Page 8 of Hellbent
His brow furrows. “There’s nothing around here for miles.” But when I don’t say anything else, he drops his arms and softens. “When you’re ready, we can talk about where you came from. What you want to do next. For now, put those on and meet me in the shop.”
He backs out with a nod and pulls the door shut.
I exhale, the weight of the past forty-eight hours pressing down on me. My body is clean, my feet are warm, and for the first time ever, I have a place to sleep that’s just mine.
I tear open the socks and slide them on with a quiet sigh. They’re too big, bunching up over my ankles, but I don’t care.
I’m in the back room of an auto body shop, tugging on free oversized socks with a motor oil logo on them like it’s the best gift I’ve ever received, in a place that belongs to strangers.
But I’ve slept in rooms with peeling paint and mildewed rugs, where the beds had plastic sheets. Rooms with no doors, or with other kids who stole from you while you slept.
When you grow up in the system, you learn fast how to make yourself at home in other people’s spaces, with borrowed things.
I’m good at slipping into lives that were never meant to include me. At being grateful. At not expecting to stay.
This isn’t even a real bedroom. But everything these men have given me has been offered freely—food, warm socks, a place to sleep—no price, no catch.
Maybe it won’t last. Probably it won’t. But some small, stubborn part of me wishes it could.
For now, though, it feels more like home than anywhere I’ve been in a long time.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAY PASSES quickly, even though there’s little to do. I sit behind the computer, ready to ring up purchases under Wyatt’s supervision whenever a customer comes in. Through the frosted glass door dividing the shop from the service bay, I hear Damian working, the near-constant mechanical whirring a reminder that he’s still there. Wyatt moves between the two rooms, checking on both of us.
He makes me several cups of tea—extra milky and sweet, just how I like it—and over the slow afternoon, I learn more about all four of them.
Wyatt tells me that they were in the army together. “Special ops,” is all he says.
I know enough to know that special operations is a lot different than being a soldier. That, and his unwillingness to share anything else, piques my interest.
He tells me that after they got out, Ryder bought a large plot of land and owns everything from here to the house. All fourmen live on Ryder’s land, which, Wyatt says, just felt natural to them after everything they’d been through together in combat.
“We’re closer than brothers,” he tells me. “Been to hell and back together.”
Damian and Jake are building a second house behind Ryder’s place, where they’ll live once it’s finished. Wyatt lives here, above the garage.
He tells me thatleatherneckis a slang term for a Marine—which he used to be—and before that, he was a mechanical engineer. He’s always loved cars and bikes, so when they left the military, he started the garage and hired Damian.
My ears perk up when he tells me he loves motorcycles. I spotted a Harley in a corner of the garage when he gave me a tour, and the sight is both familiar and discomforting. I’ve been around motorcycles constantly for so long now that not being around them is a noticeable absence—like the silence in Ryder’s house last night when I was trying to sleep.
In forty-eight hours, my life has changed completely. Two days ago, I was O.D. blue blood—girlfriend of the leader of a rapidly expanding outlaw motorcycle club built on drugs, intimidation, and fear. A week ago I’d never have believed I could survive without Billy. And now, no matter what happens, I know the future is going to look completely different than I ever imagined.
By the time the shop closes at five, it’s already dark outside. We haven’t had a customer in hours. Wyatt flips the lock on the front door, and a moment later, Damian pushes through the frosted glass, wiping his hands on a rag.
“You want a beer?” Wyatt asks me, heading into the staff area and tugging open the fridge.
“Sure,” I say, following them into the back. I take the bottle he hands me and sink onto the couch. He doesn’t offer one toDamian, I notice. Damian grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with water, then he settles beside me.
“So when are we gonna find out more about you, Max?” he asks. He turns to Wyatt. “You learn anything today?”
“Wouldn’t tell you if I had.” Wyatt winks at me. “Why don’t you start by asking how her day was?”
“Hey.” Damian leans back, shrugs. “I’m just curious about where the magical girl originated from. Pretty normal, under the circumstances, I should think.”
Wyatt shoots him a look. “Leave her be, D. She’ll talk when she’s ready.”
“You know Ryder’s just gonna ask her the same thing when we get there,” he retorts.
