Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3) Read online

  And brushed steel.

  A heady mix, if I ever did smell one.

  Heavy black drapes frame the barred window, and the walls are a chipped shade of gray. I wouldn’t expect anything more from a troubled soul such as his. Bright colors and homely furnishings wouldn’t fit his cruel and heartless demeanor. I wander over to the set of drawers and run my finger along the gouges in the surface that look as though somebody’s jammed a knife into it, repeatedly.

  I’ll never forget the day Sawyer arrived at the Lincoln clubhouse; young, newly patched in, and cocky as hell. He was sworn in to our Fort Worth chapter originally, but when his constant indiscretions became too much for them to handle, they packed him up north to us in Lincoln to try and straighten out. But Sawyer’s daddy is Carlos Redmond, the southern states’ most feared drug lord and so, like the spoilt little brat he was, Sawyer thought the rules didn’t apply to him. He thought that, just like his father, he could rule the roost with fear.

  How wrong he was.

  The Aces don’t run from what they’re afraid of, they fight to control it. Damn, how they fought. Friday night drinks have been so quiet since Sawyer went home: nobody there to pick a pointless fight, nobody there for the whores to scrap over . . . no trouble at all.

  I scrub the toe of my boot into a grease stain in the rug, and look around the plain room. The surfaces are clear, no pictures on the walls. It’s eerily blank, hinting at hidden secrets. Only people who are ashamed of themselves refuse to display the things that make them who they are.

  I should know; my walls are blank too.

  I’m Abbey, the “crazy kid,” the “wild one.” I’m a curiosity for these boys; something to tease and make light of in their inebriated state. Sometimes when they’re sober too.

  And how could I blame them?

  No normal nineteen-year-old girl screams in fear when somebody she considers a friend places a hand to her flesh, no normal girl would lay out a grow man twice her size for ruffling her hair, and no normal girl wears long sleeves, or heavy leather cuffs year-round to hide her biggest shame.

  I’m broken and bent, and I don’t know how to be any other way . . . otherwise I would. God, I would. Anything to be a little more mainstream, a little more mundane, a little prettier . . . . Just more.

  I circle the room with one hand running a lazy line along the wall as I take slow and measured steps over the timber floorboards. Sawyer’s bed has a black lacquered headboard, carved at the corners, with a screaming skull etched into the center. I begged King to let me have it when he left, sure he’d never come back. I’ve been in love with the design since I caught a glimpse of it through his open door. But until now I never knew why King got so angry with me and always told me to let it go.

  I thought he was angry because I assumed Sawyer wouldn’t survive a final showdown with his father. But now, up close, I see why he didn’t want me to have it.

  Because it tells a tale.

  Oval-shaped dents adorn the surface, uneven as though caused by a fist . . . or a head? Whatever made the marks they’re a definite sign of someone in pain, someone tortured. What the fuck does he do in here?

  I tuck a leg up and perch on the edge of the bare mattress. Dust coats the side from sitting unused for almost a month. I reach out and brush it away, my palm stilling when I see what lies beneath. Reddish-brown stains. No denying what they are either. I turn my hand over; my fingers fist as I pull my sleeve back and reveal the neat white and pink scars that adorn my wrists. Does he do the same as me? Does he find the same relief?

  “What the fuck are you doin’ in here?”

  A cry escapes my lips as I slap a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. Damn. He wasn’t supposed to be here for another hour yet.

  “Come on, kid. I asked you a question.”

  I lift my chin and turn my head to face the man himself.

  The legend.

  The handsome chaos that he is.

  “You sta-startled me.”

  He smirks. The curl of his lips is intoxicating. The beauty of an angel shrouded by the promise of a demon. Something damp stains his charcoal-colored T-shirt—no prizes for guessing what that is.

  “I sta-startled you?” he mocks. “You got a problem with talkin’ now too?”

