Page 10 of Torqued Off

“Understood…thought…no…I’m…compromised…head…straight…promise…yes….I’ll…back…she’s…and…safe.” There’s a long pause. “Don’t…help…got…but…I’d…to… when…locate…Deacon.”

My stomach plummets inside of me and I have to lean back against the counter.

Deacon? As in Deacon Rainier? My ex? Not many people named Deacon and if all of this is about me, then it’s got to be him.

I always knew I was taking a chance running away from him three years ago. He was the epitome of power-suit stud. But I soon I found out he was a no-power dud. He was the trash panda in the company—which was really more of a mob—trying to climb his way up the criminal ladder. But that was three years ago, and things change. I heard through the underground grapevine that he’s turned into king of the whole morally corrupt empire. I guarantee he has enough problems.

But what would he want with me?

Sure, I took a little cash from the till when I left. I needed seed money to start over. Anyone would have done it. And considering there were piles upon piles upon piles…the twenty grand I took was probably less than .001%. There was ten million or more in those chests that were being shipped to only God knows where.

I also took the bike…but that was a gift.

I didn’t know what the whole set up was really doing. I barely knew there was money passing through the warehouse that he said was for shipping custom plastics. That was their cover. Wasn’t hard to see the bound stacks of money inside of those plastic bins. So I slipped a couple out and into my hands. And it’s kept me afloat for two years with working odd jobs, like babysitting and walking dogs. I have a crappy apartment, not unlike this one, on the other side of town, but it's mine. A bed, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. It’s all I really need.

And I definitely don’t need Deacon Rainer.As much as he promised I wouldn’t be able to make it without him, I’ve done it. I’ve been living a quiet and “normal”—if there is such a thing—life.

But you do look over your shoulder…a lot.

It’s just a habit, not that I think I’m in danger.

But you are…

“Okay…report…soon,” Thane’s voice trails off and pulls me from my thoughts. He rounds the corner. “You found some supplies.”

“Enough to help. Sit,” I say and point at the same time. “I’ll take care of it.” I try to be all business.

Caution is now warranted. I thought I was feeling something before, but I just can’t. I need to keep my head on straight and not let the thing between my legs do the talking.

He reaches back and pulls the t-shirt over his head and I swear my pussy starts to cry. The man is muscle and tanned skin…and tattoos. All the beautiful ones. Nothing is bold. Nothing is brash. It’s a soft mélange of color and black. There’s a rose. There’s a star morphing into a representation of the cosmos done in watercolor. He turns and sits backwards on a chair, his arms on the back and his back to me. And then there’s the half human, half devil smack middle of his back.

Wonder if that was there before or after the Guardians?

The Red Lipstick Crew MC doesn’t give their members new names. If someone wanted to be called something else, we would call them that. A name is a personal choice, but the Guardians force a name onto a member. They take a part of their persona or past and make that their club name. I think some of the members like it to forget their pasts, but I think some of them find it almost disturbing to be renamed.

I would.

And maybe Thane doesn’t like his since he told me his real name.

Thane Alexander.

It’s almost poetic…and vulnerable. It’s strong and classic, and yet a little updated.

He clears his throat and I snap out of staring at the tattoo and start in on the damaged area.

“What happened back here?” I ask as I start to clean the area.

“Long story…” he mutters.

“Not like we have anywhere to go.”

And then he tells me what friendly fire can do to a person. How trust crumbles for anything and anyone. Being shot in your back by someone you thought had your back. Just one on the lists of ultimate sacrifices that our military make.

“That had to be devastating. He took away your career.”

Thane says nothing. What is there to say?

I continue, “My father was Air Force, and I was the stereotypical brat that you hear about. Moving constantly meant few friends and even fewer cares. I hated every time my father would say ‘We need to talk’.” I work gently on his back while releasing twenty-four years of memories. I reach over and grab the scissors cutting off strips of tape. “It only meant he would talk, I would listen, and there was no arguing. He ran his house like he ran his squadron. Even my mother hated it, but she loved the man behind the rank.”

---