Chapter Nine
Justice
The garage is half-lit and thick with the smell of oil, rubber, and stale coffee. Tools line the benches, and the floor’s a graveyard of busted parts and half-fixed bikes.
There’s only one car in here, and I’m under it, trying to fix it. My hands move out of habit. I tighten, twist, and repeat, but my mind’s nowhere near the work. Every time the wrench hits metal, it’s her face that flashes behind my eyes.
Jet.
The name alone brings a mess of things I don’t want to feel. The look she gave me before we rode back, it was somewhere between war, fear and trust. It’s been burning holes in my head ever since.
The sound of someone approaching breaks my thoughts. Looking left, I see a pair of scuffed-up boots.
“You’ve been in here since dawn,” Reaper says. “Didn’t peg you for the early-riser type.”
“Didn’t sleep.”
He snorts. “Is that why you look like shit, or is it something else?”
The wrench slams down harder than I intend. “Say what you came to say.”
Reaper laughs and lightly kicks my leg. I roll out from under the car I’m working on and look up at him.
He’s leaning against the frame of a half-built bike, smoke curling around his head from the cigarette in his mouth. “Word is, Creed’s keeping an eye on you. Says you’ve been spending time with one of the rescued girls. Hawk’s sister.”
The muscles in my jaw go tight. “Her name’s Jet.”
“Didn’t ask for her name,” he says easily, but his eyes narrow. “Do you remember Hawk? Kid wanted to wear this patch more than anything. Brave as hell, loyal to the bone. She’s not him, Justice. She’s fragile.”
Getting to my feet, I place the wrench on the bench before I say, “She’s tougher than you think.”
“Maybe. But you getting close isn’t doing her any favors.”
The garage hums with silence. It’s the kind of quiet that crackles, ready to turn into a fight if someone breathes wrong.
Reaper exhales smoke, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got a type, brother. Lost causes with fire in their eyes. Don’t make this another one.”
The words irritate me. “She’s not a cause.”
“Then what is she?”
No answer comes. Truth is, I don’t know. She’s just there, in my head, under my skin, in every breath since the night we found her.
Reaper takes a slow drag from his cigarette and exhales, the smoke coiling like a lazy snake between us before fading into the dim light.
“Creed wants everyone sharp. Our friend in the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office says the feds are circling. They’re sniffing around the Wheelers’ burn site, and Ivanov’s getting twitchy.”
“Think he’ll turn on us?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Russians aren’t known for loyalty unless it pays.”
“Then we make sure it still pays.”
Reaper’s eyes narrow at me, assessing my words. “You sound like Creed.”
“Creed’s not wrong.”
He gives a dry laugh. “Just don’t let a woman make you forget who you are, brother.”
“When did you start smoking?”
Reaper frowns, drops the cigarette, and grinds it under his boot. “Don’t tell Lucy. She doesn’t like it.”
That pulls a smirk from me. “I thought nothing scared you.”
“Lucy does.” His grin flickers, half pride, half-truth. “Woman’s got a temper and a heart big enough to burn this place down if she thought I needed saving.”
The sound of the garage door rolling open drowns out whatever comes next. Daylight slices through the dim, catching the dust in the air.
Jet walks past outside, heading toward the clubhouse. She doesn’t look in, but something in me watches her until she disappears around the corner.
Reaper notices and lets out a low laugh. “You’re like a damn peacock, brother, always chasing the next shiny thing in a skirt. What makes this one different?”
The question surprises me, and I sigh. “Trying to figure that out,” it comes out rough and honest.
He studies me for a long second, then nods once and steps back toward the door. “Just remember who you are, brother. Don’t let this one rewrite your code.”