  He strides into the room and drops the heavy duffle in his hand on the floor. It lands with a loud thud that makes me jump. His eyes narrow as his smirk deepens.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t like loud noises?” He stomps his boot hard, metal buckles clanking as I jolt where I sit. “You’re too easy to fuck with,” he says with a chuckle.

  This is how it’s been between us since he first laid eyes on me; he teases me relentlessly, and I try not to lash out and start a fight I won’t win. I’ve complained to King, and our previous president, Apex, about it, but what can they do? “It’s just how he is,” I’m told, as though that justifies the way he treats me.

  I’m fucking human too.

  I feel.

  Angry and jaded, I scowl at the asshole and stand, reaching for the sheets at the end of the bed.

  His hand slams down hard over top of mine. “You touch anything in here?”

  Breathe through it—he’s too big to take on. I look around at the clear surfaces, fighting to ignore the creepy-crawlies inching along under my skin where his hand touches mine, and wonder what the hell he means.

  “I didn’t touch a thing.” There’s nothing in here but the furniture.

  “Sure about that?” His thumb runs a lazy line up my forearm. “Didn’t take a little peek in the closet? Open a few drawers?”

  Should I have?

  Goose bumps ripple across my flesh. I try to pull away, but he holds firm. My heart kicks into overdrive and I close my eyes. I can do this. All I have to do is take it one step at a time. Inhale. Exhale.

  The secret to survival is as simple as taking the next breath.

  “Got an answer for me, girl?”

  “I’m sure,” I whisper.

  He jerks his hand away from mine as though the sheer thought of touching me for too long revolts him. The rejection stings, not because I expected more, but because I know how he feels.

  I can’t stand to be in my own skin either.

  Snatching the linen from the mattress, I walk to the foot of the bed, drop them on the floor, and grab the base sheet from the pile. He watches my every move as I shake it out and drape it over the mattress. My skin sears, the attention too much to process all at once after having his hand on mine. My hold on the fabric falters, spilling the sheet haphazardly over the side of the bed so that it slips to the floor under its own weight.

  His laughter echoes off the barren walls.

  My teeth pinch painfully into my bottom lip as I stave off the urge to turn and slap him, my need to fight desperate to break free. I’ve looked to this man for hidden answers for years, recognized the same battles in his eyes as I have in mine, and yet, like any idol, the reality never quite lives up to the dream.

  I hate him for it.

  He leans his right side against the wall as I shake the sheet out again, working corner by corner to tuck it under. By avoiding any more fumbles, I manage to also lose his interest. Sawyer turns away as I pick up the top sheet, and opens his bag. The repeated clank of heavy items being placed onto the bureau has my curiosity, but I keep focused on the bed, executing a perfect hospital fold just like Sonya taught me.

  He sniffs, running the back of his fingers under his nose as he eyes me leave the room to retrieve the blankets I left in the hall. No doubt our Forth Worth president, Hooch, has had him on the blow for the past few weeks to escape the memories of what he went through. Only a few know what went down inside the walls of Carlos’ estate, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it was harsh after one look at the man who eyes me as I carry the blankets to the bed.

  Bruising on his cheek, fading bite marks on his neck, and stitches in his arms. Unless he gets overly kinky in the bedroom, it was one
hell of a fight to be free.

  I lay the blankets out and turn the bed down, ready for him to slip into when he wants rest. My hand lingers on the cotton for a moment, the rage still pulsing under my skin. One, two, three . . . . I count my way to ten before I turn and finally pay full attention to what he’s doing.

  Watching me.

  “Do you need anything else?” I ask.

  He lifts a hand to his mouth and runs the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip. “Yeah. Send a bottle of Jack upstairs.”

  My cheeks flush, and I look to the floor. He’ll know. As if he doesn’t already know what his presence does to women. The man’s a walking, talking stick of testosterone. Over six foot of hard-earned muscle, molded onto broad shoulders, leading to hard hands, and with the eyes of a Hollywood heartthrob to distract you from the damage all those other things can do.

  Not that you’d be enough of a woman for him.

