Chapter Eight
Tank
Abigail’s home.
She moved back inside the compound. Back into her house.
But she still won’t see me. Won’t talk to me. She won’t even fucking look at me.
Still… she’s home.
Safe.
“I’m taking Abby to work before heading to the store,” Skip calls out. “Text me your lists.”
“Oh, I’m not going in today,” Abby says as she walks into the compound’s common area. “Lila’s going to manage the shop for me, and I hired two more people.”
“I still can’t believe you’re trusting me to run the place,” Lila laughs. “I told you I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” Abby says, smiling.
Seeing her smile, it’s easy to forget the healing cuts along her skin.
Almost.
“Besides,” Abby adds lightly, “neither do I. That’s why we’ve been abusing Max’s talents.”
Max looks up from his phone and winks.
“Why did you hire two more people?” Spike asks. “Surely it doesn’t take four people to keep that place running.”
“No,” Abby says easily. “But I get more business in the evenings. I need someone at the desk for those last five hours. I’ll still be at the shop often, but I did a lot of thinking the past few days.”
She pauses, thoughtful.
“I need to stick to the creating part of the business. That’s where I’m happiest.”
I watch her from across the room.
Confident. Calm. Putting her life back together piece by piece.
And not once does she glance in my direction.
It’s killing me.
But she’s standing. She’s choosing herself. And if staying invisible is the price of keeping her happy…I’ll pay it.
For now.
“How are you doing, baby sister?” Spike asks.
“I’m fine,” she says with a smile that’s just a little too bright. “I’ve been having some bad dreams, but other than that, I’m okay.”
My pretty little liar.
“Abigail,” Spike growls.
She exhales. “Fine. I made an appointment with my therapist,” she admits. “I’m not completely myself yet, but I really am okay, Bubby.”
Her voice is steady. Convincing.
Too convincing.
And that’s how I know she’s still holding herself together with sheer will and duct tape.
“Alright, I’m heading home to work on this dress,” Abigail says. “Lila, if you need me at the shop, just call.”
She turns and walks out, doing everything in her power to look anywhere but where I’m standing.
“Idiot,” Spike mutters as he comes to stand beside me. “I should kick your ass for breaking my sister’s heart.”
I don’t argue. I deserve it.
“I told you this years ago,” he continues. “You have my full blessing to make my sister yours. I couldn’t find a better man for her. But you, being a fucking idiot, decided you knew what was best and pushed her away.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight.
“Now she won’t even look at you. Get your head out of your ass, Tank. Abby is standing on the edge right now. I’ve got a bad feeling this is your last chance to love her back.”
“I already do,” I admit quietly. He knows that. “I’ll never be good enough for her.”
“No,” he agrees. “You won’t. And I’ll never be good enough for Riley.”
I glance at him.
“But sometimes,” he continues, “you have to be greedy enough to take what they’re offering. We’re never going to be good enough. But we fight like hell trying to be.”
I swallow. “She was raped.”
Spike doesn’t flinch. “Does that change how you feel about her?”
“No,” I snap. “It makes me fucking furious. If I hadn’t pushed her away, she would’ve been safe in my arms that night. Not beaten and violated by that bastard in Maverick’s basement.”
“He still there?” Spike asks calmly.
“Too early,” I say. “He put ninety-seven cuts on her body. I’m keeping him for ninety-seven days of play with the twins.”
Spike huffs a dark laugh. “Sick fuckers. I can’t wait to join them in a few days.”
Across the room, Max and Lila wave as they head out, leaving Bree in Foster’s capable hands.
Spike straightens from the wall. “Get your shit together, brother. My sister is standing on the edge of a cliff when it comes to you. You’ve got two choices. Push her off… or pull her back.”
I nod, already forming a plan.
“And Tank,” he adds.
I look at him.
“Do it before she takes the decision out of your hands and fucking jumps.”
With the last blow landed, Spike turns and heads to his office.
***ABBY***
“Delivery,” Eli calls from somewhere in my house.
“In my office,” I call back.
It’s been two weeks since I moved back into the compound. Two weeks since I stepped away from running the shop and focused on what I love most…designing.
Two weeks of pure contentment.
Minus the nightmares.
“I brought coffee and lunch,” Eli says as he enters, setting everything on my desk.
“Thank you,” I smile. “I haven’t pulled myself away from this dress since six this morning.”
“Looks like you’re almost finished,” he says, nodding toward the most extravagant wedding dress I’ve ever made.
“Pretty much,” I admit, moaning softly as the coffee hits my tongue. “I just need to add more crystals to the back, and then I’ll probably add some to the veil too.”
