Chapter 1
Beau
Three Months Later
“Beau, your monthly visit is here.”
I flip Callum off, letting out a growl under my breath.
Not many people would have the courage to do that.
Callum is six-seven, broad shouldered, and a mountain of a man.
He has beautiful—and I mean silky, sexy, gorgeous—brown hair that is a month past time for a haircut.
Incidentally, it always is. It falls just below the collar of the leather jacket he wears sometimes.
Today he’s in jeans and a white tee. I only know this because I saw him before he slipped into his grease-stained, blue coveralls that all of us wear here at the shop.
I lean on the counter and stare at him as he saunters up to me and plops his fine ass on a bar stool.
Honestly, his ass is fine. It’s his personality that’s annoying.
I suppose it’s to be expected since he’s my pseudo big brother—meaning, he’s not but he’s self-appointed himself that.
So, it has kind of stuck over the years.
Callum was the first employee that I hired.
I took over my dad’s garage at seventeen.
I’m now twenty-seven. That means the two of us have been a team for ten years.
Now, I know some would think it an impossibility to take over a business that young.
To some, maybe it is. My old man raised me in this garage though.
He taught me everything I know about painting and bodywork.
Callum’s old man worked for dad for forty plus years, and he taught Callum everything he knows about making a vehicle run.
Heck, he still comes in and helps from time to time.
That means the two of us are one hell of a team.
We get along great—except on one small detail.
Three months ago, I cut ties with one of our bigger clients.
Callum thinks I need to get off my high horse—as he puts it—and welcome them back in.
I don’t agree and the reason I don’t agree boils down to one person.
Hunter “BB” Evans. Jesus, what kind of man allows people to call him BB?
I ignore the tinge of guilt I feel mocking his name.
Then, I get mad at myself for even giving a damn about Hunter. I’m stupid.
So very stupid.
I shake my head. I’ve suffered this sad affliction since the moment Hunter smiled at me across the back yard area of the Devil’s Blaze MC headquarters.
For years, I’ve ignored all their invites to their parties.
I have no idea why I decided to go to the last one.
I’m just going to file that little statement in white lies I tell myself.
In actuality, I know exactly why I went.
I saw him. Christ. Looking at Hunter, his head thrown back, with his red-blonde hair shining in the waning sun, was a sucker punch.
Then, as his laugh hit the air, it surrounded me, vibrated inside me, and I swear to God, I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
It’s stupid. It is hokey as hell. People would call me crazy, and I’d agree with them.
Still, I know it’s true. I know it deep, deep down inside of me.
I’m as positive about that as I am knowing the sun will rise in the morning.
I fell in love with Hunter Evans at a crowded wedding without even saying one word to him.
I watched him the entire reception. I burned inside with anger and frustration as he danced with other women.
I listened to his cousin call him Hunter when everyone else called him BB.
I left quietly when I saw him leaving with a woman.
It was clear what they were going to do, and I hated it. Yet, I still didn’t make a move.
What was I supposed to do? Walk up to him and say I fell in love while you were laughing. Don’t leave with her. I know she’s gorgeous and everything I’m not, but I could make you happy. I know I could.
Yeah, that doesn’t sound ridiculous and skeevy at all.
So, I decided to go to that stupid party.
I felt I had to. I’d been pining for him since that day.
I had to take a chance. So, I did. Once there, I watched Hunter make his play and when he came to me, I thought it was fate.
Hell, maybe even divine intervention. He wanted me just like I wanted him.
I didn’t even think—which in hindsight was not smart at all.
I followed him to his room—likely the same one he fucked the red head in after the wedding.
I spent the night with him, thinking this was it.
The beginning of every dream that I never dared dream.
I thought that’s what he felt, too. I fell asleep in his arms, knowing I wanted to do that same thing every night—for the rest of my life.
That’s how deep I was in. Instead, he kicked me out of bed and called me a cunt.
That hurt so much that I can still feel the burn.
