Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3)

by Max Henry

  “I won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure you won’t?” Convince me, please.

  “You took me with you when you sorted out Cash.”

  “And?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” She sighs, pushing up on to her toes to press her lips to mine.

  I hold her in place, moving my hands one by one to cup her face as she deepens the kiss. I’ve never been this gentle with a woman for this long, cared this deeply without shutting it down. In a way, she’s unlocked the hidden levels of my heart and the things that’s it capable of doing have me more on edge than ever.

  “I wish I knew why my influence is doing this to you,” Abbey whispers. “You never used to worry about a thing, and since that day on the deck, that first kiss, you do nothing but worry: about me, and about us.”

  “I don’t want to fuck this up,” I admit. “I’m fuckin’ terrified that if I relax even the tiniest bit, that I’ll lose you, and yet again, stupid crazy Sawyer has screwed everythin’ up for himself.”

  “Nothing will take me away from you,” she says with conviction, staring out from under her brows. “Nothing.”

  “It won’t take somebody else for me to lose you, Abbey-girl, because the harder I hold on, the harder I’ll push you away. Keepin’ you close is what will ultimately make you walk away.”

  “Why?” she cries in frustration, stepping out of our embrace.

  “Because what you see is only half of what you get, Abbey, and the other half?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Nobody’s ever been able to put up with him for long.”

  “I think you give him more power than he really has.”

  My devil perks up, taking notice.

  “What makes you think I give a shit about any of that, anyway? I’ve told you so many times, but either you won’t listen, or you refuse to because it’s too hard for you to get your head around: I. Don’t. Care. I like you exactly how you are. I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

  “Stop lyin’. Everyone gives a shit,” I snap, pacing across her room, only to turn around and hesitate, unsure what I want to do other than punch a fucking hole through her wall. “You might say you don’t care now, but trust me, even the strongest eventually break.” Ramona.

  Silence hangs thickly between us while Abbey studies the floor, her arms folded over her chest. “I’m not the same as everyone else, Sawyer.” She sighs, exasperated. “I can’t bring myself to come to terms with it, but all the same, I know what the truth is.”

  “That?”

  “I’ll never be ‘normal.’” She bobs her fingers in air quotes. “I’ll never fit in. I’ll never be able to just hang out with the other girls, because when everything they talk about seems so foreign and boring, why would I want to?” She shrugs. “I just wish I knew where I did belong. I can’t hang out with an ageing bike mechanic my whole life.” A bitter, jaded laughs slips from her lips.

  What do you say then, old chap? Worth a try . . .?

  I think so.

  “Grab a coat.”

  Her head snaps up. “Huh?”

  “It’s going to be cold as hell once the sun goes down. Grab something to keep you warm.” I rove my gaze over her tiny shorts and baggy tank. “As much as I like what you’re in now.” I give her a sly smirk and a wink, and her cheeks turn rosy red.

  She frowns, confusion clear as she glances over at me while grabbing an oversized hoodie from her drawers. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you somethin’ I’ve been workin’ on since I left for Cali.”

  “Like what, Sawyer?” She cocks her head to the side, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “You’ll see when we get there, but, Abbey?”

  She tugs the hoodie on over her head. “Yeah?”

  “I want you to understand somethin’ about me, about what bein’ with me will be like.”

  “What’s that?” Her hands work her hair into a high pony.

  “Other guys, ‘normal’ guys, they might buy you flowers, or take you out on a date. But me?” I pause and chuckle. “The only way I’ll ever show you I love you is by doing things like what we’re headin’ for now.”

  Her lips part, her eyes wide. “You, uh, you just said you love me.”

