Page 50 of Tormented

FOURTEEN

Abbey

One week later

The garage is dark when I walk in, eerily quiet, and still heavily smelling of charred wood, burnt oil, and the acrid stench of singed leather. Mild night air breezes through the large space where the warped and useless roller door has been torn down, a replacement expected some time next week. Four of our men stand out in the yard, sentries for any sign of a secondary attack.

Pretty boy left for Cali a week ago, determined to keep trouble from our door. Seems as though his old man didn’t get the message.

Nobody was there to raise the alarm when Carlos decided to launch a friendly reminder of who’s in charge on the club. The gate isn’t manned in the early hours of the morning, and the only person still awake was King, holed up in his office in the heart of the building. It was only when the air brakes on the truck let off that somebody finally woke up and looked out their window to see what was going on. By the time Carlos’ thugs had launched the first Molotov cocktails over the gates, using the truck body as a platform, barely half the upstairs had been evacuated. Fire caught the stack of used tires out front, and the resulting blaze spread fast through the garage once the flames slipped under the door.

The only thing that saved the majority of the living quarters overhead was the sprinkler system King had installed a while back. A handful of bedrooms were damaged beyond use, the rest needing simply to dry out before anyone could think of inhabiting them again.

I roam my gaze over the damage left behind and suck in a sharp breath as the extent of the damage hits home. Fingers hasn’t been able to bring himself to look yet, afraid of what he’ll find. I finally saw the old man cry, and damn it all if I wish he’d never had a reason to. This is his life, our space, and now it’s a mess of blackened and melted memories.

I slip in between the undamaged motorcycles at the back, my bare feet silent as I run my fingers over the tacky leather and dull paintwork of King’s bike. A solid day cleaning and servicing those that escaped the worst of the fire, and they should be good as new. As for the rest . . . . I sigh as I take in the tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of destruction. A couple of the prospect’s bikes are reduced to nothing but a charred frame, the motorcycles just beyond possibly salvageable with a healthy dose of new parts.

These machines have been my life in so many ways: the transportation to a new start as a child, the projects that kept my young teenage mind occupied as I struggled to transition to womanhood, and the very thing that brought together this group of people who, as much as I still feel an outsider, are my family.

King’s promised vengeance, swearing that the fear our people live under won’t last another year. “Whatever it takes,” he’d yelled as he stood in the middle of our shocked and shaken members. And I believe him. I trust our president with my whole heart and I stand behind whatever plan he has to remove Carlos once and for all.

A plan that no doubt involves Sawyer.

I wheel Fingers’ work stool out from under the table and take a seat while I contemplate what this means for pretty boy. Will he come back? A selfish, unjustified part of me hopes that he does, that this carnage wasn’t for nothing.

He left the day after I rejected him, choosing not to say another word to me in the final hours before he rode out with Tap and his crew. It stung, but it’s what I chose, so why am I upset by it? He did exactly what I asked him to: not take advantage of me.

I guess deep down I expected him to fight back, is all.

But his departure, and his silence only cemented what I suspected all along: that he wasn’t that serious about us being a thing. If he wanted me that badly, he would have taken the time to build on what we started, not forced me to rush into it. He would have stuck around, hung out some more, and done exactly what he said to begin with: shared little bits at a time. He would have let me open up naturally, slowly, and at a pace I could manage.

But he didn’t. He showed his true colors and demanded that I tell him everything, all the rotten and dead parts of myself that I’ve denied for so long. I told him the truth in his room, but I barely covered the half of it. How much is enough for him? Does he want every fucking detail of what Evan’s friends did with me? Every sordid point that details how my mother let her love for a manipulative man override her instincts to protect me, protect us?

Does he want me to recount the exact way I got away? What happened for me to finally be able to run, only to not know if my mother is now dead or alive?

I swipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, heaving a deep breath as I push off the stool. I’ve heard plenty that sharing your feelings, explaining your triggers, and exploring your fears is therapeutic. But I can’t see the sense in that theory. If you have a sore, you let it heal. You don’t pick at it until it’s a festering mess that reminds you of its existence every time you move. You leave it alone, let it go away on its own. Surely the pain of abuse and neglect is the same?

Then again, maybe not? After all, here I am, twelve years after I ran from that mangled mess, still stewing over the things I can’t change. Perhaps ignoring how I feel has been neglect of my own? Worst of all, maybe Sawyer was right? I do need to let it all go and cry, break down in the right way.

I rise and loop my way through the bikes until I end up back at the internal door. With a flick of the switch, I bathe the garage in white light; what’s left of the fluorescent lights hum and buzz as they warm up.

I’ve always come here when my mind’s been torn, and every time I’ve walked out with a clear decision on what to do next. Only this time it feels different, as I pick up a rag and start cleaning King’s bike like I have a thousand times before. When I haven’t been able to think about anything but my interactions with Sawyer for the last week, what does that tell me?

There’s something there, something a part of me clearly longs to explore.

But again, he left. He rode out the gate without saying a word.

What does that say about how he truly feels about me? If he can pursue me with such ferocity, and then switch it off, was I just a game? Sport to keep him occupied?

I guess what Hooch and King tell me is right: I need to avoid the risks a man like Sawyer brings and focus on finding a guy who’s reliable. Somebody who respects me, wants me, and would be patient with me. I know it’s right. My head tells me that’s what I’d be told if I asked anyone around here for advice. But with the comfort of the familiar comes an ache for the unknown. I feel as though, hidden by the lies I’ve told myself since I started a new life with Fallen Aces, is a woman who knows better than what she’s been taught.

Not from experience.

Not with fact.

But from pure gut instinct.

I almost listen to that intuition, throw away everything Apex, King, Hooch, and Sonya have tried to teach me over the years about moving on from my past and do what I feel is right. But another part of me yawns and nods its groggy head at what my gut tells me: my heart.