There are scars you wear on your body. If you’re lucky, you get to the point that they become badges of honor.
Then, there are scars no one sees. Scars that are hidden deep inside you and you wear those every day, too.
These scars though, don’t heal over and become numb to the touch.
These fucking scars inflict damage daily.
They latch onto your muscle and spread through every inch of you.
You can’t run from them. You can’t hide.
They’re there and they will hurt you—haunt you—for the rest of your life.
I already had a million of them. Hunter’s just added more.
“Beau? Are you with me?”
I look up to find Callum staring at me. I see the worry in his eyes, and I force a smile on my face. “Sorry, I was miles away for a moment. I’m in my head, trying to figure out the design I want on the bike Grifter sent over.”
I’m totally lying out of my ass. I already know what I’m going to do with Grifter’s bike.
He took over the Kings of Anarchy a couple months ago.
He has his hands full. Word is the club is having some problems. Still, Grifter keeps pushing work my way and paying a hell of a lot for it.
I moved him up on my list because the money is welcome since I’m turning down shit from the Devil’s Blaze.
It helps that I like Grifter, too. At least he’s never called me a cunt after spending the night wringing orgasm after orgasm out of my body.
“You need to go out there and talk to them. I’m tired of being the one that does it.
They’re starting to get pissed and I can’t deal with that shit.
I’m liable to fuck them up and if that happens, we’ll have them coming after me and the garage.
” I roll my eyes and pin him with a look as I lean on the counter.
I wait him out because we both know he’s not going to do that.
“Damnit,” he growls. “You know I don’t like dealing with people.
I never like dealing with people. I’m more of a recluse than you are, Beau.
I’m asking you to quit making me deal with these assholes because I’m at my fucking limit,” he huffs.
Shit. “Okay, fine. Who is it?” I ask, because there’s no way I’m going out there if Hunter is the one that showed.
“The head honcho.”
“Send Sean. I don’t know King and don’t really care to.”
“Shit, sorry. I can’t get used to the changes yet. It’s Skull and the crazy guy with the T-shirts.”
Okay, double shit. This sucks, because I actually like Skull and Torch …
like a lot. It will be hard to tell them no and I hate to be put in this position.
I mentally put another mark against Hunter in my diary.
Side note, I don’t have a real diary, it’s all make-believe.
I was taught to believe we don’t write our emotions down and work through them.
Hell, my dad raised me as a boy and I’m content with that.
I didn’t have a pink room filled with girly shit.
Mine was neutral with varied accent colors—depending on what I was into at the time.
I also had posters of hot cars on my wall growing up.
To this day, I still don’t have girly shit in my closet—except maybe my underwear cause a girl has to have a few surprises.
Which leaves credence to the fact that I’ve never owned a real diary in my life.
So, mentally I open up my diary which has a picture of the kickass bike I’m going to complete for Grifter on the cover and not a bunch of hearts and roses.
Inside the plain white pages—because seriously, I’m not a hearts and roses kind of gal—I write reason nine hundred and ninety-nine on why I hate Hunter is because he’s making me hurt two men who are like family to me.
Two men I love and one of those men who has been through hell, losing his son.
I push the chaos of my mind away. Then, I lift up the service flap, making the hinges groan in protest. Once I walk through it, I lower it down, so it connects to the rest seamlessly allowing me to get from behind the counter quickly and onto the main shop floor.
I’m proud of this place. I haven’t changed much of anything in this garage.
It has all my childhood memories, and I like it the way it is.
The one thing I did update—once I started showing good profit—was redo the parts area.
When you walk in the front door now, there are cement floors that I painted a brown that kind of swirls into different hues all through the room.
I like it. It hides dirt, it looks awesome and since I did it myself, the paint is first class.
Just to note, I’m not full of myself, I do, however, know my talent and my worth.
If I decided to chuck painting vehicles and take up floors, my shit would be in high demand in that market, too.