Diesel (Untamed Sons MC: Birmingham Chapter #4)

Chapter 1 Diesel

ONE

DIESEL

PAST…

The air hums with tension. It sits heavily around me like weights on my shoulders. My movements are small, purposeful, and I keep my distance from Michael who is standing at the counter, slurping back a cup of coffee, his focus glued to the small TV in the corner.

I hate the way my chest clenches, how small I feel. I’m not big enough to hit back. Not yet.

“Can you believe this shit?” His voice is loud. Everything he does is loud.

I lower my gaze, focusing on the dishes in the sink and the way the soapy water feels on my hands. I breathe slowly, calm and steady.

“That’s your future, Zane,” he continues, like he’s doing me a favour pointing this out, “if you don’t get yourself together, you’ll end up in jail before you hit your teens.”

The knife glints in the light. Maybe sooner than he thinks…

I make a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat. I know better than to get into this conversation with him. It never goes my way.

Michael’s not done. He’s like a dog with a bone when he gets like this.

“You see, that’s what happens when you’re raised wrong. The same with dogs. You get a bitch of bad breeding and put her together with a reactive dog, well… You’re proof of what comes out.”

I grind my teeth together, locking my jaw so tight my face hurts. Don’t rise to it. That’s what he wants. The excuse to put me in line. Fuck him. I’m not giving him that satisfaction.

I focus on the suds popping in the bowl and not the knife inches from my fingers.

Just keep washing the dishes. Just keep—

A meaty hand fists into the shoulder of my T-shirt, dragging me around. My heart leaps into my throat even as my brain screams at me for letting my guard down. Always know where he is. Always. One eye on Michael, and one on Sharon. Quiet, small, don’t breathe, don’t exist.

Sometimes it works. Most of the time it doesn’t matter.

Michael tugs me close to his face so he can get right into my face. “Are you deaf, boy, or just fucking ignorant?”

I don’t know what that word means. Ignorant. I know it’s not good, because he says it with that same tone he uses when he’s calling me ‘stupid’ or a ‘waste of space’.

My lungs constrict until sucking in a breath feels impossible, and every part of me wants to scream and yell at him, but I don’t. I can’t. It’s like my tongue gets trapped inside my mouth and the words won’t come out.

I hate when this happens. It makes me feel like I’m broken, defective.

“Creepy little cunt.” He snarls, baring his teeth.

They’re all straight except for the front ones on the bottom.

They overlap like little wonky gravestones.

“It pisses me off that you just wander around my house like a fucking silent spectre.” I brace as his hand raises, angling my body away, protecting myself in the way I can against a man double my size and strength.

“It’s no wonder your mother didn’t want—”

The doorbell rings, slicing through the double blow he was about to deliver. The silence that follows for a split second is unbearable and then the irritation ripples through his expression. Michael hates being interrupted.

“Fuck me. Can a man not get any peace in his own home?” He lets me go with a shove and I stumble from the force.

My stomach hits the edge of the counter behind me, a cry tearing out of my throat before I can stop it.

I suck a breath in through my nose, dizzied for a second before I can shake it off.

He doesn’t care that he’s added yet another bruise to the patchwork already hidden under my clothes.

“I want these finished before I come back, you lazy shit.”

He heads to the front door, and I hear Sharon’s voice from somewhere in the house. I block it all out, sucking a breath in through my teeth.

I hate him. I hate her. I hate everything.

I wish I could set fire to this fucking house. To them.

My body trembles, not with fear but anger. That slow, steady build inside of me that feels too much, too big and I don’t know what to do with it.

But getting angry never solved anything, not in this house, not with these people. I swallow my frustration, my feelings and rinse the last dish, stack it on the draining board.

Then my attention snags on the knife dripping in the rack. The hair on my nape stands up. It would be so easy. Too easy to pick it up. He wouldn’t be laughing then. He wouldn’t be calling me names or trying to hurt me. Then I’d be the one in control.

I hear voices drifting from the hallway. I don’t know who it is. I don’t care. I’m supposed to be hidden, unseen.

I intend to escape to the room they allow me to sleep in, but before I can, they’re there.

Michael and Sharon are walking and talking to a woman I don’t recognise. I know instantly what she is. A social worker. They all have that same air about them, that same tired saviour complex stuffed into old suits and scuffed shoes.

But it’s not her I focus on. Clutching her leg is a small girl, pale face, freckles dusting both cheeks.

Too thin and just barely clean. Her dark hair is tangled around her face, and her wide eyes look like they’ve seen too much for someone so young.

She can’t be more than six, but I’ve learned not to trust appearances.

So many kids that I come across in foster care look years younger than they are or years older.

The system ages you in ways no one expects.

But this girl… she looks fragile, like she hasn’t been in the system long enough to get a hard shell. One stern word would break her and that’s a problem.

She’s not going to survive in this world if she doesn’t toughen up. This is the worst place they could’ve put her to do that. Michael and Sharon are evil.

I freeze, unsure whether I should duck back into the kitchen and hide until they pass or keep moving and try to escape to my room without drawing too much attention to myself. What would Michael want me to do? What’s the action that’ll keep me out of trouble?

Before I can move either way the social worker notices me. Her gaze lifts, and she gives me a smile that is too soft for this house. “Zane, right?” She glances at Sharon. “This is your foster?”

