Chapter 21 Definitely Not Making Things Worse
Raine
The week turns me into a walking contradiction.
I feel guilty for liking this. For dragging them into this mess even deeper than before. Happy—stupidly, selfishly happy—because I’m not alone in it anymore.
It’s a shitty, emotional ping-pong game, and I’m the ball.
It doesn’t feel fair.
They show up. They keep showing up. With food, with plans, with stubborn, relentless care I never asked for and don’t know what to do with.
Elias sent me a photo of his schedule, arrows drawn on it with “extra shift” in three boxes and a little doodle of a pissed-off ambulance with my name on the door.
Theo sent three different spreadsheets with color-coded options: 'Worst-case,' 'Realistic,' and 'If the universe stops hating us.'
Jax tried to hand me his savings in a fat white envelope and told me it was “a temporary redistribution of assets,” which is apparently idiot for 'please let me help.'
I threw the envelope at his chest. He caught it one-handed and tried to stuff it into my back pocket anyway.
It’s been that kind of week.
I should be strong enough to keep them away. To keep them safe. To push them out until Bash is a memory and not a looming shadow across my entire life.
Instead, I’m standing in my own garage at six in the morning, watching one of the problems I love most lean against my workbench, still in his work clothes.
“You look wrecked,” I tell Jax, flipping on the rest of the overhead lights. “Go home, Jax. Get some sleep.”
He grins lazily. “Don't need sleep when you're around.”
He looks tired under the attitude. His eyes are rimmed red, his hair is mashed flat on one side, and his black T-shirt is tugged on crooked so the collar sits half off his shoulder. The leather jacket thrown over it still carries the stale smell of smoke and liquor.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be unconscious somewhere with blackout curtains.
Instead, he’s propped against my bench, nursing a to-go coffee from the bar and staring at me like I’m the most important part of his morning. I hate that the thought makes my chest hurt.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, grabbing the rag off the counter and wiping grease off a wrench that was already clean. “Bar closes at what, two?”
“Two-ish. Then there’s clean-up, inventory, telling drunk guys to stop crying about their exes in the bathroom. I left around four.”
“That’s not better.”
He shrugs, winces, and stretches his neck. “I wanted to see you before you opened. Make sure you didn’t decide to sell the garage to a traveling circus overnight.”
“Tempting.”
“We all know you’d run the circus.” His smirk turns sly. “Boss-clown energy.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Untrue, but okay.” He pushes off the bench, expression brightening with that fake-innocent light he gets right before he does something reckless. “Anyway. I had a brilliant idea.”
“God help me.”
“Fundraiser.” He lifts his cup in a little toast. “At the bar. Live music, cheap beer, lots of idiots with disposable income and bad judgment.”
I stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not? We put out a tip jar, or a QR code. People eat that shit up.”
“And what exactly are you going to put on the flyer?” I ask, wiping harder at the wrench. “‘Help my girlfriend get out of debt’?”
His brows shoot up. The smirk turns slow and delighted.
“Girlfriend, huh?”
I instantly want to chew my own tongue off. “That’s not—you know what I meant.”
“Pretty sure I know exactly what you meant.” He takes a step closer, eyes on my face, soaking up every twitch. “Say it again.”
“No.”
He leans his hip against the workbench, crowding into my space in that casual way of his that isn’t casual at all. “C’mon, Sunshine. For morale.”
“You need sleep for morale.” I shove at his chest with the back of my hand. “You smell like cigarettes. Go home.”
“You love all my smells.”
“I tolerate your smells. On a good day.”
The thing is, none of this is new. I bicker the most with Jax, going toe-to-toe just to see who caves first. What’s new is the way he looks at me when I tell him to go.
He doesn’t roll his eyes and shrug it off. He doesn’t lean harder just to be a pain. He studies my face, reading every line of stress like it’s written in permanent marker across my forehead.
His voice drops a notch. “How many hours of sleep did you get?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“Three,” I snap. “Okay? Three.”
He winces. “You’re going to crash.”
“Can’t afford to.”
“Raine—”
“Jax, stop hovering,” I cut him off before he can say something soft. “I’ve got work. You’ve got a bed. Go be a responsible adult for five minutes.”
He huffs a breath, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes for a second, the tendons in his throat standing out. When he looks at me again, the sharpness is back in place, but I can see the fight under it.
“Fine. Since you asked so sweetly.”
“That was not sweet.”
