Page 83 of Tormented
TWENTY-FOUR
Sawyer
Her mood at the diner plays on my mind the rest of the journey. I can’t pick what changed. She was all sex and sass yesterday, leaning up against that clubhouse wall like the world would lie at her feet, and goddamn if it wouldn’t. Her confidence, her bite, it pulled me to her before she even opened her mouth.
Word has been quiet from Lincoln until now. I moved across to be with the Cali boys, and the distance I wanted to put between the central chapters and myself happened naturally. Apart from the odd phone call with Ramona and Mack, the lines have been quiet. No word on what my father’s been doing—other than the incident with the fire—and no word on how that Butcher Boy is getting on being undercover with my old man’s current distributor. Not even a fucking peep about Abbey.
I assumed they wanted to keep me out of club business so there was no chance I’d pull another stunt like I did in Fort Worth and fuck things up. Watching that news story splash images of the man whose license I have in my back pocket makes me think the plan wasn’t such a bad idea. Wherever I go, I cause trouble, and as it seems, sometimes I do it without even knowing I am. I didn’t take the radio silence to heart. I trust King, and I knew he’d tell me when it was time to put an end to my father’s tyranny.
And he did. He sent me a fucking black-hearted angel to deliver the message.
The time apart seemed good for Abbey, which only affirmed I made the right decision leaving. She was cocky, confident, and playful. But little by little the cracks have begun to show. She didn’t want to sleep alone last night. Today, she doesn’t want anyone anywhere near her. And now she seems as though she can’t even stand to be out in public.
She’s becoming the Abbey-girl I used to watch with morbid curiosity as she scurried around the clubhouse, a rat-haired little kid cleaning up after the filthy pigs that were members at the time. She’s gotten worse than she was a month ago, if that’s even possible.
You realize why she’s doing this . . . .
What do you fucking think? If I knew, I wouldn’t be stealing glimpses of her in the side mirror of the truck, making sure she looks okay.
You . . . .
What the fuck about me?
I’ve looked in her eyes. I’ve seen what hides behind . . . .
Jesus—this asshole. Enlighten me, then.
It’s dark and cold in there. It’s home . . . .
The back tire of the bike steps out as I slam a hand heavily into the side of my helmet.
Fuck you, asshole, you stay the hell away from her.
Where you go, I follow . . . .
I’ve never wanted to rip this defective brain from my head so damn bad. Why does he have to be there, watching, ruining everything?
I am you, and you are me, and everything you touch, I can see, he sings, mocking me.
He can’t be right, can he? Am I ruining her? Is she disintegrating because of me? Fuck it all—I never should have stolen that kiss from her. I should have backed the fuck away and kept my hands to myself, kept things uncomplicated. It was there, the apprehension and fear in her eyes, and yet like the selfish fucker I am, I pushed forward and took what I wanted anyway.
I drift left and check her reflection. Flashes of her face come in sporadic bursts as we pass under the lights of the I-135. She seems okay enough, but . . . there . . . she fucking wipes her eyes. Jesus.
The sign for the exit to Grand Junction is lit up ahead. I’ve got no idea how far she planned on traveling before we had a decent stop, but we’ve been at this over thirteen hours including the bite to eat, and I’m done. My legs went numb a while back, and now that I’ve stretched out, the most intense pins and needles throb in them.
She applies the brakes as I speed ahead and cut in front, narrowly missing clipping the rear end of the car in the next lane over. I gesture toward the exit and lead her off, making sure she follows like the good girl she is.
Fuck what she says. Fuck how she acted as a kid. This isn’t about common histories anymore; it’s about making sure her future is right. It’s about getting her to let go of who she was for long enough to believe she can be anything she wants to.
I lead us through the town, bringing us to a stop at the first inn I come across advertising a decent nightly rate. I’m not above paying for quality, but when all I need is somewhere soft to lay my head I get a little twitchy at paying what some of these places ask for.
Frugal bastard . . . .
Don’t you know it.
Abbey pulls into the empty park beside where I’ve stopped the bike. Her tires squeal when she slams the brakes on, the door of the Ford creaking in protest as she throws it open and marches my way.
“I don’t want to stop.”