Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3) Read online

  “Did the new exhaust arrive?”

  He looks up from his work, gesturing to the pile of boxes and bags lumped at the end of the table. “Came in yesterday.” His eyes soften, and he smiles. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”

  The guy’s pushing seventy—the Fallen Aces’ mechanic for close to thirty years—and these days his memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be, unless you’re talking about fixing bikes. The guy will forget where he left his glasses, but ask him how to recondition a motor and he’ll break it down step-by-step without missing a beat.

  “You want me to put it on, then?”

  “If you’ve got a spare moment.”

  I’ve got nothing but time. He curses under his breath at a spot of crumbing weld while I tear open the couriered box. Sawyer’s exhaust is after-market, powder-coated black with a specific sweep to it that means it’s kept clear of the rider’s legs before it dumps mid-back wheel.

  I pull it free of the packaging, and then pause, the itchy feeling I get when I’m being watched spreading over my flesh. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicions: Fingers stands toying with the wire brush as though he tries to find the right words.

  “What’s up?” I ask, doing my best to sound casual and unaffected.

  “I spoke to King a few days ago.” His finger taps on the pointy ends of the wires. “About you.”

  I almost choke. “Yeah?”

  “I thought if you were keen, we could enroll you in a proper course.”

  I frown, not sure what he’s trying to get at.

  “Let’s face it,” he says with a crooked smile. “There’ll come a time when somebody needs to take over this workshop, and it’s sure lookin’ like you’ll be the one to do it.”

  I snort. “A woman in charge of their bikes? They get twitchy enough with me helping you out.”

  He tips his head to the side. “Eh, I don’t think it’s that bad.”

  I roll my eyes as I turn away, mentally biting my tongue from saying any more on the topic. I know it’s one of the things we disagree on because he has no problem with me being here, and so he can’t understand why anyone else would.

  “What do you think?” he asks, stepping up beside me to place the brush in the mess.

  I shrug. “I’d like to know more, but I always assumed you’d teach me.”

  “I could, but I’d be teachin’ you what I’ve learnt through trial and error. I want you to know the right way to do everythin’, not just some method an old fool like me has come up with.”

  “Seems to work okay, though?”

  “For now.” He nods. “Think about it, anyway.”

  I give him a smile and lift Sawyer’s new exhaust out of the box. “Okay.”

  He returns to his work on the tank as I settle down beside pretty boy’s Harley and get to work. Fingers has a point, and if I’m truthful with myself all I ever want is to continue the work I do here with him. Ramona’s warning comes to mind, as does my rebuttal that this is why I’ll stick around, that this is why the Fallen Aces need me.

  Maybe this is it? My calling? The thing that finally makes me fit in and blend? What more perfect place could there be for me here than hiding out of view in the garage?

  Fingers switches the radio on after a while, and the time flies as I strip off the old scratched and dented pipes and clean the mounts off before attaching the new ones. As always, I end up with grease on my hands despite the fact I’m not currently doing a damn thing that involves it, and plenty of exhaust dust on my legs from the old pipes.

  Which is why it’s a no-brainer that I try to hide behind the machine when I spot Sawyer come through the door—I’ve got to be a hell of a hot mess.

  “How’s it comin’ along?” he asks Fingers.

  “Almost ready for you.” The old man runs his palm over the now smooth join. “Just needs paint, and then you’re all set.”

  “What about the rest? All fixed too?”

  “Yeah. Abbey’s been givin’ me a hand.” I close my eyes, hoping Sawyer takes that as past tense, not present. “How’s it lookin’, darlin’?” Fingers asks, throwing me under the bus.

  “Almost done,” I call back, giving the last of the nuts a tighten before checking them all over in turn.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I cringe with every fall of his boots on the concrete. Leather creaks above me, and I daren’t look up.

  “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “It’s no secret I help Fingers out,” I mumble.

  “No, it ain’t.”

  I peek out from under my brow and catch his smirk as he leans over the bike to look down at me.

  “But I always assumed you just sorted bolts, or wiped off the wrenches, you know?”

  “No. I don’t know.” It’s one of my biggest pet hates, asshole men who assume that girls couldn’t possibly be as technically minded as males.

  He straightens up, arms folded, and watches as I collect my tools and walk them back to the shadow board.

  “Did you want something?” I ask, aware he’s just standing there, doing nothing but eyeing my every move.

  Fingers glances up from what he’s doing, checking everything’s okay like he has hundreds of times before over the years.

  “Can we talk?” Sawyer asks quietly, leaning in close enough for me to catch a whiff of his heady scent.

  I breathe deep, and then answer. “No.”

  He pulls back, a frown bringing his brows together. “Why not?”

  “Because we don’t ‘talk,’ Sawyer. You mock me, I get angry, and then you wander off feeling better about yourself.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I just . . . I can’t be bothered with it right now.” Not when my anxiety’s already peaking at the thought of having to share a classroom with a group of complete strangers if I agree to Fingers’ plan.

  “I’m not goin’ to pick on you,” Sawyer says, lifting his chin. “I swear.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I whisper, internally cursing my body for having subconsciously leant closer to his.

