Page 105 of That Girl is Trouble

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.” His voice is low as he homes in on my neck. His nostrils flare, and his grip on the steering wheel stiffens again. Another deep breath huffs from his mouth. Then he reaches over and wraps his hand around the ring that hangs from my neck. With a quick tug, he rips it from my body, then tosses it into the cupholder and focuses back on the road.

“Axe—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. He takes another breath. “Just… don’t, Kat. All right? I need a second. I need quiet.”

I swallow. I don’t do quiet. Especially not this kind. When it’s heavy and angry and there’s still a fucking loaded gun in my hand. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and fiddle with the seat belt I haven’t bothered to put on.

Axe sighs and clicks on the radio. The low hum of some song I don’t know immediately soothes me. I pull my seat belt across my body and strap it into place. Finally, Axe’s shoulders relax, and he steadies his hand on mine, the one still wrapped tight around the gun. He keeps it there, and we’re quiet the rest of the drive to the clubhouse.

I only realize how cold it’s gotten when I jump out of the truck. My coat is still at Rossi’s mansion, and I’m in nothing but my work attire. Even though all the important bits are covered, I’ve never felt more naked. You are a whore, Katherine. An ungrateful one. I wrap my arms around my stomach in an effort to cover my skin.

“Here,” Axe murmurs.

He drapes his leather jacket around my shoulders and pulls me in closer, gripping the leather hard like he did the steering wheel. Though we’re still a foot apart, the heat of his body warms me, and I shift another step closer, seeking his comfort, though I’m careful not to touch him.

“Where did he hurt you?” he asks. He scans my face, stopping on my cheek, where a dull pain has started to throb. The fury flashing in his eyes tells me that there’s already a mark. He lightly rubs his thumb over the spot, as if trying to remove a stain. When his gaze meets mine, there’s more of that anger, and he takes a step back.

“Go to bed, Kat. My bed,” he adds. And then he turns on his heel and heads across the parking lot and into the garage.

Gun in hand, bag draped over my shoulder, swimming in a leather jacket that isn’t mine, I shuffle through the back entrance of the clubhouse and make my way into Axe’s apartment. I relieve the gun of its bullets and drop it back into my bag, then rummage through Axe’s drawers for something to wear. I settle on a faded Denver Broncos T-shirt in place of my corset and then head up to Graves’s room to see if my sister’s left anything I can wear instead of this damn skirt. I luck out and locate a stash of leggings, clean and folded in a plastic laundry bin.

The throb in my cheek gets stronger, so I check out my face in the bathroom mirror. It doesn’t look all that bad now, but once I scrub all this makeup off, there’ll be a definite purplish tinge. I’ve had worse.

And I would have had much worse had Axe not shown up.

I should have known better. I did know better. But much like my inability to find answers to the questions I’m always asking myself—why I’m in Eden Hills instead of South Bay; why I refuse to let my sister into my life; why I can’t sate this need for a thrill, even when it gets me into trouble, even when it gets other people into trouble—I can’t quite put it together. Why I did what I did tonight.

Axe was right. Vic Rossi is dangerous. I knew it the second I stepped foot in that house. Maybe he’s even more dangerous than Axe let on. They know each other. Between Axe’s fists and Rossi’s gun, there was a familiarity of sorts, and I need to understand that. I need to know more about the man I almost killed tonight.

I pull on a pair of my sister’s sneakers and head to the garage.

The door’s unlocked. Inside, it’s quiet and seemingly empty. I look around for a beat, and just as I’m about to go search elsewhere, I hear a low grunt followed by the clink of a chain. Searching the room, I notice a light lining the far door that leads to the gym.

Slowly, I push open the door and descend the stairs. The Sinner gym is mostly shades of grey—concrete walls, faded mats covering most of the floor, weights, equipment, a large boxing ring towards the back, and at the centre, punching bags.

Axe pummels his fists into one of the bags, a loud breath huffing from his lips with each hit. He’s shirtless, jeans hanging low on his hips. The hard muscles of his abdomen flex every time he moves. Sweat drips down his chest and back, and his face remains doggedly focused as he throws fist after fist. Then there’s a shift in the way he stands. A hesitation. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he clenches his jaw and lets loose a barrage of attacks that has the bag swaying.

“You pretending that’s me?” I ask.

He pauses, finally looking up from the bag. “What?”

I twist my fingers. “Jesse… he said—he told me once that sometimes he’d pretend it was me. When he punched things. So that he wouldn’t accidentally punch me instead.”

He shakes his head and slams his fist into the bag again. Then again.

I can’t help but flinch with every hit.

“Jesse’s father beat the shit out of him. The three foster dads he had after beat the shit out of him. He punched things because that’s all he knew how to do.”

“I know,” I say, chin tucked, eyes on the floor.

“I don’t need to fantasize about hitting you to not hurt you, Kat. Give me some fucking credit.” He slams his hand into the bag, grunting with each punch.

“Are you sure? Because it looks like—”

“I told you to go to bed.”

“I know what you told me.”

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