Page 5 of Tormented

TWO

Abbey

I’ve never been allowed in here before; never stepped foot over the threshold, let alone brought fresh linens in. Housekeeping has always been Sonya’s thing, and me? Well, I’m usually elbow-deep in grease out in the garage with Fingers. I’ve earned my keep the best way I knew how over the past twelve years growing up in this club, keeping my head low and my hands busy getting in the tight spots the old mechanic’s arthritic fingers don’t reach anymore.

But when Sonya’s God only knows where with her old man, and the washing stacks up, King needs somebody to help run the ship. And that person would be me.

I set the stack of sheets down on the foot of the bed and breathe in the musky scent that always seems to accompany a man’s space. It’s been weeks since the club sent Sawyer home to face the music with his old man, but somehow the room still smells of him.

Leather.

Smoke.

Aftershave.

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.