Chapter Five ABBIE
Having come to some sort of halfway agreement about a potential conversation with the president of the Iron Flyers, I decide it’s a perfect morning for a ride.
My Indian queen is lightweight and agile, with a low center of gravity and easy shifting, and despite her smaller size than a lot of club bikes, she doesn’t lack in power for passing.
All round, she’s perfect for city driving, and I love the freedom she gives me to zip around traffic snarls and slip between frustrated drivers while they stew in their four-wheeled cages.
But my happy bubble pops the moment I reach the dojo.
Kate takes one look at me and bars the doorway, telling me to go home and get a few hours’ sleep.
I don’t have the energy to argue with her, and I trudge back to my bike, annoyed that I can’t take my frustrations out on the mat.
Which is probably exactly why my sensei doesn’t want me anywhere near it.
I sigh as I rub the headache building in my temples and pull out my phone.
I open the Meridian Omega Clinic app, but when I check the shift schedule, my name doesn’t appear until the week after next.
No one gets that much time off in our understaffed hospital, and I bite my lip as I call the charge nurse’s desk.
Coincidence or some cosmic plan out to screw me?
“Emma, this is Abbie Taylor. I just saw the shift schedule. What’s going on?”
“It came straight from the director,” she says in her no-nonsense tone, her keyboard clicking in the background. “I asked, because we obviously need you here, but he said it was a personal matter.”
I clench my teeth, staring up at the sky so my glare doesn’t incinerate an innocent passerby. “Maybe he could call my landlord, too, and get me a break on my rent.”
“I believe it has something to do with the investigation,” she says carefully. “The butterflies in the bed incident.”
I cringe, because that sounds painfully close to the title of a true-crime episode. “You heard about that?”
“The security team have been very thorough.”
I don’t know if she means Goldie specifically, but it’s worth asking Pitt, since they’re obviously such close friends. “It was probably just a prank.”
“Perhaps.” Emma sounds doubtful, though. “Just take the time and sort things out, alright? We’ll have plenty of shifts waiting for you when you’re done.”
It’s as close as the brusque woman gets to reassuring, and I manage to thank her before I end the call.
I tap my nails on my bike seat, fixing my gaze on the asphalt in front of me and waiting for my heart to stop jittering in my chest. It seems like I’m always off-balance these days, angry at things I can’t change, and avoiding the things I can.
As a therapist, I know better, and I slump against my bike, staring blindly down at the toes of my scuffed boots.
When did I start becoming such a contrary pain in the ass?
I’ve had years to put my trauma behind me.
I know I’m never going to erase it completely, but I’ve adjusted as best as I can, and I have a rewarding job and a nice apartment.
Maybe it’s not the picture-perfect pack life that most omegas dream about, but I’d sacrifice a hundred cozy nests if it meant that I got to be with Wings for the rest of my life.
I open my messages and shoot him a text: Want to meet me for a (cocktail and a dancing emoji)?
I barely blink before he fires back a response: Where and when, beautiful?
Refuel Bar. 8 o'clock?
Can’t wait (butterfly and heart emoji).
Smiling, I mount my bike and point her towards the highway.
I ride hard and fast until I reach the turnoff for the Pine Lake Lookout, meandering along the couple of hairpins until I reach the top.
I grab a frosty cone from an ice cream vendor and eat it while I watch tourists click away on their cameras.
A couple of young omegas ask to take a picture of my bike, and when I suggest they sit on it for the whole experience, they shriek like they’ve just been tossed off the side of the mountain.
They insist on taking at least a dozen shots, in more poses than I thought the human body was capable of, then engulf me in a strawberry and lavender hug that makes me wonder if I was ever so young and silly.
Is this what it means to not have a care in the world?
When they’re done, I take the slow, winding road down the other side of the mountain, letting the bike wander through back streets until I hit the Greenfields Cemetery.
I buy some flowers at a stall next to the gates, then take the ring road around to my mom’s grave.
My dad was cremated in club tradition, but my mom is buried under a weeping willow next to her baby sister, and I sit for a while with both of them, scattering dried petals over their graves.
Since it’s a day to put old ghosts to rest, I decide to make one more stop.