  Not that I should want the man either. I hate him, and yet my body doesn’t seem to understand what that means—my flat-chested, tomboy body. I’m not even his type, so there’s no logical reason for me to worry. He likes his females older, more made-up, bustier, and in less clothing.

  Just look at the only one who managed to snare him for any length of time: Ramona. She’s all subtle curves and delicate beauty. She’s a stunner, and it’s no secret how she caught his attention. Wasn’t with her intellect, anyway.

  “What’s the holdup?” Sawyer teases. “You need me to do something for you?”

  Move, Abbey. “I’m sorry. I-I’ll bring it right up.”

  “G-good,” he mocks, laughing as I storm out of the room.

  My hands shake wildly, my heart still beating rapidly behind my ribcage. I take the stairs two at a time, running not only from him, but also from the shame that yet again I’m not enough. All I want is to dive into that mind of his and see how he handles his demons day-to-day without falling apart like I do. All I want is to know how I can be just like him: confident, sure of who I am, and happy with it.

  Not what I am now: disgusted every time I look at the weak shell of a woman in the mirror. My past shouldn’t define me, but it sure as hell shaped me, and I hate the world for it. The only thing that’s ever changed over the years as I’ve grown up amongst this rough bunch is my deep-rooted desire to one day become a regular girl. Nowadays, young women try so damn hard to be something unique, something that stands out, the next big social media sensation. Every girl wants to be twice what she has the potential for, unhappy with what she’s been blessed with.

  But not me. Fuck fame. Fuck notoriety, if it comes with a helping of humiliation. I want to blend. I want to be a wallflower. So fucking invisible that people forget I was ever in the room to begin with.

  But I’ll never be any of that, because yet again I’m Abbey.

  The wild child.

  The street rat.

  The crazy kid.

  THREE

  Sawyer

  Jesus Christ. I’ve been gone all of a fucking month from this hell, and somehow that kid has aged ten years since I last paid her any mind. She’s got no idea how fucking gorgeous she is. Still remember the first time I saw her: matted hair, wide eyes, dirty nails, and that feral snarl that always made me want to pick her up by the neck and snap it like a stray cat’s.

  Glad I didn’t.

  Why do you mock her, then . . .?

  You know why, asshole. Dana’s barely in the ground—rest her tortured fucking soul—and I’ve got shit to sort out with the mother of my child. Last thing I need is another lost puppy following me around looking for love.

  But puppies are so cute . . . .

  Yeah, and they shit on your floor and chew all your stuff. Everything has an ugly side, my man. And that puppy? She’s riddled with rot.

  Pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?

  I knock the fucker in my head into submission with a quick heel of the hand and run the other palm down my face. I know the truth, no matter what bullshit I tell myself, and so does he. Abbey’s got as many issues as I do, if not more, and what good would that do anyone, mixing our mess together? She’s a good kid underneath all that knee-jerk survival bullshit. She just needs somebody with a pure heart to bring the confidence out in her, not some asshole like me who’d only use her weakness to boost his own fragile ego.

  You’ve never cared before . . . .

  Nope. But then again, I didn’t know Dana before, and that girl taught me a hell of a lot before she died about the kind of person I can be if I try. She proved I have a heart that bleeds red, that I’m capable of compassion. She proved that if I’m brave enough to admit I care, I’m capable of doing some pretty damn selfless things for those who matter to me.

  Which brings me to the reason why I’m here.

  King wants me to address the council members tomorrow, tell them the plans my father revealed while he held me captive. He wants to use the Fallen Aces as his puppet for expanded drug distribution, and even thought he could bribe me to take over the Fort Worth chapter in an underhanded coup until I showed him where my loyalty really lies.

  It wasn’t with blood.

  Problem is, I don’t know how King thinks I can walk in the meeting room tomorrow with no less than half a dozen guys I’ve royally screwed over in one way or another, and not walk out with a few grams of lead in my back. The payback would be justified, the repercussions of my actions long overdue.

