Page 3 of Wrecked By Rev

He’s Sons of Ruin. The mechanic. Jonah used to mention him—the guy who was always in the garage, quiet and intense, the one you went to when something needed fixing and you didn’t want to explain why. He does side jobs for cash. Not advertised, just word of mouth. I heard about it through my brother, back when my brother was still alive.

Back when I could stomach being around the club at all.

I haven’t been to the Sons clubhouse since Jonah’s funeral. Haven’t talked to any of the brothers. Haven’t even let myself hear a Harley engine without flinching. Five years of carefully constructed distance, because every time I saw that patch—the Sons of Ruin reaper grinning from a leather cut—all I could think about was my brother’s casket.

Blown tyre on the highway. Dead before the ambulance arrived.

The club sent flowers. Sent brothers to stand in the back of the church. Sent food and condolences and offers of help I couldn’t accept because accepting would mean staying around the club, and I couldn’t bear it. I had to get out of their circle andbe around something that didn’t smell like engine oil and leather and loss.

And now I’m thinking about walking back in.

I sit in my parking spot for ten minutes, keys in my lap, trying to talk myself out of it.

There has to be another way. Hire a private investigator. Move to a different city. Buy a gun and learn how to use it.

But I know Niall. He’s not going to stop because I changed my locks or learned self-defense. He’s going to stop when he sees something that scares him more than losing me does.

A patched biker might do that.

Before I can overthink it any further, I start the car.

Rev works out of a garage on the east side of town. I remember the address from Jonah—he got his bike serviced there, used to drag me along sometimes when he needed a ride home while his Harley was in pieces. I’d sit on a folding chair in the corner and watch him talk shop with the other guys, pretending to be annoyed but secretly loving that he wanted me there. That was Jonah. Always wanted me close, even when I had nothing to contribute to the conversation.

I haven’t been back since. But the route is still burned into my memory, like a scar that won’t fade.

The closer I get, the harder it is to breathe.

The garage looks the same. A little more weathered, maybe. The paint peeling in a few new places. Same hand-painted sign, same row of bikes parked outside, chrome catching the afternoon sun, and the same smell of grease and metal that hits me the second I open my car door.

The smell is the worst part. It brings back everything—the cookouts, the parties, the way Jonah used to smell after a long ride. Like freedom, he’d say. Like the road.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I almost turn around three times.

But I think about the note on my windshield. About Pete asking if we’re dating. About four more months of this, or four years, or however long it takes for Niall to get bored or for me to fall apart completely.

I walk inside.

The garage is dim after the afternoon sun. It takes my eyes a second to adjust. And then I see him.

Rev.

He’s bigger than I remember. Broader through the shoulders, arms thick with muscle and ink, hands covered in grease. Dark hair kept short, stubble along his jaw. He’s bent over an engine, focused, and when he hears my footsteps, he straightens up and turns.

His eyes find mine.

Something shifts in his face. Recognition, but more than that. Something I can’t read.

“Angel.”

He says my name as if he’s been waiting to say it. Like it means something.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I open my mouth to explain why I’m here. The words catch somewhere between my brain and my tongue. The cut on his chest keeps pulling my eyes—that same reaper, grinning up at me. Jonah’s patch. Jonah’s club. Jonah’s brothers.

I can’t do this.