Page 11 of Hellbent
“Thanks.” I smile. “Good night.”
He lingers for a beat, like he’s about to say something else, then just nods and heads back the way we came.
A second later, the hallway light snaps off, and the click of the door echoes in the empty space.
I’m alone. The silence presses in. No loud voices. No music shaking the floor. No engines revving or backfiring.
It’s not much of a bedroom—a mattress on crates surrounded by shelves of engine lubricant and window washer fluid—but it’s the first room of my own I’ve ever had.
I pull the blanket around my shoulders and let my body sink into the quiet. I wonder what Billy’s doing right now. If he’s pissed I left. Or indifferent. If life just goes on in the clubhouse the same as ever without me.
But I don’t wonder long. Sleep drags at me, heavy and sudden. For tonight, the quiet here means I’m safe. Tomorrow, I’ll remember that quiet never lasts.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALL WEEK I work in the shop, and by Saturday, I can hardly believe it’s only been days since I landed on Ryder’s porch, unconscious and half-frozen. It feels like I’ve been here forever. I’ve settled into life at the garage so easily I could almost forget the life that came before, Billy and the club.
Almost.
In the mornings, Wyatt wakes me with a knock on the door, and I pull on my coveralls while he brews coffee. We eat breakfast in the shop’s tiny kitchen before opening up. By the time Damian arrives, the lights are on, the doors are unlocked, and the day begins.
Wyatt and Damian spend their hours in the garage, while I handle the front—answering calls, ringing up customers, settling into a rhythm I never thought I’d have. It’s a simple life, and every night as I lie down on my makeshift bed, I pray it lasts a little longer.
In the evenings, we eat dinner together—either me andWyatt upstairs in his apartment, or with Damian and Jake downstairs in the garage. If it’s the two of us, Wyatt makes something simple. If it’s the four of us, he orders in, or Jake brings takeout. It never seems planned, but it always works out. I try to help by doing the dishes and cleaning up.
Ryder only shows up once all week, and even then, it’s just to talk business with Wyatt. He barely acknowledges me. He’s polite, but distant, and he’s gone before the food’s even finished.
But even when he’s not here, he’s impossible to ignore. I catch myself thinking about him, replaying our few interactions, analyzing everything I did and said.
It’s natural, I tell myself. Like a wolf-pack thing. He’s clearly the one in charge, whether or not anyone says it out loud, and of course I want his approval. It’s hierarchy, that’s all.
But the way he moves, the low baritone of his voice, the heat I imagine in his eyes—it all loops in my head like a track I can’t turn off.
It’s distracting. But even so, in the space that he leaves behind, someone else is getting under my skin.
With Jake, it’s different. There’s a tenderness beneath the pull between us. I’m conscious of how fast this is, how soon. I’ve never been with anyone but Billy, and it would be crazy to start something now—especially when I don’t even know if I’ll be here next week.
But Jake is kind. Warm. Attentive. My favorite parts of the week have been the nights he dropped by the garage after work, lingering until Wyatt goes up to bed and Damian goes home so that we can watch TV together in a crackling, charged silence.
Always, there’s the waiting. The space between us electric. The way he watches me like he already knows what I’m going to choose.
I know I could kiss him if I wanted to. I can feel it in the way he holds my gaze, the knowing tilt of his smile. But I hold myself back.
Because Billy is still in me, still in my bones. I can feel the weight of his specter hanging over me, like his hand is gripping the back of my neck. If anyone in the club had tried to kiss me, Billy probably would have killed him. There’s a deep, almost Pavlovian training in me that I can’t quite shake. A belief that I’m off-limits. That I belong to Billy. Even now, when I know I don’t.
Besides, Jake and I are never really alone.
When Jake is over, Wyatt comes downstairs periodically, always with an excuse. A bottle of water from the fridge. A set of keys he left behind. One night, he wanders through, barely sparing us a glance, but then lingers for almost half an hour, pretending to check something on the shop’s computer.
I don’t think I imagine the looks that pass between them—the way Wyatt’s brow lifts in silent judgment, the way Jake smirks like he’s daring him to say something.
I’m learning the routines of life here, but today I experience something I’ve never had in my entire life.
I get paid.
After our morning coffee, Wyatt flips the “Open” sign, unlocks the cash register, and gestures toward two envelopes inside. One says “Damian Voss.” The thicker one says “Max.”
Like a complete idiot, I just stare at it.