  I smile, stepping before her so I can place a kiss on her forehead, one hand wrapped where it belongs on the back of her neck. “Call me crazy,” I say with a chuckle as I think of Tap’s words about selfless acts and putting others first, “but yeah, I do.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Abbey

  The sun sets in a brilliant array of crimson and oranges on the horizon as we cruise through the streets. I can’t figure out where we’re headed yet, but who really cares when Sawyer’s hand is massaging my thigh like that? I tuck my chin down against the breeze, my ponytail whipping about my face, and watch his thick fingers as they push and pull my flesh in slow, methodical movements. It’s the kind of absent fidgeting a person does to calm their nerves, and I wonder . . . just maybe . . . is that what I do for him? Calm him?

  Surely not.

  The homely smell of the hot leather on his back is comforting as we idle to a stop outside a rundown trailer park. A weatherworn sign promises a Garden of Eden for its visitors. From what I can tell, they’d be lucky to get a single living thing inside the chain-link fence. Weeds wither and die, clinging to the wires as though trying to escape the misery inside.

  “I’m not sure what you had in mind,” I say, dismounting, “but I could think of a dozen other places to go and hang out for a while.”

  “No need to judge the book by its cover, Abbey-girl.” He flicks the stand out and climbs off, shoving his mask down into his helmet before hanging it off the bars.

  His bike is a gleaming beacon to petty thieves in a neighborhood like this. The value in his ride alone is probably twice what the average annual income is, but besides the Aces emblem etched into his axle covers, he has another insurance policy that goes everywhere the Harley does: the image etched into the derby cover of the V-Twin that indicates exactly whose bike it is; a two-sided face, split between a laughing devil and a crying angel.

  Nobody associated with our lifestyle is going to touch the machine if they value their hands remaining attached to their body.

  No one.

  Except me.

  I run my finger along the seam of the leather seat, appreciating for the millionth time since he told me to get on the back what a truly amazing custom it is. There’s a reason it’s Fingers’ favorite to work on, and I can understand why.

  The sing of metal being pulled from a sheath draws my focus back to the other fine specimen within reach. Sawyer stands staring at the weed-stained driveway into the place, pressing the point of his knife into the tip of his index finger. A fine dot of blood blooms as he begins to speak.

  “He started out back in ’93. Small time. Met a guy who introduced him to the trade through mutual contacts; men my father knew, if you could believe it.”

  I step up beside him, gently coaxing his hands apart before he slices his damn hand open. He shakes his head clear, looking down at me with an apology in his eyes, yet he says nothing—just starts toward the park.

  I follow alongside as he continues to explain. “He murdered his first wife in ’99 over a dispute about how often he wasn’t home, how often he was out doing dirty work for his new friends—including my father—instead of payin’ attention to her.”

  I follow his line of sight to a brightly painted mobile home on the corner of the access road through the park.

  “He got worse after that. Dad would often say that the dog was runnin’ out of fingers to bite off. Always said he’d take the guy out himself. Thought he was gettin’ too greedy and eyein’ the top position.” Sawyer chuckles.

  “This guy,” I ask. “He’s the reason we’re here?”

  Sawyer nods. “Got word a few weeks back he was out of prison.” He swallows hard as we near the home.

  “Why prison? Did he get found
out for his wife’s murder?”

  Sawyer shakes his head. “Nope. He went away for fuckin’ robbin’ a gas station, of all things.”

  I run my fingers through my hair to unknot it, shifting between my feet. “I don’t get why you’ve brought me here, though.”

  “He killed his girlfriend in ’02 because she refused to give him head. Also cut up a whore pretty bad the year after, but she never pressed charges because he threatened to send his lackeys after her if she did.”

  My gut turns. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, sounds evil.

  “Kidnapped a rival’s kids and tortured them until the parents gave up their connections. Grew his little business into somethin’ that could sustain his bad habits.” He hesitates, looking down at me with something akin to pity. “And then he met a single mom. Moved in with her and her kid, started abusin’ them both.”

  “He’s a bad seed by the sounds of it.” A story so familiar. “Why the fuck hasn’t anyone got to him yet?” I whisper. “What does it take?”

  “Because he rules with fear. He has them by the short and curlies. Every person who’s tried to take his crown has ended up dead or missin’ in questionable ‘accidents.’”

