Chapter 8 Definitely Not Freaking Out #2
I grab my towel and head off the lot before the ref can raise my hand. My shoulder aches with every step, and I tell myself it’s just the fight. Not them. Not the fear that Bash’s men might’ve noticed them talking to me tonight.
I barely make it to the edge before Jax’s voice catches up.
“Gotta say, you really know how to ruin a man’s confidence.”
I keep walking, not letting myself turn to look at them. “You’re still talking, so clearly I didn't ruin it entirely.”
Theo snorts, something akin to disbelief. “You planning to do this all night?”
“If you’re volunteering, sure.”
He shakes his head, but it’s Elias’ voice that cuts through. “We need to talk.”
I stop. Shouldn’t, but I do. “About what?”
“The two men from earlier.”
My pulse jumps again, because this is turning out to be my least favorite topic of conversation. “What about them?”
“They didn’t look like ‘old friends,’” Theo quotes me.
“Yeah, well, I don’t pick my friends for their good manners.”
Jesus, these guys don't give up.
Jax steps closer, his grin fading. “They looked like trouble.”
“Then it’s a good thing I like trouble.”
He doesn’t laugh. None of them do.
Instead, Elias folds his arms. “Are they here often?”
I grab the towel around my neck tighter, needing something to keep my hands still. “You writing a report or something?”
“We’re worried,” he states simply. Like it's only natural that he feels this way. But it's not. Not to me.
“Don’t be.” I take a step back, wanting space. “I can handle myself.”
Theo’s voice softens, careful. “That’s not what it looked like.”
“Excuse me?”
“When they walked away, you froze up.”
I bark a laugh I don’t feel. “Yeah, must’ve been the heat.”
Inside, my thoughts are racing. They can’t get involved. If Bash finds out about them, he’ll use them. And I don't need them to be the reason that Bash finally has me by the metaphorical balls.
I start to move again, but Elias shifts with me, blocking the exit without meaning to. Or maybe he did. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I shoot back. “I’m just fine without a fan club following me around.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“No?” I step closer, just enough that he has to meet my eyes. “Then what is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like three guys inserting themselves into something that isn’t theirs.”
Theo winces, Jax frowns, and Elias doesn’t move.
“Raine,” Theo tries again, his voice quiet.
I cut him off. “No. Don’t say my name like that. Like I’m some wounded thing you’re all gonna fix. I don't need fixing.”
Elias’ jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “We’re not trying to fix you. We just don’t want to watch you self-destruct.”
That one hits deeper than I want it to. I swallow hard, but my chest still burns.
“You don’t get it,” I protest, softer this time. “You shouldn’t even be here. You think you’re helping, but you’re not. You’re making it worse.”
“Worse how?” Jax asks.
“Because people notice,” I snap. “And when they notice me, they notice you. And then…” I stop before I can say the rest. Before I can admit that the thought of any of them getting hurt because of me makes me sick.
Elias takes a breath like he wants to ask, but I shake my head. “Don’t.”
Theo’s brows pull together. “You’re scared.”
That’s the last straw.
“I’m tired,” I bite out. “I’m tired of everyone thinking they can read me. I’m tired of questions. I’m tired of being followed.”
I toss the towel into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “You wanna help? Then leave me the hell alone.”
They all go still, and I instantly regret the words. But I don't take them back. They needed to be said.
Jax runs a hand through his hair, eyes dropping to the ground. Theo presses his lips together like he wants to argue but won’t. Elias just watches me, and somehow that steady stare is worse than anything else.
Finally, he nods once. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I assure him, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore.
They turn one by one—Theo first, then Jax—and I hold my breath until Elias finally follows.
When they disappear into the crowd, the noise hits me all at once. My pulse won’t slow down. My ribs hurt. My hands ache. But it’s the empty space where they’d been standing that gets me most.
I drop my bag beside the fence and sit on it, elbows on my knees, staring at the concrete between my boots.
“Good,” I whisper to no one. “That’s better.”
It isn’t.
It never is.
