it across the table draws my focus back to him. Sawyer props both hands on the table, fingers knitted, and waits on me to answer.

  “I’ve already told you,” I whisper.

  “The basics, yeah. But what happens to make parents’ abandon their kid?”

  An elderly couple sits to our right, sharing a giant plate of roast meat and vegetables. Behind Sawyer is a family of three, the parents wrangling their child while the kid single-handedly tries to destroy everything on the table. I spin around and check out who’s behind me, but the seats are empty.

  Nobody cares what we’re talking about, and yet, it feels so open. I may as well be standing at a podium for how I feel divulging things that I usually keep buried inside.

  “If you’re still not ready to talk—”

  “Not here,” I say. “I . . . nobody’s ever wanted to know so badly before. Well, nobody but Fingers.”

  “You tell him?” Sawyer asks without a trace of jealousy or resentment.

  “A bit.” He was bound to know something about me after the amount of time I spent in that garage with him growing up. I became property of the Fallen Aces at seven years old, and I first set foot off the property on my own early last year, at the age of nineteen. Twelve years is a long time to keep everything a secret.

  “You had enough?” Sawyer gestures to my unfinished roll.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I sit in silence and watch the shift in emotions as he stares at the television mounted behind the counter. The sound is down, it’s only the pictures, but he still seems intrigued as he slides my plate across and finishes off what’s left of my roll.

  Twisting in my seat, I take a look as well, wondering what has his full concentration. It’s nothing special: a news story about some person who was beaten and almost died out the back of a bar. The running text at the bottom of the screen gives a number to phone if anybody has information.