Page 16 of Wraith
“Thisisyour home now,” he says, his voice impossibly raspy and rough, like gravel, but there is an undeniable softness in the undertone. “Don’t worry. Abby will act like a big stretched out roadblock between us. I would never—”
“I know,” I assure him quickly, my face on fire. “I… you’re very kind. I trust you.”
He clears his throat roughly. “Kind is something that not many people accuse me of being.”
“Maybe that’s because they don’t really know you.” I duck my head when I realize how stupid that sounds, because I’ve known him for all of a few hours.
He doesn’t call me an idiot or make me feel that way though. Instead, he coughs roughly again. “Gonna take a shower too. Make yourself comfortable.”
I nod slowly and watch him retreat to the door, his big boots eating up the distance until he brushes past me as I dodge quickly out of the way. He pauses and this time, when he speaks, only a few feet behind me, his voice is rich and thick with humor.
“In the morning, let’s seriously burn these clothes. I’ve never had to wear something so uncomfortable in my entire fucking life.”
“Me too,” I whisper, but his big steps are already retreating down the hall.
Chapter 9
Wraith
Idon’t sleep. Big surprise.
I lie awake for the remainder of the night, my arms crossed beneath my head, staring up at the ceiling. I’m used to it—the wakeful hours between dusk and dawn. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve learned to go without sleep. It was a necessity when I was younger. As a grown man, safe in his own house, it might be ridiculous, but I’ve trained myself into it and never really cared about being untrained.
I listen to Abby’s gentle dog snores. The love I feel for her is irrational. It goes beyond master and dog. To some people, she might just be an animal, but to me, from the minute I saw her, her leash in Steel’s big hand, a reluctant smile spreading over his face when he entrusted her care to me, it was like we were two souls meeting.
Two survivors.
She’s known unspeakable cruelty in her life. For years she was chained up and beaten by her master. Left without food or water or shelter from the unrelenting Florida heat. She was at his mercy. He might have crushed her body with his fists and his boots, but he never broke her spirit. The way she looks at me, has looked at me from the first, with those big, soft brown eyes, unraveled the pain I kept carefully knitted up in my own broken soul.
I’d never admit it to anyone, but that night I first took Abby home and she cowered away from me, but then, after hours of coaxing her to eat, she licked my fingers, I cried like a fucking baby. She came to me, a sobbing mess on the damn floor, and curled softly into my arms, let me bathe her fur with my tears.
It was the first time I remember crying. Ever. Life had been cruel to her, but still, she had a tender heart. She still does. She’s the sweetest soul on the planet. So no, she’s not just my dog. She’s my inspiration. Those nights when the longing for my old life, the freedom and the excess, the whisky soaked nights that obliterated the pain inside of my head and the coke that blew it out of my veins and gave me the invincibility and power I’d always craved, through those long nights I’d stare at Abby sleeping and it gave me the courage I damn well needed just to crawl through another day sober. If she could live through the pain and still be so trusting and loving, then maybe I could get through it, grow a set of balls, and face the world with the scraps of my shattered soul gathered in my hands with just enough coherence to keep me moving forward.
The shower the night before was delicious. Probably one of the best I’ve had in ages. Seeing my fancy clothes strewn in a heap on the bathroom floor next to Leena’s ruined dress was one of the most satisfying things I’ve witnessed in a long time.
When I came back to the bedroom, Leena was already asleep, the covers pulled up to her chin like a shield to ward off the terrors of the night. She was obviously exhausted from a sleepless night before, probablynightswithout sleep.
I slipped in beside her, hoping to find a semblance of peace. Instead, I listened to her gentle breaths and Abby’s soft snores.
When the first gray light of dawn creeps beneath the edges of the dark curtains at the windows, I debate about getting up. Working out. Going to the tiny room upstairs and trying to untangle the terrifying ball of shit lodged firmly in my chest, but I realize I’d just sit there, twirling a brush endlessly between my fingertips, and I decide to save myself the frustration.
Even before the earth shakes outside, that low rumble that always fires my blood with adrenaline stronger than any drug ever could—and I’ve tried a fuckload of them over the years—I sense it. The sound surges through me, imagined at first, but it grows louder, closer, a dull steady roar that my heart echoes with every beat.
Bikes.
Two of them.
The hair on my nape stands on end and I swivel my hand a fraction, resting it gently on Abby’s head so that she knows she’s safe and doesn’t stir. She’s grown used to the throaty roar over the years with me. That sound is steeped in both of us, entrenched in our blood and hearts.
I throw back the blankets before the rumble has a chance to reach my street. Peeling off my shirt and dumping it on the floor, I stalk to the dresser at the far side of the room, ready to pull out another. My leather jacket with the Steel Riders patch is hung with care over the only chair in the room, an upholstered fancy flowery thing that I picked out because it was black and white and matched the black fucking curtains.
That jacket is the proudest thing I’ve ever worn in my life.
My old club, my old jacket, it was nothing compared to the pride I feel when I ride with The Riders. Even if I’m a smart-ass and I don’t generally let them know it, they’re the first real family I ever had. Edge and Steel aren’t exactly father figures, being less than a decade older than I am, but they’re something. Something like older brothers. They started the MC, designed it for guys who had no other place to go. They wanted it to be a family. Guys who actually give a shit about each other. They would never admit it, but the club is a place people can go to find a shade of healing for all the broken parts inside of them. Shit that won’t ever be right, but the club is that thread holding it all together.
So yeah.
I would rather die than dishonor that jacket.
