Page 67 of Hellbent
Wyatt has been a hugely anchoring presence to me here. He’s the one who gave me a place to sleep, a job—a home. Protected me. And now I can’t imagine what he thinks of me after what he saw.
I don’t get up again until I hear Damian show up for work. The bell rings over the shop door followed by the low sound of men’s voices in the garage. I wonder how they’re handling things. It’s different with Damian. Wyatt’s furious with him, too, I’m sure. But Damian is his peer and his friend. I’m something closer to a daughter.
The thought makes fresh shame wash over me.
I get up and drag my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a low ponytail. Slip on my coveralls. Take a deep breath.
Then I walk over to the garage and feel it immediately—an energy shift so sharp it makes my stomach clench. The air is icicles. Tension wraps around my ribs like barbed wire.
Wyatt is at the hood of the Fastback, hands braced on either side, his head bent like he’s trying to rein something in. His forearms flex as he grips the metal, knuckles pale, the tendons in his hands tight as cables. He’s a storm in a man’s body, his fingers digging into the car like it’s the only thing stopping him from breaking something. He’s clearly aware that I’ve walked in, but he doesn’t look up.
It’s a relief to see Damian leaning against the workbench with a clipboard in his hands—to not be alone with the tension emanating from Wyatt. I give him a tight smile that’s more like a grimace and he winks, making a little flutter of warmth spread through my chest.
There’s a thud and a clang, as Wyatt twists something too hard, making his wrench slip. “Ah, for fuck’s sake!” he spits out in frustration. Damian widens his eyes at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile, and he stage-whispers, “Dad’s mad.”
I press my lips together, grateful for the levity, but down in the bay, Wyatt snaps.
He slams the hood of the Fastback down with a violence that makes me flinch, and turns on Damian, eyes flashing. “You think this is funny?”
The teasing edge in Damian’s expression hardens and he turns to Wyatt, his smile dropping like a switch flipped. “Oh c’mon, old man,” he bites out. “Enough with the moral fucking outrage. Storming around here like we killed your goddamn dog. You a fucking saint? You never fucked anyone before? Sorry if you’re jealous, man, but she made her choice.”
And then Wyatt explodes. He kicks the tool cart beside him, knocking it over and sending sockets scattering, and storms toward us so suddenly I instinctively step back. The air snaps with electricity.
“Are you a goddamn child?” he bellows at Damian, blue eyes fierce with rage, muscles coiled so tightly I think he might hit him.
Damian’s face gets steely and cold. The energy between them is a hair trigger.
“You have a house, Damian. A job history. Identification. A fucking safety net.” He jabs a finger toward me, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “She doesn’t. You think Ryder won’t kick her out? You think I won’t? What’s going to happen to your little fuck toy when she’s got nowhere else to go?”
I reel back like he actually slapped me. My breath stalls, my skin goes hot, shock flaring through me.
Damian clocks my reaction instantly. His shoulders set and he steps forward toward Wyatt, planting himself between us.
“You need to calm the fuck down.” He speaks in a hard, authoritative voice I’m not used to hearing from him. A Navy SEAL’s voice. The kind that commands men under fire.
Wyatt doesn’t move. His jaw clenches, muscles in his forearms flexing, like he’s fighting the instinct to lash out again.
Damian doesn’t give him the chance.
“You made your point,” he says, measured but sharp. “You’re fucking mad. We get it.”
Wyatt exhales through his nose, fists clenching, then releasing. Then he shakes his head dismissively. Like he just can’t deal with this.
The moment breaks.
Damian tips his head toward the Chevy. “C’mon, Finch. You can help me today.”
Wyatt turns away, and I let Damian pull me down into the bay.
The morning is hell.
No one speaks.
The silence is uncomfortably loaded, broken only by the occasional clatter of tools, the whir of a drill, the scrape of metal on metal.
I sit on the floor beside the Chevy while Damian’s half under it, waiting for him to pass me parts for cleaning, and time crawls.
Then, finally, at eleven o’clock, Wyatt breaks the silence. He walks through the bay, shrugging on his jacket, and stops just long enough to point at me.