  Fingers sets his tools down, wiping his hands off on his overalls as Sawyer looks around at him.

  “Can we go somewhere private?” The quiet resonance of his words stirs an unfamiliar emotion deep in my gut.

  “I’d feel more comfortable staying here.” His eyes harden as he rakes his top teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t have secrets from Fingers,” I explain. Only things I haven’t told him yet.

  Sawyer grumbles, a primal growl that originates deep in his wide chest. “Forget it.” He scowls at the two of us like a child scorned, and then storms out of the garage.

  “What was that about?” Fingers asks, coming to stand beside me.

  “Fucked if I’d know.”

  But I don’t trust a single thing about it.

  ELEVEN

  Sawyer

  Her hands. On my bike. Fixing it.

  Jesus.

  Sexiest fucking thing I’ve seen in a while.

  I lean both palms on the edge of my drawers and hang my head to steady my breathing. All I can think about is how it would feel to slam her up against the nearest flat surface and forget all about fucking talking. That fire inside her, it burns bright, and damn it all if I don’t want to bear the scars from getting too close.

  She’s a distraction . . . we need to focus on Daddy dearest’s demise . . . .

  I know. But walking away doesn’t seem to work. Each time I see her, my curiosity over her burrows a little deeper. What’s more distracting, huh? The desire, or the aftermath? Do I spend every waking moment wondering how it’d feel to snare her, or do I take what I want without a fucking care in the world for what she wants, clear my head, and move on?

  I look around at the room at what I’ve managed to pack so far. I’ve made the decision; I’m moving to Cali. Staying here creates too many complications, and she’d be one of them. Although Abbey’s not my first reason for placing distance between myself, and the mess I created
here at Lincoln, she’s sure as hell a sound reason why I’m doing the right thing.

  I kill the things I love by association. I’m a plague: to Ramona, to my son, to fucking Dana, and to my club. I’ll never be simply Sawyer. I’m always going to be Carlos Redmond’s son, and that title carries a hefty price tag. Be damned if I’m adding Abbey to the list of things I’ve ruined out of selfless desire.

  I want her, to own her, to keep her as mine and nobody else’s, and that shit ain’t fair.

  I can’t be that man anymore.

  And she needs to know it. She needs to know why she has to watch herself around me.

  Because Lord knows I can’t control myself.

  “What was that all about?” Abbey strides into my bedroom, not seeming to care a fuck that I’ve gone back to packing all my shit into boxes.

  I set down the pile of clothes in my hands and turn to face her, arms folded. “Pardon?”

  “That.” She jabs an angry hand down to the floor, indicating the garage below us. “You want to talk to me, but it can’t be said in front of Fingers?”

  “No, it couldn’t,” I snap.

  Easy now . . . you’ll startle the prey . . . .

  “Why not?” She mirrors my stance, one eyebrow raised.

  “Because. . . .” Why do I even have to explain myself?

  Because it’s what you do when you don’t want people to be upset with you . . . .

  Fuck’s sake.

  “Because it’s not appropriate to say in front of the guy who’s acted like your fuckin’ surrogate father all these years.”

  Her brow pinches. “So you were just there to mock me again? Didn’t quite get enough the other day?”

  “No,” I exclaim. Fuck it. Why do women have to be so damn difficult, always reading between the lines for shit that ain’t there? “I didn’t want to do that at all.” I soften my voice, falling back to sit on the edge of the stripped bed.

  “Why are you packing?” Her eyes drift all over the room, settling on the duffle I scared the hell out of her with.

  “I’m headin’ to Cali.”

  “For good?” Her right hand moves to her left shoulder, making a protective shield over her heart.

  “At this stage . . . I don’t know. A year or two? However long it takes to settle things with my old man.” I steal a side glance at her. “Not that it’s anything to you.”

  She sighs, her lips thinning into a tight smile. “You know that would never happen.”

  “So then I stay away longer.” I shrug. “I can’t stay here and risk Mack and Ramona again.”

  Her eyes darken, and she turns away, muttering something under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  Dark hair fans out over her shoulder as she swings her head back my way. “Nothing.”

  “No. You said somethin’ just now. What was it?”

  “It’s not important.”

  Like hell it isn’t . . . .

  One step ahead of you, good buddy.

  I get up, growing increasingly pissed off with her as she frowns, shutting me out. “Woman, you come into my room and then lie to me when I ask you what you said.” I crowd her, shoving my chin into my chest just to be able to see her so close in front of me. “That shit don’t fly here.”

  She twitches, her foot moving ever so slightly backward. She’s staging to run.

  I reach around her, forcing Abbey to crane her head back to avoid connecting with my chest, and swing the door shut.

  “Now, Abbey-girl. Tell me what you said.”

  “I said,” she hisses, “‘Who gives a fuck about Ramona?’ Satisfied?”

  “Very.”

  Intrigued, even . . . .

  “Now tell me why you said it.”

  “Because,” she says through gritted teeth, “I don’t like her.”

  “Why? What the fuck she ever done to you?”

  “More than her fake ass would have told you.”

  “Try me,” I growl.

  Her eyes narrow, her expression hard. “No.”

