Page 126 of Tormented
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?