Chapter 21 Definitely Not Making Things Worse #2
“How good you really are.” His eyes lift again, and the meaning there is clear. “At surviving. At fixing things. At… satisfying.”
Every nerve ending in my body screams, the hint too obvious not to get where he's going with this.
“I’m not here to entertain you.”
“But you do. Without even trying. That’s why you’re my favorite.”
My hand curls around the wrench on the workbench. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until the metal digs into my palm.
“Raine.” He says my name with that faux-fond patience that makes me want to spit. “You know, I'm not without mercy. I could make your month very easy. Half the rent. Hell—maybe even less.”
"I'm not sleeping with you for a discount," I manage to spit the words out through clenched teeth.
“You could.” His tone softens in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Or”—his gaze flicks toward the window, where their three bikes sat last week—“you can keep letting your little trio get involved. That’s the other choice. Yours, not mine.”
“I don’t want your choices.”
“Too bad.” He shrugs, light and cruel. “Life’s not a menu you get to edit.”
Adrenaline flares through me, tightening my hold around the wrench until my knuckles ache.
“You need to leave.”
“I will. For now.”
His gaze slides down my body again, slow and assessing, then back to my mouth. I feel violated by his eyes alone, bile burning the back of my throat.
“And Raine?” He waits for me to meet his gaze. “Don’t forget what I said. There are more ways than one to pay the rent.”
I open my mouth to tell him to choke on his own teeth, but he moves first. His hand snakes out, fingers clamping around my jaw as he pulls me in and crushes his mouth to mine before my brain catches up.
For a second, I freeze. One tiny second too long.
The shock of it, the force, the way his lips slam against mine with no intent beyond power holds me still for longer than I'd care to admit.
He pulls back half an inch, eyes glittering, and dips in again, stealing a second kiss, testing how far he can push before I bite.
That’s when my body finally catches up, and my fist moves on muscle memory. I drop the wrench, grab a handful of his suit jacket with my left hand, and slam my right knuckles straight into his cheekbone.
The crack of impact echoes through the garage.
His head snaps sideways. He stumbles a single step, hand flying to his face.
Pain shoots through my fingers all the way to my wrist. I grit my teeth and shake it out, adrenaline roaring hot as we stare at each other.
His eyes flare with surprise first, then anger slinks in, his pride wounded.
“Touch me again and I’ll break your nose,” I snap. My voice shakes; I hope he hears fury and not fear.
He straightens, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where a smear of blood has appeared. He looks down at it, then laughs under his breath.
“You’ll regret that,” he threatens, and my stomach sinks so low it's on the floor, knowing he means that. But what's the alternative? Let him do what he wants to my body?
Fuck that shit.
“Get out of my garage.”
He flicks his gaze around the space once more, then buttons his suit jacket, adjusts his cufflinks, and turns toward the door.
“You have three weeks,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Triple the rent. Triple the consequences if you fail.”
He pauses with his hand on the door handle.
“And Raine?”
“What?” I snap, body all tense, fists still aching to pummel this son of a bitch.
His voice turns to silk and steel all at once. “The next time you tell me no, make sure you’re the one who's holding the power.”
Then he walks out.
The bell chimes bright and cheerful as the door closes behind him, the sound achingly wrong.
Through the glass, I see the bodyguard glance over once, then fall into step. They walk to the car and Bash slides in, still touching his cheek. A moment later, the engine roars and they pull away, the sound of their tires fading.
Silence swallows the garage as my knees almost buckle. I have to grab the edge of the workbench with both hands and hold on, toes digging into the concrete, heart crashing against my ribs.
I can still feel his mouth on mine, a ghost of pressure that makes bile climb my throat. I wipe the back of my hand across my lips hard enough to burn.
“Fuck,” I almost scream.
I force myself to move, bending down to pick up the wrench where I dropped it on the floor. I set it where it belongs with fingers trembling so badly it clatters against the metal tray.
Bash is tripling the rent because he sees them as assets, not bystanders, calling them leverage without flinching.
Three targets. Three new ways for him to hurt me.
I should tell them.
I should text the group chat and type out exactly what happened, starting with “Bash was here” and ending with “I punched him in the face and now he’s walking around with a bruise that has our names on it.”
I should not stand here wishing they were already on their way.
My phone sits on the little shelf by the register, screen dark. I walk over on stiff legs and pick it up. Eleven missed messages blink up at me from the past hour.
Theo:
Got a second to go over numbers later? No pressure, just want to show you one more option.
Theo:
And yes I can hear you sighing from here.
Elias:
Let me know if Bash stops by without warning.
Elias:
I mean it, Raine. Don’t try to handle him alone.
Jax:
Still thinking about “girlfriend” btw
Jax:
You can’t just drop that on a man at sunrise and pretend it didn’t happen
Jax:
Anyway I’m going to sleep before I start writing poetry about you on bar napkins
Theo:
Did you eat?
Elias:
Send a thumbs up. Something. Anything.
Jax:
Sunshine?
Jax:
Don’t make me show up again. I WILL
A hysterical laugh bubbles up and gets stuck somewhere behind my teeth. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, contemplating.
If I tell them, they’ll drop everything. They’ll storm the garage, wrap me in three different kinds of outrage and concern, promising they’ll handle it.
If I tell them, I drag them in deeper, but if I don’t, I leave them blind.
I type:
I’m fine. Busy. Talk later.
Then delete it and try again:
Bash was here.
Nope. Delete.
My hands are shaking too hard now, tiny tremors running from my fingers up my arms. I set the phone down before I'm tempted to throw it into the concrete wall.
I walk to the bike on the lift and stare at it, trying to remember what step I was on. My brain refuses to latch onto anything. All I can see is Bash’s smug mouth on mine. All I can hear is his voice saying 'you’ll regret that.'
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I will.
I grab a socket wrench, grip too tight, and start turning a bolt that doesn’t need turning. My body goes through the motions, but nothing sticks. My vision keeps going blurry as I zone out.
Work used to fix this. It used to anchor me. Today, it’s useless.
I drop the wrench, and it clatters loudly in the empty shop. Breathing through clenched teeth, I brace my palms on the workbench. The shop feels haunted now. Like Bash left something behind that’s still crawling around under my skin.
The phantom taste doesn’t leave, even though I scrub hard at my mouth.
I need… something. Some kind of distraction. Noise. Heat. Something!
Something to burn the memory out before it takes permanent residence.
Theo and Elias are at work. I’d never pull them out of that. Which leaves—Jax.
Stupid, stubborn, reckless Jax, who doesn’t baby me or tiptoe around. Who eats fear alive and laughs while doing it. Who can shut my brain up without asking for anything I can’t give.
I grab my jacket and my helmet and flip the lights off on my way out, pulling the garage door halfway down before I remember to lock it.
I still don’t text anyone or leave a note. I just get on my bike and peel out of the lot so fast gravel spits behind me. The cold air slaps my face as I gun the engine, but it’s not cold enough. Not sharp enough. Not enough to drown the taste of Bash.
By the time I reach Jax’s apartment building, my hands have stopped shaking. Mostly, anyway.
I kill the engine, shove my helmet off, and march up the stairs two at a time before I'm at his door, knocking.
I need him and his chaos.