28. Gabriel #2
Fuck me. The name lands, but I don't let her see it.
If she's talking about the same Razor I know—and I doubt there are many men named like him—then this…
Audra, the Mexicans, all of it, just moved up another level.
The Razor I know is the president of a motor club—The Black Canyon Reapers.
And their name just popped up for a second time in the span of under a week.
That is not a coincidence. They smuggle weapons through the desert, buying them from Mexican cartels, which would explain Audra's familiarity with firearms. Explain the lack of fear.
What it doesn't explain is how she walked away. Neither the Mexican Cartel nor the biker club are known for letting witnesses to any of their crimes disappear.
"How did you get out?" I want to know, though I think I already know the answer. Pete.
Audra traces the rim of her glass with her finger, not really drinking, not really eating either. Thinking. Rewinding.
"I was… rebellious," she admits.
There's a faint edge of pride in her voice. I don't interrupt. She glances out over the Strip, the lights reflect in her eyes, and it seems like she's somewhere else entirely.
"Back then, my mom had this boyfriend," she continues.
"For a while, I thought he might stick. Might actually…
become the father I always wanted." A pause.
Her lips press together briefly. "I didn't even like him," she admits, a quiet, almost self-aware huff of breath follows it. "But it didn't matter."
She looks down at her hands. "I just wanted a dad."
That lands in an unexpected way. But given what I know about Stacy, it makes sense and explains more than she probably realizes. I lean back to be able to watch her closer. She lets out a small, nervous laugh. The first real break in her composure tonight.
"I was fifteen when I met Razor."
Fifteen. What the fuck? I go still. Completely. She doesn't notice. She's too absorbed in her story, or maybe she does and keeps going anyway.
"He was already high up in the MC," she tells me. "Respected. Untouchable."
Another small pause that gives me enough time to do the math. If she were fifteen then, that would be nine years ago. With Razor nearing forty now, he had to have been…
"He was thirty." She finishes my thought.
Something tight and controlled locks into place inside my chest. Thirty.
Fifteen. I don't move. Because if I do, if I let even a fraction of what just hit me show, this conversation changes.
And I'm not done listening. Not yet. My grip tightens slightly around the glass.
Enough that I feel it slightly cracking.
I've killed men for less. For looking at what was mine the wrong way.
For touching something they weren't allowed to touch.
And this… this wasn't a touch. This was ownership.
Grooming. Control dressed up as choice. My jaw shifts once. That's it. That's all I give her.
I grind my teeth and grate out, "Did he…" I ask, forcing my voice to stay level. Too level.
Her eyes flick back to mine. And for a second, just a second, I think she sees it. The stillness. The calculation. The violence sitting just under the surface. But she doesn't pull back. Doesn't soften it. She wants me to finish the question. "Did he touch you?"
"Yeah," she nods quietly. "He did."
Snap.
Just like that, it's not only my control that splinters, but the glass stem as well.
"Oh," she exclaims, but I don't even notice it.
I stare at what's left of the glass in my hand.
The stem, cleanly broken between my fingers.
I don't remember tightening my grip. I don't remember deciding to.
It just… happened. Like something inside me gave way at the exact same moment.
Slowly, I set the broken piece down on the table.
Carefully. Like I'm handling something fragile.
Like I'm not the one who just broke it. I have to because otherwise I might upend the fucking table in rage at what was done to her.
Blood beads along the side of my finger, a thin red line where the edge caught skin. I ignore it. My gaze lifts back to her. And this time, I don't bother softening it.
"How long?" The question comes out rougher than before.
"Gabe—"
"How long," I repeat, quieter this time.
Worse. Because now it's not a question. It's a demand. A beat. Her throat moves as she swallows.
"Over two years," her voice is barely audible.
Something dark shifts in my chest. Over two years.
Fifteen to seventeen. With him. Around men like that.
Learning. Adapting. Surviving. Having sex.
My hand curls against the table, and a broken shard of glass bites deeper into my skin.
I welcome it. It refocuses and anchors me for the time being.
Because the alternative is my getting up, walking out, finding the fucking asshole right now, and ending him in the most painful way imaginable.