I should head home and shower. Maybe ice my side, or pretend I didn’t just chase away the only three people who’ve managed to get close in years.
When I finally stand, my legs feel like they’ve been swapped for lead pipes. The night air’s cooled enough that my breath ghosts when I exhale. Someone yells goodnight from across the lot; I lift a hand without looking up.
My bike waits where I left it—black paint catching the dull glow of the streetlight, still dusted with road grit. I swing a leg over the seat, thumb the ignition, and let the familiar rumble settle something deep in me. It’s the only heartbeat that never lets me down.
The ride home blurs into one long hum of wind and noise. Streetlights streak by, melting into gold smears against the dark. I don’t even remember the turns. Just the pull of the throttle, the vibration through the handlebars, the familiar ache in my ribs that settles deeper the longer I ride.
By the time I roll into the driveway, my shoulders are stiff and my head’s pounding.
The porch light flickers on when I unlock the door and step inside.
It smells like oil and detergent and the faint trace of my dad’s old aftershave that somehow never faded.
I hate that it still hits me like that—sneaky and sharp.
Inside, the place is quiet enough to hear the click of cooling metal.
My house isn’t much. One story, narrow, walls patched with years of half-done repairs.
The couch sags on one side where I’ve fallen asleep too many times after late shifts.
A tire rim sits under the coffee table as a base.
The paint on the kitchen cabinets is chipped where I tried sanding them down and lost interest halfway through. But it’s mine. Every dent, every scuff.
I hang my jacket on the hook by the door and kick my boots off. The silence presses in, heavier than any noise from the crowd tonight.
I move on autopilot, filling the teapot and setting it on the stove. It’s old, dented, with a black handle that never stays straight. Dad found it at a thrift shop years ago and swore it “had character.” It’s stupid, but I’ve never been able to throw it out.
I pour the hot water, watch the tea bloom dark at the bottom of the cup, and try not to think about the men from earlier. The scarred one’s voice sticks in my head.
He keeps tabs on everything that’s his.
I wrap my fingers around the mug, too tight, like I can burn the thought out of me.
“You really messed up this time,” I whisper into the empty room. My voice sounds smaller than I mean it to. “Why’d you go to him, old man? Out of everyone, why Bash?”
When he was alive, Dad called Bash a businessman. Said he was just helping keep the garage afloat. I believed him. Stupid, naive, maybe just desperate to believe he’d never dig us into something we couldn’t climb out of.
But he did. And now, at only twenty-six years old, every month feels like paying for a mistake I didn’t make.
I take the cup with me to the table and set it down beside a half-finished painting. It’s nothing fancy—just streaks of color that never turn into anything. I don’t paint shapes. Never could. It’s more like noise I can see.
My chest starts to loosen with each stroke, breath easing out slow and steady. This is the only thing that quiets me anymore—the sound of bristles scraping canvas, the slide of paint.
I think about Jax and that stupid grin he's always wearing, like life is some fun game to play. Theo, so careful, so observant. And then Elias, steady as a heartbeat, but seeing too much.
They shouldn’t have followed me tonight. I should’ve yelled sooner, pushed harder. But when they’re there, it’s like I forget how heavy everything is for a few minutes. Like I can breathe again.
That’s exactly why I can’t let them in.
If Bash ever finds out they’ve been around, he won’t care that they’re innocent. He’ll see them as leverage, and he'll use them against me the second he realizes.
The paintbrush stops mid-stroke. My grip tightens around the handle until the wood creaks, and I set it down.
You can't keep doing this, Raine.
You can't let them get close.
It sounds easy in theory. It always does. But then I remember the way each of them makes me feel. And for a second, I hate that I care.
The tea’s gone cold by the time I get up. My ribs ache when I stretch, the pain sharp enough to pull me back to reality. I rinse the cup, leave it upside down to dry, and switch the lights off on my way to the couch.
I drop onto the cushion, the springs groaning under my weight. My gaze drifts to the ceiling and I listen to the house settle, telling myself I did the right thing pushing them away.
If I say it enough times, maybe it’ll start to feel like it's true.