  The things he’s telling me leave me shaking with rage at the injustice of it all, but regardless, there are a thousand men this cold and evil in the world. Why this one? And why bring me?

  “What did he do to you?” I ask. Because why the fuck else would Sawyer take time out of his day to make a house call if not for some personal vengeance?

  “Told my mother he’d get her out of her fuckin’ screwed-up marriage. Gave her false hope when she needed it most, and then left her to fuckin’ die after he betrayed her and told the old man, just to try and get in his good books.”

  “Jesus Christ . . . .”

  “He was already dead for that, Abbey, but what I need you to understand is that ain’t what brought me here today.”

  “What did then?” I look over at the mobile home, wondering if our guest is even in.

  “You.”

  I frown, my heart already believing what my head refuses to acknowledge.

  “It’s a small world, Abbey-girl.”

  I’ve got nothing. I simply stare at pretty boy like a dumb mute, my mouth twitching in my effort to form words, any words. A small world. Is he saying—

  “His name is Evan, baby.”

  “It couldn’t be, right? I mean, the same one?” I whisper.

  Thank God I didn’t eat anything before we came out; I swear I’m going to be sick if he says—

  “Yeah, I think it is.”

  My head wobbles side to side, and I place a foot out wide to steady myself. “Why?” I squeak. “Why bring me here?”

  Sawyer reaches out, tugging me to his side to hold me up while I swallow over and over, willing my nauseous stomach to ease. “Say the word, and I’ll take you back to the clubhouse, finish him myself.”

  I should. One little word and he’ll whisk me away from here, but I can’t do it. I can’t even force myself to open my mouth.

  He gives me a squeeze and lets go, leaving one hand on my shoulder. “This is your show, baby. Okay? You lead, I follow.”

  I nod shakily, understanding why he didn’t tell me what we were doing until we got here. If he’d said he found Evan back at the clubhouse, I would have shut myself in my room and refused to even entertain the idea of coming along. But now that I have no choice, now that I’m here, I’m slowly coming around to the idea.

  My pretty boy, my sweet broken man, is showing me love the only way he knows how.

  By slaying the monster under my bed.

  “Come on.” He nods toward the place and starts walking.

  I stay on the spot, watching him go, eyeing every outside wall, window, and blade of fucking grass as though each is as dangerous as the next. Does he know we’re coming? Has the grapevine that gave Sawyer the information, worked in reverse? Are we walking into a trap?

  “Chop-chop, Abbey,” Sawyer calls over his shoulder as he reaches the single step at the entrance.

  Only one way to know.

  He raps his knuckles on the door as I catch up, and then stands back with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops while he waits on Evan to answer. Footfalls echo over the raised timber floor as I reach Sawyer’s side.

  “What have you got planned?” I whisper.

  He smirks, looking down at me. “Nothin’. I told you, this is your show, Abbey-girl.”

  I don’t get a chance to answer before the door swings open and I’m confronted with the sum of all my fears.

  “Can I help you?” He leers at the two of us, one arm holding the door as though he’s ready to slam it in our face.

  The past ten-plus years have aged him harshly. Yet underneath every line on his face, and every scar, is the same sick, twisted, and fucking soulless asshole I ran away from as a child.

  “I had hoped you were dead.”

  Evan jerks his head back, narrowing his gaze as he looks me over. “Do I know you?”

  “Know many people who wish you were dead?” I sass, despite the fact my voice shakes.

  He runs his spine-tingling gaze the length of me once more, and then drags a hand over his chin. “Well, you didn’t turn out much like your momma, did you?”

  My mind is a jumble of a thousand thoughts and memories, swirling and ricocheting off one another as I scramble to grasp hold of what to do next.

  “Who’s this?” Evan jerks his chin toward Sawyer. “You still too fucking scared of me to come on your own?”

  I glance over at Sawyer and see him literally bite his lip to save from saying anything. The murder in his eyes reveals the discord is personal, but either Evan is too stupid, or too proud to notice.

