Page 55 of Tormented
SIXTEEN
Abbey
Four weeks later
The warm spring sun heats my shoulders as I lean against the outside of the Fallen Aces LA clubhouse. The sun is an unrelenting motherfucker this time of year, almost as though it loves to leap out of that box it’s kept itself in all winter and remind you what you were missing. Everybody bitches about the cold weather, saying they can’t wait for it to be warm again, but nobody ever really means it.
Who the fuck likes to be hot? Summer is a pressure cooker designed to bring out the worst in people, push them to their limits—mentally and physically. I could relay a hundred relationships that I’ve seen deteriorate over the warmer months.
Which means it makes sense why King would choose spring to gear up toward a war he should have fought years ago.
“Nobody will suspect you,”he’d said, handing me the keys to the beaten-up truck the club shares, and four hundred dollars for gas and food.
He meant for me to stop a little over halfway and spend some cash resting up in a motel—after all, the trip from Lincoln to LA is roughly twenty-two hours on a good day. But I pumped the extra bills into a twelve-pack of energy drinks and lead-footed it here. After all, the sooner this shit is over with, the better.
I hate being the messenger; they always end up shot.
Especially when the person I have to deliver to is the one man I want to avoid.
Right on cue.
The rumble of an approaching bike vibrates through my chest. I close my eyes, head tipped back to the sky, and breathe in that glorious fucking sound. Once upon a time I hated the throaty resonance of a Harley, but that was before I learned that even the devil was once an angel who could be trusted.
And here comes his goddamn child.
The security gate slides open with stealthy precision. I adjust my bra, giving my modest cleavage a boost. My tank top has a slash that runs directly over my chest, leaving the fabric to fold over and reveal the goods. The thought of being touched by him, let alone ogled has my skin abuzz with nerves. But needs must, and if you want to catch the prey, sometimes you need to offer the right sort of honey. Which for Sawyer happens to be a hot piece of ass. And as he so clearly pointed out a few weeks back, especially my ass.
Sent me because I fly under the radar pfft. King’s going to have some explaining to do when I get back.
Giving my glossed lips a last smack, I settle one of my booted feet against the wall and watch as pretty boy backs his bike in the enormous open garage across the yard. The converted shed rivals a fucking airplane hangar, at least fifty feet long with hoists and all the necessary workshop essentials lining one wall. Lincoln may be the mother chapter for the Aces, but LA has that California edge to it—always keeping up with the Joneses.
Sawyer dismounts, eyes trained on me as he pulls the key from the ignition. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left Lincoln to try and ease the shit his father was dishing out on Ramona and Mack. It might have shifted the heat off them, but the rest of us still suffer.
His massive paws pocket the metal, and he starts toward me, slow and measured.
That’s it, big boy. Come to Mama.
The rattle of his buckles and chains as he walks reminds me of the old-time westerns Apex would sometimes watch with me when I was still a mute youngster under their feet; the thud, thud, thud of his boots on the dirt as ominous as his appearance.
They don’t call him the smiling assassin behind his back for nothing.
He’ll win you over with a well-chosen compliment, and turn the gun on you in the next breath. And considering he only did the first half to me before he left, I’m still waiting to find that barrel against my temple.
Let’s play.
“He sent you, then? Interesting.” The low resonance of his words ends on a lion’s purr.
I tip my head back to look into his bruised face—evidence he’s still working, still collecting for the reaper—as he blocks out the sun with his size. He’s over six foot of bulk, which means my five-foot-three petite stature fits snugly into his shadow.
And as much as I’ve tried to tell myself my memory is a goddamn liar, it still comforts me.
“Apparently, I fly below the radar.”
His eyes roam lazily over me, settling on the full sleeve I had tattooed a few weeks back; a giant fuck you to my fear of being touched. My breath hitches, betraying the confidence I was trying for, as he reaches out and hooks a thick finger in the leg of my cut-offs. Breathe through it. Breathe. You got through it without giving in before, you can do it again.
“Still gettin’ around with your ass hangin’ out, Abbey-girl?”
“Did you think I only did it for you?” I mock.