Page 36 of Tormented

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.”