Page 61 of Tormented
EIGHTEEN
Abbey
His eyes clouded over. I’d say they went dark, but they didn’t. It was as though a normally translucent window fogged up, as though the fire inside became too hot to bear and he shut down. He stood saying nothing, just staring, for what felt like forever when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. But still, that long of a break in conversation when the other person quite literally slips into some sort of catatonic state is forever.
What’s wrong? Was it what I said about his dad? Shit, nobody is a stranger to how he feels about Carlos. The whole fucking club, all three states, know how much he wants him dead. I thought it might rile him up to talk about it, get the fuel burning, but damn . . . I think I broke him a little more than he already was.
Way to go, Abbey. Wait until King hears that.
What’s he been doing since he moved over here? Sure doesn’t seem like he’s healing. In all the time I’ve known him, watched him from close and afar, he’s never been this bad. It’s as though . . . I don’t know. How do you know when bad habits have gone too far and it’s time to call in the white coats?
The annoying prospect from earlier moves in for the kill as Sawyer’s wide shoulders disappear out the entrance doors, barely visible over the mass of people that have slowly filled the large room the past hour. I lift a palm to the prospect’s face, stopping just shy of making impact with his confused mug, and push off the bar to follow Sawyer.
Fuck, for all I know the prospect was on his way over to apologize after speaking with Tap. But right now I’ve got more pressing issues at hand.
Pretty boy is running, but what from I can’t quite place. He made out that seeing me was what sent him into a frenzy, but I call bullshit. He kissed me once, and ground himself against me in a weak moment, that’s all. He’s not interested in me, otherwise he would have made the effort to call, visit . . . not even leave to begin with.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself these past weeks.
A little over a week after he left, I realized why it is I fought to keep quiet on my past. It wasn’t that I was scared to share my history; it was that I was worried if I did he wouldn’t want me anymore. That he’d look at me differently and that would be it, my chance with him, gone.
It might have taken five weeks of solitude, and one very set-up reunion, but I’ve finally stopped lying to myself and listened to my heart.
I want my pretty boy. I want the things he can offer.
How can I continue to believe what I’m told about the kind of man I should be searching for, when every time I get near Sawyer I feel as though there’s no need to keep looking? I don’t count his flaws when we spend time together; I look at his shortcomings and try to figure out how they complement mine.
I believe what he said about our jagged edges. I think there’s every possibility we could make one hell of a team. But first I need to know exactly what I’m in for. Not the rumors, the stories, and the hearsay. I want him to tell me all of it. Every black and hollowed experience that shaped the unbalanced man he is. I want to know what it takes to break him, because until now, it seemed like he was invincible. Yet as I chase him down, I’m not so sure. The vacancy in his gaze, the shock as he backed away, it’s as though he can’t figure out how to escape whatever rolls around inside that turbulent mind of his. As though, for once, he wants to get away from it.
He wants to escape himself.
Yeah, well, I know better than most that’s near impossible to do.
I ran once, and where did I find myself? Right back where I started. Can’t escape the one thing that’s always with you: yourself.
The night air hits me square in the face as I step outside and search the dim yard with squinted eyes. The sun from this afternoon has well and truly gone, leaving the evening to chill down considerably. I shiver, and cross my arms over myself while I step out over the dirt to search the big idiot out. I’ve barely been here half a day—I can’t lose him already, and especially if I’m truly to blame. King gave me a job, and by fuck I’m going to deliver on it.
The lights are on in the garage, but the gate is dark save for a single light over the control box. It’s eerily quiet out here given the noise and ruckus going on indoors. There isn’t a soul to be seen, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean we’re alone. With Carlos threatening the Aces like he has been, Tap will have half a dozen men stationed out here. They’re just out of plain sight.
My breath clouds before my face, and I shiver again a second before my entire back is wrapped in delicious warmth. Like a moth to a flame, I step back into Sawyer’s hard front; the musky smell of motorbikes and leather, laced with the metallic tang I’ve only just recently figured out to be blood, always gives him away.
“You shouldn’t be out here . . . alone . . .”
“With you?” I finish.
“Especially with me.”
He’s got no idea. “Why are you running?”
“Can’t hurt anyone when it’s just me, right?”
I turn to face him, this . . . looming shadow in the dark. “You really think you’d hurt me?”
“I used to know that I never could, but lately . . .” Sawyer glances at the ground to our side and taps a thick finger to his temple. “He’s not so predictable anymore.”
“What are we going to do about that then?” I ask. “We’ve got a long trip back to Lincoln to make yet.”
“Don’t know.”