Page 12 of Hellbent
“What is it?”
Foolishly, my mind jumps to something official. Some kind of notice, a letter telling me my time is up. A demand to vacate the premises.
Wyatt shoots me a look. “It’s your pay.” His tone is gruff, but not unkind. More like,What the hell else would it be?
“My pay?”
It never even occurred to me that I’d be paid for my work here. Just having a safe place to stay and three meals a day felt like enough. An unbelievable privilege.
I stare at the envelope, my hands frozen at my sides, until the bell over the front door jingles.
Damian strides in, already in his navy Leathernecks coveralls, his swagger effortless. He looks like trouble as usual—hazel eyes sharp with mischief, that lock of jet-black hair falling across his face. He meets my gaze, and there’s a flicker of something in it, something playful and knowing.
And I notice him.
Ireallynotice him.
Guilt slams into me immediately, stupid and unnecessary. I don’t owe Jake anything. I don’t owe anyone anything.
I’m free now. I can look at any man I want.
“Payday,” Damian says, flashing a dazzling white smile as he reaches past me to grab his envelope. He smells fresh, clean, sharp with a subtle fragrance, and warmth flushes over my skin.
I shake it off, refocus.
Payday.
I have never in my life had money of my own.
“I didn’t write you a check because I don’t know your last name,” Wyatt is saying from the sink, rinsing out his coffee mug. “Figured you wouldn’t mind being paid under the table, anyway.”
I shake my head. I wouldn’t be able to cash a check. I don’t have a bank account.
“It’s Finch,” I say, my throat dry. “My last name. It’s Finch.”
A beat of silence.
“Maxwell Finch,” Damian repeats, testing it out. His lips curl into something wicked. “Great. Now we can creep your social media.”
I let out a weak laugh, finally picking up the envelope and shoving it into my pocket.
I don’t have social media.
I don’t have a past that exists anywhere normal people can find. But it’s looking more and more like I have a future.
It’s quiet in the shop all day, but my mind is restless. Every so often, I reach into my pocket just to feel the envelope, reassuring myself it’s real. I still haven’t opened it. It doesn’t matter how much is in there. Any amount will feel like a fortune to me.
I spend most of the day thinking about what to buy, and all I can think about is food.
I don’t know how to cook. In the clubhouse, meals were scavenged, stolen, or ordered in bulk. Sometimes Billy would splurge on a massive takeout order, other times the guys would throw together a barbecue. But food had never been important to me—it was just there, something to grab between fights, parties, and sleep.
Here, it’s different. Meals are structured, shared, and even though I haven’t had to lift a finger to contribute, I want to. The first thing I want to do with the money in my pocket is pitch in.
The second thing? Clothes.
I’ve been living in my Leathernecks coveralls. The little black dress I arrived in is crumpled in the corner of my makeshift bedroom, abandoned like the past I ran from. While I’ve been able to shower every morning in the shop bathroom, I need clean clothes.
I’m Googling “How to cook dinner” when the bell over the front door jingles.