The chair scrapes with a sharp squeal. Abruptly. I look up. Audra is already on her feet. Tension rolls off her in waves. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."
Her voice is tight. But there's something underneath it, something close to anger.
She turns and marches toward the railing.
Putting distance between us. I frown, pushing to my feet and following her.
She braces her hands against it like she's holding herself in place.
I study her for a second, confused over what just happened.
Then I realize, "Because I'm going to make him pay for what he did to you? "
She spins around so fast it almost throws me. "What? No—wait—" She stops. Stares at me.
I stare back. And then it clicks. Not all of it. But enough.
"Audra," I chose my words more carefully, "I'm not judging you. I'm mad at the piece of shit who?—"
"He didn't force me," she cuts in. Sharp and immediate. "I wanted it. I welcomed it." Her eyes lock onto mine. Daring me. Challenging me.
"To you, it looks like something else," she continues in a tight voice, "but that's not how it felt." She waits. "So now you know." Her chin lifts in defiance. "I was fifteen when I lost my virginity. I was fifteen, fucking a thirty-year-old man."
Heavy silence follows because I don't react. At least not the way she expects. Not the way most men would. Because this isn't about the shock effect. Or judgment.
"He groomed you," I finally push out.
She rolls her eyes immediately. "Don't you think I know that now?" she snaps.
Her hand drags through her hair in frustration. "But back then…" She shakes her head. Searching for words. "He was everything I ever wanted. At least for a while." Her breathing gets hard. "Don't you get it?" she presses. "He was the father I never had."
There it is. The truth. Ugly. Honest. She lets out a short, bitter breath. "Yeah. Little old me had a daddy fetish." A humorless huff. "Sexy, huh?"
I close my eyes for a second. Not because I can't handle it. Because I can. Too well.
I step into her space before I think about it. My hands close around her shoulders. Firm and grounding. "Audra," I force her to hold my gaze, "I'm not judging you."
And I'm not. Not even a little. God knows I've done worse. Things I chose. Things I didn't. Things I did to survive. Or because I didn't know any better yet. Or because someone older, smarter, more experienced made it feel like my idea. My grip tightens slightly.
"He took advantage of you," I add. "Whether you want to call it that or not."
She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean in either. Just stands there. Processing my words or her past, I can't tell. But something in me settles. I'm not calm. Not even close. For her, I try though. One thing is certain: Razor will find a brutal end. Soon.
For now, I need to remain strong, not allow my emotions to shine through.
"What about your mother?" I ask.
Still calm. Still controlled. Still holding the line by a thread.
A wry huff escapes her. "She didn't know. Or she didn't want to."
That tracks with what I know and have seen about that woman. I lean against the railing, creating a little bit of distance before I do something unnecessary. Or worse, something premature. My eyes stay on her. Locked. Assessing again. Reframing everything I thought I knew.
My curiosity is sparked. "How did you get out?" I ask again.
She exhales, her gaze drifts past me, out into the city, but I know she's not seeing it.
"There was an ugly incident in the desert.
A gun delivery, and I realized that sooner or later Razor would tire of me.
I thought I had control. Thought I knew what I was doing.
Who I was dealing with." A faint shake of her head.
"I didn't." A tired laugh. "Not even close. "
I give her time to sort through her memories. I don't push, but put my hand over hers on the railing, and she lets it happen.
"Out there…" she continues, quieter now, "I saw it. How fast things could turn. How little say I actually had. And it scared me."
That catches. Because she doesn't strike me as someone who scares easily.
My stomach churns at the idea of all the things that could have happened out there in the desert between an MC, a Mexican cartel, and a young, seventeen-year-old girl.
Any one of which means that none of those bastards will live much longer.
With the utmost care, I force out, "What scared you the most?"
Her lips press together. She looks far away. "Disappearing. Or ending up somewhere I couldn't get out of." She pauses, then adds, "Mexico. One of those places where girls don't come back from."
Anger surges inside me. Hot and filled with rage. I know exactly the kind of places she's talking about. So does anybody I work with. We just don't talk about them.
"Fuck houses." She names the ugly truth.
"Did they…" I can't continue, the thought of her, out there, with those men… fuck.