“You’ll get there.” He moves toward the bay door, then pauses and glances back over his shoulder. “For the record, fundraiser idea still stands. I can be very persuasive.”
“You’re not throwing a pity party in my name,” I warn. “People won’t care.”
“Oh, they’ll care. You underestimate how many idiots in this town will throw cash at a cause if you promise them live music and Jell-O shots.”
“I’m not a cause.”
“You’re mine,” he says, too fast, then corrects with a crooked grin. “You’re ours. Close enough.”
Something in my chest stutters, and he sees it, always seeing what I don't want him to.
He walks back the two steps he abandoned, lifts a hand, and cups my jaw, fingers callused and familiar. “We’re not going anywhere, remember?”
“That’s the problem.”
He leans down and kisses me before I can think of another deflection.
It’s not rushed, but firm, warm pressure and the soft scrape of stubble, his mouth moving over mine with a steadiness that unravels everything I try to keep tight. I fist my hand in his T-shirt because standing suddenly feels like work.
When he pulls back an inch, breath ghosting over my lips, his eyes are darker than they were a second ago.
“I like it,” he murmurs, “when you call yourself my girlfriend.”
“Get out,” I whisper, finding my voice won’t do anything else.
He laughs, the sound rough around the edges, and brushes another quick kiss against the corner of my mouth, catching me off guard.
“Be good, Sunshine.” He steps away for real this time. “I’ll see you later.”
The door rattles as it closes behind him.
I stand there for a full thirty seconds, staring at the empty space he left, pretending I don’t want to drag him back in.
Then I shove everything down where it belongs and get to work.
By ten, my hands are black with grease and my brain is numb from the blessed monotony of oil changes and brake inspections. But still there’s this nagging stress. Anxiety? Fear? I don’t know, but it’s still eating at me.
I’m terrified I’m going to lose all three of them and the warmth they've suddenly brought into my life. Warmth I never asked for but will miss all the same.
The door chime jolts me out of my spiral.
I wipe my hands on a rag and glance up, expecting a customer, only to have my heart slam so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.
Bash stands in the doorway. No, stand's not the right word. He fills it. The fall light behind his long shadow shines into the garage, engulfing the lobby in him.
His bodyguard doesn't come in with him. Instead, he stands outside with his back to us, scanning the lot. Bash lets his gaze travel lazily over the shop, as if cataloging it all again. The half-raised Suzuki I’m working on. The tools laid out in careful rows. The mug of coffee on the workbench.
Then his eyes land on me.
“Raine.” His voice is as smooth as polished glass. “Busy morning?”
Every muscle in my body pulls tight at once.
“It’s a garage. Sometimes people need their bikes fixed. Wild concept.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does. “Always so spirited, aren't you?"
He steps in without waiting for an invitation, shoulders squared, chin raised. He moves like he owns the property now, not just the debt attached to it.
He probably believes he does.
“I thought I’d stop by,” he continues. “See how my favorite tenant is coming along with her obligations.”
My skin crawls at the word favorite.
“It’s not due yet,” I remind him. “It's only been a week.”
“True.” He strolls past the Suzuki, trailing a finger along the handlebar, then turns toward me again. “But with such a large sum on the line, I thought perhaps you could use… a bit of assistance.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Everyone needs help, Raine. Even you. Especially you.”
He closes the distance between us in three unhurried strides. I resist the urge to back up. Standing still feels like the only way to keep him from seeing that he still has the power to make me want to run. He stops close enough that I can pick out the expensive notes beneath his cologne.
“You’re an intelligent woman.” He pins me with his gaze. “You know how this world works. Sometimes the numbers don’t add up. Sometimes life throws more at you than you can pay for.”
“That's rich considering you're the one throwing it at me. But don't worry. I'll get you your money."
“At what cost?” He tilts his head, studying me. “More fights? More late nights? More bruises on that pretty skin?”
“Better than the alternative.”
“Oh?” His voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. “Is washing my money really that bad, Raine?”
“Yes.” I meet his gaze hard, making my anger evident in my glare. “I’m not turning my dad's hard work into your laundromat.”
“How noble of you." He leans in, sharpening his smile. "I mean, I do enjoy watching you scramble. You’re very entertaining when you’re desperate.”
The way he says entertaining makes my stomach twist.
“I’m doing fine,” I say, the lie dry on my tongue. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Who says I’m worried?” His gaze dips to my mouth for a beat. “Maybe I’m just curious.”
My throat tightens. “About what?”