The original site of the Lasting Light boardinghouse is only a couple of blocks away, and tension creeps up my spine as I come to a stop outside the charred ruins.
In the four years since it burned to the ground, the local authorities haven’t bothered to remove the remains since this part of the city isn’t exactly on any gentrification list. All that’s left is a burned-out shell, the few remaining beams pointing to the sky like broken fingers.
I drag my boot through the ash that has sifted out into the street as I text Pitt.
Like Wings, he doesn’t make me wait long and I smile as I tuck my phone away.
It’s another ten-minute ride before I reach the mall, leaving my bike in a dark corner and heading straight for a boutique on the second floor.
I spend money I don’t have now that I’m on forced leave, then stop in at a salon and get some highlights and a full-treatment blowout.
When the technician winces at the state of my nails, I throw a little more money at a Racing Red manicure.
Maybe I don’t feel like a whole new person, like the technician promised, but I turn a couple of heads as I make my way back to my bike.
I’m a little early for the bar, but Wings is already waiting in a dim corner, a couple of vodka shots in front of him.
He’s facing the dance floor, so he doesn’t see me until I’m right by his side.
I bump him gently with my hip, leaning down to murmur, “I slipped the bartender a twenty, so he won't pay too much attention to this corner.”
Wings tips his head back, his hungry gaze crawling from my high-heeled boots, up my leather-clad legs, to the little silk tank that perfectly matches my Racing Red manicure.
“It'll take a lot more than that to keep his eyes off you, sweetheart.” He hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me down into his lap.
“Jesus.” I watch his throat bob as his gaze roams over me. “I should've dressed up, huh?”
I smile as I kiss the side of his mouth. “You look amazing, like always.”
His hand strokes the leather stretched around my thigh, his scent thickening with arousal. It doesn’t take long before I can feel his hard-on pushing at my butt. “Can we skip the bar and go straight home to bed?”
“Tempting,” I purr, wiggling a little to give us both a thrill. “But I want to dance with you before we get interrupted.”
His brow cocks as I slide off his lap and extend a hand. “Interrupted?”
I shrug, leading him onto the dance floor in front of the jukebox and wrapping my arms around his waist. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, and I nuzzle the soft material as he pulls me close.
In my boots, I’m only an inch or two shorter than him, and I love the way we fit.
We sway to a Tom Petty song, his gorgeous smile growing as I lean up and kiss him.
It’s little more than a tease, but he makes a purring sound, one hand cupping my ass in the tight leather while the other pulls his phone from his pocket.
“I want to take this moment with me on my long, lonely rides.”
As he takes the picture, I think of the silly omegas at the lookout, wondering if this is why they seemed dizzy with happiness. “You can always video call me,” I tell him as I trace the dimple in his cheek. “I could dance for you while you snuggle in your sad little bed.”
“Well, since I’m bunking with Pitt most of the time, you might have an extra audience member.
” There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, like he knows I might be okay with that.
I roll my eyes at him, but then he stiffens.
“Speak of the devil.” He turns me slightly so we’re facing the bar, where two men in leather cuts are standing less than ten feet away, their eyes locked on us. “And Ark, too. Did you set this up?”
I shrug. “You wanted me to meet with him.”
He studies me for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Does that explain the pretty new blouse?”
“Armor. I don't want anyone thinking I'm still that throwaway kid.”
“Baby.” He tilts my chin up, his eyes a soft, warm gray. “No one could ever look at you and think that, I promise.”
I press my fingers into his spine, removing the last inch of space between us. I can feel my pulse skipping in my veins, and wonder if he can feel it, too. “Hold me? Just until the song ends?”
He buries his face in my hair, breathing me in. “I’ll hold you a lot longer than that.”
I close my eyes, but soon enough the other dancers are drifting away, and a pathway opens to the bar. Wings’ fingers thread through mine as we approach Pitt and Ark, my gaze lingering on the Sergeant-at-Arms as he slides two fresh shots our way. “Thanks for the invite.”
I shrug and toss the drink back, but it’s impossible to ignore the most dominant alpha in the room for long. I lift my gaze to Ark’s, feeling the past descend over me, digging into my soul with sharp, ruthless claws.