White-hot rage floods my chest. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know. I called the cops when I was seventeen. They arrested him, but nothing ever came of it." She presses her face against my chest. "Haven't seen them since."
"Good. If I ever see either of them, I'll make sure they pay.”
She doesn't ask what I mean. She knows.
We lie like that for what feels like hours, my hand stroking her back in lazy circles as she drifts toward sleep. But my mind races. This obsession I have with her—it's humbling. Terrifying.
"You're safe, angel," I whisper into her hair, even as she sleeps. "No one will touch you. Not while I'm still breathing.”
Chapter 6
Cami
I hear the roar of Wrath's bike in my mind as my pencil glides over the rough paper sketching every line, every curve—I've memorized how the chrome catches the afternoon light, the way the paint job sparkles at a certain angle. There’s something so raw about the way a biker mounts his machine, but I still can't quite capture the power of man and metal fused together. I've been sketching motorcycles obsessively, trying to capture the aggressive grace of these mechanical beasts and the men who ride them.
"You done eye-fucking the Harleys, or you want some privacy?"
I press so hard the pencil point snaps off.
Jigsaw grins as he examines the V-twin he’s working on. "Relax. He's not back yet."
"I wasn't—" Heat floods my face. "I'm just drawing."
"Sure you are." He wipes grease on a rag that's seen better decades. “Grab that socket wrench. And give me a hand with this.”
I pass him the tool, grateful for the distraction. Hanging out in the garage has become my refuge. Alongside my sketching,Jigsaw's been teaching me mechanics. The man is a saint. He’s patient in a way no one's ever been with me before.
I'm helping him rebuild the engine on one of Diesel's Harleys, or rather, I'm handing him tools and trying not to mess up anything important. What started as casual observation—me sketching while he worked—turned into him patiently explaining the intricacies of motorcycle mechanics while I absorbed every detail.
"You've got good hands for this," he continues, watching me carefully position the part he indicated. "Steady. Assertive.”
"It's a lot like drawing," I say, surprised by my own confidence. "You have to see how all the pieces fit together before you can make it work."
"Exactly." His approval warms me. "That's why you’re good at this—you see the art in it."
Art. Somehow that comparison makes perfect sense. There's beauty in the way these machines are constructed, elegance in the relationship between form and function.
I’ve only been here a few days, but these dangerous men have made room for me at their table without asking for anything in return except my presence. Lizzie has taken me under her wing like the mother I never had. Trix includes me in the easy camaraderie between the old ladies. Even the newer prospects like Tiny have started greeting me with genuine warmth.
For the first time in my adult life, I'm not just surviving—I'm living.
"Can I see that drawing from yesterday? The one of Wrath's bike?"
My sketchbook sits on the workbench, the edges of some of the pages warped from constant use. I retrieve it, flip to the drawing he means. It's one of my better pieces—every chrome accent and custom modification rendered in precise detail.
Jigsaw studies the page. His eyes track every line with the focus of someone who understands what he's seeing. "Jesus, Cami..." He tilts the page to catch better light. "Twenty years I've been building bikes, and you make me see this machine in a way I never have. Like it's alive."
My throat closes. I duck my head, blinking fast.
"You could sell these." He says it like a fact, not a compliment. "Custom motorcycle art? There's a market for quality work like this. Guys treat their bikes like family."
“Sell them? For real money? You think?—"
"I know your first customer." He's already pulling out his phone. "My buddy Spike in Phoenix just dropped fifteen grand on a custom paint job. Bet he’d love to find an artist to do a technical drawing for his shop wall. Show off all the detail work."
Artist? He called me an artist.