  “Jesus, would you stop sayin’ that?” I step away and pace to the end of the bed before I lose my shit and throttle her.

  Gosh darn, that would be some fun though, wouldn’t it . . .?

  “It’s my right to say no when I want to, Sawyer.”

  “But all the time?” I ask, fisting a hand in my short hair. “Every second word out of your mouth is ‘no.’”

  “Because you’re asking me for things I can’t give!” she cries. “And besides, of all people in this godforsaken building, why would I choose you to share my secrets with?”

  “Because I’m most likely to understand you.”

  Careful . . . you’re starting to give a fuck . . . dangerous thing, that is . . . .

  Fuck off.

  Abbey turns for the door, and I lunge across the room to beat her to it. Her hand lands on the doorknob, but I reach over her head and place my weight against the door. It closes with a thud.

  “I want to leave.”

  “Why,” I whisper beside her ear. “Because things are gettin’ too hard?”

  “No. Because they’re hard enough without adding to it by talking about topics that aren’t necessary.”

  She guards that heart well . . . .

  You don’t say.

  “Why do you think talking about what’s botherin’ you isn’t necessary?” I ask, pushing off the door.

  She turns slowly, refusing to look me in the eye as she stares down at my boots. “Because tell me what it helps by bringing it up all over again.” She lifts her chin and the honesty in her eyes cuts me. “Why put yourself through pain when it won’t change the past, and it won’t help the future?”

  “Because burying your secrets is denyin’ who you are.”

  “Maybe I want to deny who I am,” she says. “Maybe I don’t want to be reminded of what I was made to be.”

  “And what’s that?” I inch closer, relishing the way her body searches out mine.

  “A failure as a human. A joke.”

  Girl really has issues . . . .

  Don’t we all though? Aren’t we all a little broken inside? Perhaps some of us have hairline fractures, compared to the cracks and gaping holes left in others, but deep down we’re all a little damaged.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “That’s the problem.” She laughs bitterly. “I didn’t hear it, I know it. Nobody’s ever directly said those things to me . . . well, until recently.”

  “Who told you that you were a joke?” I ask, burning to lift a hand to stroke the hair from her downturned face. “Give me names.”

  She huffs out her nose, fidgeting with her hands. “You wouldn’t care enough to change anything, even if I told you, so why bother starting trouble?” Abbey steps away, running her fingers over an open box. “I’ve done fine dealing with it on my own for this long, Sawyer. I don’t need your help now.”

  “Seems to me like you do.” Why else would she still be so fucked-up after ten-plus years living with a club that’s raised her and cared for her?

  “I don’t need to be protected, and I don’t need to be babied. I wish everyone would stop treating me like I’m about to break.”

  “They treat you like that,” I argue, “because you do break. Maybe you don’t want to admit it, Abbey, but you are fragile. You’ve been kicked around so much that there’s barely anythin’ left holding you together. But you know what? That’s okay. Because it just shows how you were built to last.”

  Her lips twitch up in the corners, the barest hint of a smile.

  I think you did it, old chum . . . I think you cracked her . . . .

  The tears fall. Slow, fat, droplets at first, carving their way over her golden skin, soon thinning out to a steady stream as she tries to hide her true feelings.

  “Let it out,” I say, stepping toward her turned back. “I hate dealin’ with women when they cry, but you know what I’ve learnt watchin’ you lot
do it over the years?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “That you women need to do it. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like you females need to break right down and hit bottom before you can get your shit together and come back at it stronger than before.” She turns to face me, smiling as she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands. “Maybe that’s what your problem is, Abbey—you’ve never allowed yourself to fall apart before.”

  “I’ve cried plenty,” she argues.

  “Not in the right way, though. Am I right?”

  Her dark eyes search mine, a frown pulling at her brow. A hiccup escapes, and she stifles a sob with the back of her hand.

  I grab hold of her wrist, boundaries be damned, and shove her leather cuff out of the way before she can fight me off. “Tell me what this is.”

  Her glassy eyes glue to the small scars, shock and terror on her face. But not at what I’m seeing, at the fact I am seeing it.

  “You know what that is,” she whispers with more venom than I expected. “Don’t ask silly questions unless you want a silly answer.”

  “You still do this?” The evidence is there in the color of the lines, but I need to hear her say it.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus, Abbey.”

  She’s more like you than you gave her credit for . . . .

  And it scares the ever-loving hell out of me.

  “It helps,” she protests when I refuse to let go.

  “How?”

  “Because it numbs everything inside when I make it hurt on the outside.”

  Just. Like. You . . . .

  I shake my head, gently pulling her cuff back into place. She wrenches her wrist from my grasp and cradles her arm to her chest.

  “Don’t tell anyone, please. Hooch knows, but he’s the only one. Even King doesn’t know I do it.”

  You can’t do anything to this one, my devil whispers. You can’t ruin what’s already destroyed . . . .

  “How do you do it?” she asks quietly. “How do you not let your differences get to you?”

  “They do,” I admit.

  She tips her head to the side, clearly confused. “But you seem so comfortable with yourself.”

  “Seem,” I echo, emphasizing the key word in what she said. “I was happy with who I was, but now . . . why the fuck am I even tellin’ you this?”