  I’ve hurt a lot of people who’ve done nothing but sacrifice themselves to help me for little to no reward, and I’m big enough now to admit that doesn’t sit right with me. I told Dana I’d make things right, and this is the first step. If I’m going to change, there’s bound to be a hundred more times when I’ll need to walk into the fires I’ve created. Time to man up and face the music.

  As if you can change . . . .

  A fucker’s got to try.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted a glass,” Abbey says from my open doorway, snapping me out of my trance. “So I brought one up anyway.”

  I nod and then jerk my head toward the set of drawers so she knows where to set the drink down. She glides across the floor in her tight-as-sin leather pants, cropped baseball tee, and heavy military style boots. Her tits aren’t as large as I’m used to, but everything else ticks the boxes. Last I remember, the scared little mouse would get around in Apex’s old T-shirts, hiding behind the masses of fabric as some kind of safety blanket.

  Kid sure as hell was hiding one hell of a package under that shit.

  “Anything else?”

  I feel the corners of my mouth slowly inch upward as I narrow my gaze on her. She looks to the floor, her hands fisting before her.

  “Look at me, kid.”

  She frowns, squares her shoulders, and brings her chin up. “I’m not a kid, so stop calling me that.”

  I ignore her whiny complaint and ask, “What do you see when you look at me?” I love playing this game. Bitches usually trot out some lame fucking compliments meant to get me interested in their obsessive desires. Also usually ends up with them in my bed for the night.

  If this kid is as flustered around me as I think, she’s doing her best to pretend she’s not, then the next words out of her mouth should be—

  “Pain.”

  Ooo, she’s good . . . .

  Fuck up, asshole.

  My turn to frown. What chills me to the bone is that she isn’t talking about the obvious injuries still healing from the fight with my old man. Nope. This bitch looks me dead in the eye, burning a light right through to my soul.

  Do you think she can see me . . . ?

  Fuck. I hope not. Never seen you myself, but I can guarantee you’d be one ugly motherfucker.

  My devil flips me the middle finger.

  “That’ll be all.” I give her a dismissive wave toward the door.

  She frowns again and nods, hesitating before she strides out the door with the most tempting fucking scowl on her face, leaving a cloud of something
floral and fucking addictive in her wake.

  What were you saying about lost puppies . . . ?

  Woof.

  FOUR

  Abbey

  Ramona moves between the kitchen and the common room as though she’s the center of the fucking universe, as though the place would fall apart if it weren’t for her ability to boss everyone around. She’s a goddess, with long, crimson hair and flawless olive skin, and she knows it, using her feminine wiles to get what she wants. Half these over-sexed assholes would slit their throat if she asked them to. It’s sickening the way they covet her, and it’s also a no-brainer why she used to be the guys’ favorite whore before she threw in the towel to be Sawyer’s ol’ lady. He moved her and their son, Mack, off-site to keep the other members from looking at her, pining over what they couldn’t have anymore. His jealous streak doing what it does best.

  I bet he doesn’t even know King called her in to help with catering for the visitors, today. I should be thankful that Ramona’s here, easing the burden. But I’m not, because I’m stuck behind the bar, cleaning glasses and stocking fridges with a front row seat to witness how Sawyer will react when he sees her.

  Am I jealous? Totally.

  Stalkerish? Maybe just a little.

  Unjustified? Completely.

  It’s not as though it’s any of my business what the two of them get up to. I’ve got no ownership over Sawyer; I’m just a starstruck fool who thinks he needs better than what she has to offer.

  But again, none of my business, right?

  “Under control?” Callum, our VP, asks as he leans on the bar.

  “I think so.”

  He catches my not-so-subtle scowl and follows its direction toward Ramona. “Problem?”

  “Nope,” I say jovially, popping my p. “None at all.”

  He eyes me suspiciously, before reaching over the bar to snag an open bottle of Jameson.

  “Hey.” I slap his hand off it. “Other people have to share that, you know. Use a damn tumbler.”

  He accepts the glassware I pass over and pours a drink, swirling the contents before he talks again.

  “What is it between you two anyway?”