What I didn’t tell Brock was that no matter how his conversation with Lane and Cole went, he’d get to go home at some point, see his girlfriend, and rail the shit out of her. And then…well, they’d say they loved each other and stuff, which I guessed was kind of a big deal.
I didn’t deserve love, anyway. No matter…no matter what I may have privately wanted, private even from my own conscious thoughts, I couldn’t have it. I was honestly happy everyone was getting their moment in the sun—minus maybe Garrett, though at least he was turning out to be a better brother-in-law than I expected.
But I sure as shit didn’t deserve it.
After all, I’d been the one who had first had the opportunity to stop all of this shit. I’d been the one who could have prevented Black Reapers and Bandits and other fucking nonsense from ever happening.
And instead, not only did I not prevent it, I actually made life harder for everyone.
“I’m so fucking tired,” I said.
I wasn’t talking about the lack of sleep. At least no one was nearby to hear me bitch and moan about that stupid shit.
Connor came outside just as I stood up from the table.
“Open up the repair shop?”
I nodded. There was no one I would have rather had working with me today than Connor. That man could probably go six months without saying a fucking word other than “fuck” or “fight.” I loved having him by my side because he was the best fighter in the club and he wasn’t going to ask you stupid fucking questions like if you wanted to take a shot or if he had a chance to get back an ex or some other fucking nonsense that I was just so jaded to.
He and I trudged under the overhead sun, unencumbered by any clouds or fog, beating down on top of our bodies. With the Black Reapers cuts on, it was easy to sweat, even in December, but we never fucking dared remove our cuts on the job. You might as well have asked us to castrate ourselves.
Connor went inside to take care of some things. I stayed outside to open the garage door and make sure that anyone who pulled up had a clear place to park.
And luckily, as if on cue, a much older car—it looked like something from the early 2000s, maybe even a late 90s model—pulled up. It was a Honda, so the beast had to have miles on it. Inside was a woman, but I didn’t see anything about her that made her special.
I stood in place, waiting for the woman to get out of the car and explain what she needed. With any luck, she’d just need an oil change and a tire rotation—I didn’t much feel like going into an extensive project.
But she remained in the car for what felt like an eternity, almost like she was waiting for someone to come out.
“Connor!” I shouted. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” I heard back.
I shrugged and looked at the woman. Through the windshield, she looked at me. Her eyes looked…haunted.
Yet determined.
Not that I usually read people based on their eyes, but there was something both very chilling and beautiful about how she looked at me. Of course, I wasn’t so crass as to try and pick up a woman while on the job—not that some of us didn’t try that method—but I’d never seen a girl look at me like this before.
It wasn’t quite lust, but it definitely wasn’t just casual observation, either. Describing it fell a bit outside my abilities—or, at least, my willingness to feel what she was trying to send my way.
Finally, she got out of the car. She moved slowly yet gracefully, and she had long brown hair. Her face had some subtle, early creases, but everything else about her looked beautiful. She looked like someone who had gone through some sort of hell but was still standing.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice was a little shaky, but I could sense the determination behind it.
“Hi, how can I help?” I said, doing my best to sound courteous.
“I…I need an oil change. Can you guys do that?”
Oh, thank God.
“Yes, we can, we—”
“Wait.”
Connor?