“How much are you charging her?” he asks. “Because, honey, this dress is freaking magnificent.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling my face heat. “She’s paying a hundred grand. Which is a lot for a no-name brand like me. I tried to talk her down to seventy, but she flat-out refused.”
“You need to stop doing that,” he laughs. “You don’t bargain people into paying you less for your work. Your name might not be Vera Wang big yet, but one day it will be.”
“You know who Vera Wang is?” I ask, shocked.
“She’s mentioned a lot on Say Yes to the Dress,” he says, blushing. “Anyway, I need to head back to work. The new sign for the garage is being delivered, and I want to make sure the paperwork’s done.”
My heart tightens at the reminder.
The men officially renamed the new garage Iron Knuckles. It was Knuckles’ dream to build bikes from the ground up there, but cancer took him before the doors ever opened.
“He would’ve loved that name,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Eli agrees softly.
Eli was with Knuckles when he died. Not in a hospital bed. Not peacefully. They were taken. Tortured. By the same group who took me…twice.
Cancer is what killed Knuckles in the end. But he died on his own terms, protecting one of his own.
“Anyway,” Eli says, clearing his throat, “lunch wasn’t from me. I was just asked to deliver it before I left.”
“Then who?” I ask, already knowing.
“Tank,” he says. “He’s out back by the pool training a few prospects.”
“Why the pool?” I ask. “We have a perfectly good gym in the clubhouse.”
Eli giggles. “Because every time someone messes up, he throws them in.”
“But it’s freezing out there,” I protest.
Which isn’t entirely true. Palm Springs is still Palm Springs. But fifty degrees feels brutal to us natives. And it’s been hovering there all week.
“That’s why it’s funny,” he grins. “Alright. I’m heading out. Enjoy your lunch.”
I watch him go, my gaze drifting to the window without meaning to.
Tank stays in the background of my life now.
Not pushing. Not demanding. But always making sure I know he’s there.
Shaking my head, I reach into the bag and pull out a BLT…my favorite. Taped neatly to the top is a folded note.
Despite me telling my stupid heart that we’re no longer pining after this man, it immediately starts beating in overdrive.
Abigail,
Figured you’d get lost in your work and forget to eat. Take care of yourself for me, babygirl.
I love you so fucking much.
Yours.
I allow myself exactly one minute to melt. One minute to breathe in the words. One minute to feel the warmth of being seen by the one man whom I’ve longed to be seen by.
Then I fold the note and set it aside.
Like I told my friends, I’m not walking away from the possibility of us, but I’m not throwing myself at his feet anymore either. If Tank wants me as much as I’ve always wanted him, he’s going to have to prove it.
Still… I’m not heartless.
After finishing my sandwich, I pull on a sweater, grab a few bottles of water, and head toward the pool area.
You know… just to say thank you.
I hear them before I see them.
The sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Grunts. Curses. Bodies hitting concrete…and water.
“Much better,” Tank says, his voice carrying easily through the air. “Don’t lose focus, no matter how pissed off you get. The second you lose focus, they gain an opening.”
There’s a splash, followed by a string of colorful language.
“If they get an opening,” he continues calmly, “it’s not just your life in danger, it’s the lives of the people you’re protecting.”
I slow my steps as I reach the edge of the pool area.
Tank stands at the center of the chaos, shirtless, arms crossed, muscles flexing as he watches two of the prospects circle each other. His expression is focused. Controlled.
One of the prospects lunges too early.
Tank moves fast, grabs him, pivots, and tosses him straight into the pool without breaking stride.
“Again,” he orders. “And this time, think.”
Laughter breaks out from the others watching.
Tank gestures with two fingers, dismissing the pair currently sparring. They step back immediately, breathing hard.
“You two,” he says, pointing to the next prospects in line. “Up.”
The men move to take their place.
Tank rolls his shoulders once, loosening his neck like this is nothing more than a warm-up.
“Attack me,” he orders.
They hesitate.
His jaw tightens. “And if you don’t give me everything you’ve got,” he adds calmly, “I’ll throw you in the pool, and you get a week of one-on-one training with Foster.”
Whatever that means, it’s enough.
Both men go pale.
Their eyes widen, and they launch themselves at Tank like their lives depend on it.
I swallow.
Tank doesn’t retreat.
He moves.
Fast. Precise. Controlled.
One prospect swings too wide. Tank ducks under the punch, grabs the man’s wrist, pivots, and uses his own momentum against him…lifting, twisting…the man hits the water with a loud splash.
Tank doesn’t even look back.
“More,” he orders the second prospect. “My grandma fights better than you.”