Sharon hums a yes. I don’t answer, although it sits on the tip of my tongue to ask her for help, to ask her to get me out of here.

No… I don’t trust adults. I never trust those in the system.

The social worker isn’t my friend, even if she’s smiling like she’s not a threat.

The only thing social services care about is keeping kids moving through the system, and on paper Michael and Sharon are model foster parents.

They’re not going to take my word over theirs.

Michael glares at me, the unspoken threat there. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it permanently.

Sharon’s expression is even more hostile. Her lips pinched together like they always do when she’s trying not to explode.

“He won’t answer you,” Michael says with that edge he always puts into his voice when he’s talking to outsiders. That voice is a lie. It suggests he’s a caring, doting man. “He’s barely said two words since he was placed with us six months ago, poor thing.”

The social worker frowns, but my gaze has gone back to the little girl. Her coat doesn’t fit. The sleeves finish halfway up her forearm, exposing bony wrists. She’s watching me, like she’s scared I might take something from her. Good. Being cautious is what keeps you alive.

“Oh.” The social worker looks back to me like I’m a puzzle to solve. “Has anyone investigated that? Is it normal for him?”

Sharon holds an arm out, directing her towards the sitting room. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll grab you a cup of coffee while we discuss everything.”

The social worker looks at me again, as if she wants to ask more questions, but she turns to the little girl. “Why don’t you see if you can make friends while I talk to Mr and Mrs Abbott,” she says softly.

Friends…

With me?

She wants this little scared rabbit to make friends with me? I resist the urge to frown. Nobody has ever been my friend, and I don’t think she’s going to be the first.

The girl doesn’t look sure, but she doesn’t follow the social worker when she steps into the living room with Sharon and Michael. I let myself breathe easier the moment we’re alone.

Neither of us move. The girl fiddles absently with the toggle on the side of her coat, almost as if her hands need to be busy.

The silence stretches, oppressive and heavy.

Then she takes in the hallway. I know what she’s seeing.

Photos on the walls of all the kids that have come through the front door behind her over the years.

A snapshot of a picture-perfect life that doesn’t exist within these walls.

Every single one of those kids is smiling, but I know how to read faces, intentions, and a closer look at each one paints the real picture.

None of those smiles are real. Nothing about this house is real.

I’m disappointed she’s falling for the trap, seeing the performance and not the reality. Or at least I think so, until her lip curls down at the corners.

I don’t expect it, but she walks toward me, closing the space between us. She doesn’t get close enough for me to reach her, smart girl.

“Are these bad people?” Her voice wobbles. Maybe she understands more than I thought.

I don’t answer. What can I say to her that isn’t going to scare her to death?

Her brow furrows at my silence. “Can you speak?”

“Yes,” I say, the word rasping out of my mouth as if I haven’t used my tongue in a year.

Her face softens. “Oh. Good. I’m Max.”

I’ve only ever met boys with the name Max. “That’s your name?”

She shakes her head, her hair bouncing back and forth like it’s alive. “I don’t like the other name.”

I don’t ask why. She won’t be here long enough to find out. Girls never stay.

Her hand suddenly slips into mine, warm and soft. I flinch, I don’t mean to, but no one ever touches me like this anymore. I stare at her pale fingers wrapped around mine. She’s not hurting me, not doing anything and I know I should pull back, but I can’t move.

Doesn’t she think I’m weird? A monster? Lazy?

She’s not recoiling. She’s not looking at me with disgust or hate.

The noise in my head settles into something quieter. My pulse slows. My shoulders drop.

Her chin wobbles. No, no, no. Sharon will lose her shit. She hates crying. “I’m scared,” Max admits.

As the first tear rolls down her cheek, I quickly scoop it up. “No tears.” I keep my voice low like I’m talking to a wounded puppy.

She sniffles. “Why?”

Because they’ll beat you. “Because they’re not nice here,” I say finally.

Her lips part in shock before she glances toward the closed sitting room door. I can only imagine the things going through her head. “Why did they say you don’t talk? You’re talking to me.”

I am, and I don’t know why. I never talk to anyone. Not adults, not kids, not social workers or the police. Not even my mother.

I try to unpack it as quickly as I can in my mind, try to work out why she’s different. “You feel…” I frown. What? “Safe.” I settle on that word even though I don’t know what it means in this situation. She’s a stranger, not safe in anyway, and yet…

She brushes her hair off her face, the movement clumsy. “How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“I’m seven.” Older than I thought, though not by much. Laughter comes from behind the door, and she flinches. Maybe she can hear how hollow it is, how performative. “Are they going to hurt me?”

Those words cut through me worse than any beating I’ve ever had. This small fragile girl standing in the lion’s den asking if she is going to be eaten gets to me in a way nothing has for a long time. I stare down at our still joined hands. So small… So delicate.

“You don’t have to worry,” I say. “I won’t let anyone touch you.”

I give that promise, even though I have no way of keeping it.

“Why?”

I open my mouth, then close it before I say, “Because you’re mine.”

She frowns. I don’t blame her. I don’t know why I said it either, but the moment the words leave my mouth the knot in my chest untangles just a little.

She’s the first person who has made me feel human, and I want to keep her safe even if I don’t know why.