  “You sorry-looking assholes coming in, or you going to stand on my doorstep like a couple of retards all night?” Evan turns from the door, his baggy T-shirt billowing around his scrawny frame as he moves.

  Sawyer’s hand goes to the butt of his gun as we follow over the threshold of the mobile home, and step into the most contradictory room.

  Evan stands to the side in the small kitchenette, a fresh beer in his hands. He cracks the top off and jerks his head toward the back half of the home. “You caught me right as I was going down for a siesta.”

  I let my gaze roam over the floral pattern on the settee, across the neatly stacked TV trays, and along the crude shelves that house model cars and trucks. It looks as though a retired couple live here, not a sick fucking individual with a history that’s brought two jaded victims to his door.

  I want to rush him and slam his skull against the wall until it cracks, yet at the same time I want to hide behind the nearest chair and vomit with fear. I’m stronger than I was physically the last time I saw this asshole, but mentally, I’m seven years old again.

  “Take it easy in the rain,” Mum gently requests from the front seat of the car.

  I look away as Evan shoots her his warning stare, the one he gives her before he hurts her. “I know how to drive, bitch, so shut your fucking mouth.”

  The wheels squeal as we slide a little around a bend in the road. It never feels like this when Momma drives.

  “What did she say to you?” Momma asks, so quiet I can hardly hear her.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  My head hits the door as Evan curses, wrestling the steering wheel. Momma gasps, and I cuddle Flopsy tighter.

  Evan drives faster.

  The rain is so hard I can hear it as it hits the roof of the car, a rat-tat-tat like fireworks sizzling on the Fourth of July.

  “You’re not even worried,” I whisper, angered that Evan casually strides around the place like we’re annoying salespeople he’ll find a way to dispatch with soon enough.

  “Should I be?”

  If it were Sawyer delivering this fate, then I’d say yes, but am I strong enough to make him suffer? Or will I fold and run faster than that coward Cash?

  �
��Are you even interested in why we’re here?”

  “Oh, Abbey,” he groans, getting comfortable in one of the single armchairs. “Only one reason why you’d bring that beefcake over there with you, right?”

  I blink.

  “How’s he going to do it?” Evan takes a pull of his beer, turning the bottle on his knee before he continues. “Shooting me seems so quick and easy, and I’m guessing you’re a little jaded about how things went down between us, so that won’t be your style.”

  “A little?” I scoff, cheek twitching. “Fucking jaded would be a walk in the park compared to how you bloody left me!”

  “I left you?” he asks with one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me? Last I remember, you left me.” He leans forward, veins in his neck thick with his anger.

  “You think I would have stayed?” My voice remains low and eerily calm.

  “You were seven, Abbey. Fucking ballsy of a seven-year-old to run off into the unknown.”

  “I had no choice,” I seethe.

  Sawyer steps toward me and places a gentle hand to the back of my neck. His fingers apply the slightest pressure, and the calming effect the ownership in his hold has takes me by surprise.

  “The whole thing wouldn’t have happened if your bitch of a mother had kept her nose out of my business.” He lifts his lip in a snarl, looking off into nothing as he takes another sip of his beer.

  I lunge forward and strike out, smacking the bottle upward out of his hold. He reels back as the lip of the bottle crashes into his teeth, and then spills frothy drink all down his front.

  “Now look what you did!” He stands, fruitlessly brushing at his shirt.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t talk about my mother like that then.” I step back, arms folded over my chest.

  Evan’s hand goes for the discarded bottle, yet Sawyer raises his gun just as fast. “Nuh-uh,” he tuts. “I might be leavin’ this up to her, but that don’t give you license to hurt her.”

  “Oh, right,” Evan scoffs. “But she can hurt me, correct?”

  Sawyer simply nods, lowering his weapon.

  “I want to know,” I say with a stiff jaw, “did you ever feel bad about any of it? At all?” Surely, somewhere in this asshole is a flicker of someone human. Surely.