Page 7 of Hellbent
“Enough,” Ryder says, pushing the door open. A bell jingles overhead.
Inside, it smells like new rubber and gasoline. Concrete floors, shelves of auto supplies. An open laptop sits on the back counter beside a stool. Wyatt leans against the counter, arms crossed, while Damian lounges against a glass display case, watching us enter with his usual easy amusement.
“Morning, boys,” Ryder greets them. They nod back.
“How’s it goin’, Max?” Damian drawls, hazel eyes skating over my bare legs in an echo of the way Ryder looked at me earlier.
“Good,” I say, a hint of warmth creeping up my neck. “Hi.”
He gives me a slow smile that makes my cheeks prickle, and I look away, feigning interest in my surroundings.
“You’ll be working with these assholes,” Ryder says, a hint of affection in his tone. “Wyatt will get you sorted.”
I nod.
When Ryder leaves, Wyatt steps around the counter and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s find you something warmer to wear.”
I follow him to the back of the shop. Tucked behind the work area is a staff lounge, informal and lived-in.
A small kitchen lines one wall, its dark countertops and mismatched cabinets looking like they’ve been salvaged from different decades. A dented fridge hums in the corner, covered in faded stickers and old job invoices stuck under magnets. There’s a well-used coffeemaker and a sink cluttered with a few abandoned mugs. Through an open door, I see a bathroom with a shower stall—good to know.
A worn plaid couch and two mismatched chairs face a TV mounted to the wall, and along the far wall is a row of battered metal lockers, dented from years of use.
Wyatt moves toward a locker, pulling it open. “We keep extra uniforms back here. Don’t think we’ve got your size, but…” He pulls out a pair of navy coveralls and holds them up by the shoulder, examining them critically. “Best we can do,” he says as he hands them to me.
I take them, running my fingers over theLeatherneckspatch stitched onto the front. The fabric is thick and sturdy.
“Better than freezing your ass off in that dress,” he adds, arching his eyebrow.
I can’t argue with that. I unzip the coveralls and step into them, pulling them up over my dress. I roll up the sleeves and pant legs, but they still hang loose, swallowing me whole. Compared to my dress, though, it feels like armor. Like a blanket. I exhale, feeling more at ease already.
Wyatt jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re crashing.”
I follow him past a utility closet to a closed door. He pushes it open, flipping on a harsh overhead light.
It’s a small storage room. Metal shelves line one wall, stacked with old boxes and spare parts. In the center is a mattress mounted on milk crates, low to the ground, with a folded blanket and a flat pillow on top.
“It’s not much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s yours as long as you need it.”
I step inside and touch the blanket.
“The door doesn’t lock,” he adds. “But no one’s gonna bother you here. We lock the shop at night and I live upstairs.”
“I love it,” I say with a grateful smile, and he gives me a curious look.
“I guess you’re easy to please.”
He pulls a cardboard box down from a shelf, rummaging until he finds a pair of packaged socks. They’re white witha green-and-red motor oil logo, and they might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My feet have been cold for days.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging them to my chest.
He studies me. “How did you get here, anyway? Somebody drop you off?”
“No.” I shake my head. I’m not sure how much of my story to share yet, or how much I want to, so I stick to the facts. “I…walked.”
“Walked?” His eyebrows shoot up. He leans back against a shelf, crossing his arms over his chest. “Walked from where?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I came through the woods.”
