REV
The grinder screamsin my hands as I lean into the weld harder than I need to, sparks scattering across the concrete while the frame clamps rattle under the pressure. My forearms burn and sweat runs down my back under the lights, and I welcome the bite of it because I’d rather feel that than think.
The bay stays loud and busy around me, engines half torn apart, tools scattered where someone dropped them, and a busted rock playlist rattling through the speakers in the corner. Blade works in the next bay, torque wrench clicking steady and controlled like everything he does, while Switch argues with one of the prospects about carb settings. The whole shop moves and hums the way it always does, men keeping their hands busy so their heads don’t get too loud.
I should fit right into that. Except she keeps sliding in. Brooke. Princess. MY PRINCESS. Fuck. I can’t think of her like that. But all I see are those baby blue eyes and calm little smile like she’s always got her footing even when the ground’s shifting beneath her.
I haven’t heard from her since I left her house over a week ago, and that’s fine. That’s exactly how it should be. We’re friends, adjacent, tied together by family and convenience and nothing that needs pushing or poking at, and I’m not touching whatever sits under the surface of that.
I drag the grinder back across the seam with my jaw tight, pretending the vibration in my hands is doing anything to drown her out, but all I see is the way she looked when I walked out her door and all I hear is the way she said my name like it meant something instead of just being a sound. I shouldn’t want that.
I lift the grinder to reset my angle and it skips just enough for the edge to bite into the side of my knuckle. I feel it before I see it. Heat, sting, and then blood rolling fast down my hand. “Fuck,” I bark, jerking back as the grinder clatters onto the bench.
My heart slams into my ribs and adrenaline hits hard and fast while I squeeze my hand, cursing under my breath as red drips onto the concrete. That was Stupid. Sloppy. Not me.
“Jesus, Rev,” Switch says, already closing the distance. “You good?”
Lucky’s right behind him, eyes narrowing. “Man, you’re bleeding.”
“I fucking know,” I snap as blood slides between my fingers.
Switch grabs a rag off the bench and reaches for my hand. “Let me see it.”
I pull back from him and glare. “I’m fine.”
Lucky tilts his head, studying me. “You don’t usually bite people’s heads off, brother. What’s going on with you?”
I slam the rag down harder than necessary. “Just drop it, Luck. I’m not in the mood for your psychobabble bullshit.”
Switch exhales slowly and lifts his hands. “Alright. Easy man, we’re just trying to help.”
But the pressure’s already built now, in my shoulders, in my jaw, and in the back of my skull where everything I’ve been shoving down all week keeps stacking up. I rip my gloves off and toss them onto the bench. “I need some air.” Before either of them can answer, I turn and head for the back door, boots heavy on concrete, irritation buzzing under my skin as the door bangs shut behind me.
Outside, I dig a smoke out of my pocket with my good hand, jam it between my lips, and flick the lighter before taking a long pull and letting it settle. My knuckle throbs under the rag. God fucking damnit, my head feels like a mess. This isn’t me. I’m usually the easy one, the guy cracking jokes, the one keeping things light when everyone else gets serious and shrugging things off when they get heavy. Right now I feel like snapping at anyone who gets too close, and that alone pisses me off.
I lean back against the wall and stare out at the lot, taking another drag that does nothing to bleed off the edge sitting in my chest. I shouldn’t be this twisted up over a woman I’m not even supposed to want, and yet my brain keeps circling the same damn name whether I like it or not. Brooke. Princess. The way she looked at me when I left. The quiet in her voice like she didn’t quite want me to go. Then there’s the fact that she hasn’t called or texted me once since then. It’s what I wanted, so why does it feel like something’s crawling under my skin?
The back door creaks open behind me, and I don’t turn because Switch and Lucky know better than to push me right now and Blade wouldn’t even bother. The footsteps crossing the concrete are slower, lighter. “Sit,” Bri says.
I glance over my shoulder and see the first aid kit tucked under her arm and that look on her face that means this isn’t a request.
Yeah. They absolutely sent her for me. I grind the cigarette out under my boot and drop into one of the beat-up metal chairs we keep out back while Bri drags another chair over and parks herself in front of me like she owns the space.
“Hand,” she says, snapping the kit open.
I give it to her without argument.
She wipes away the blood with a baby wipe and checks the cut, head tilted. “You’re gonna live,” she announces. “Tragic, I know.”
“Damn,” I mutter. “I had other plans.”
She snorts and starts cleaning it. “Switch said you almost took your finger off.”
“Switch exaggerates.”
“He once told me a paper cut was a near-death experience.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
