Chapter 12
KANE
{One month ago}
The persistent drip of oil hitting the cardboard beneath the car was beginning to scratch my brain in a maddening way.
Each drop sounded too loud.
Each dark splash was a new stain that reminded me I was failing.
This should be a simple fucking problem and I couldn’t fix it.
I lay flat on my back on the creeper, shoulders cramping from hours spent in the same position, staring up at the labyrinth of metal and rubber that refused to cooperate.
Today, the underside of the 1988 Porsche had become my entire world—a world currently mocking me with that steady, infuriating leak.
I’d taken the damn thing to a certified mechanic last week, and the bum had advised I ignore the problem, because it was likely one single seal that would require taking the whole damn engine out.
But I was stubborn. I’d check every gasket—and there were a fuck ton in a 911—until I stopped the leak. I couldn’t fix much else in my life, but I could fix this.
The ’67 Shelby still sat in the corner of the garage, untouched.
I had the damn part now, but… there was something eating at me.
I hadn’t hunted for the Holley carb. I hadn’t gotten down in the muck and mire to earn it.
Otto had just handed me the damn thing in a box, and I’d swiped my card to pay.
It was a fucking ridiculous mental block, just another sign that I was daily dancing with insanity.
I reached up, swiping my oil-soaked cloth over where oil gathered the heaviest. A rebellious droplet splattered onto my face, adjacent to my left eye. It traced a trail down my face. Didn’t know if it was me or the car crying.
I’d been at it for nearly six hours. The garage lights buzzed overhead, their fluorescent glare filtering through the narrow gap between the concrete floor and the car's undercarriage. I’d forgotten to move my work light to the floor after using it under the hood a little while ago, and I didn’t feel like pushing out from beneath the damn car again.
So now, I was working in shadows. Didn’t matter though.
I could have ten 100-watt bulbs under here and still be blind as a fucking bat.
Driver and bits were scattered within arm's reach, some still slick with oil from my previous attempts. A brand new, now dented filter sat next to my socket wrench. The radio was on the fritz, leaving me with nothing but the sound of my own breathing and that goddamn drip.
Drip.
Drip.
That motherfucking drip.
"Come on, you stubborn piece of shit," I muttered, reaching up once more to tighten the oil pan bolt that I'd already replaced twice.
The wrench slipped in my oil-slick fingers.
I jolted to catch it, scraping my knuckles against a sharp edge of the chassis.
Blood welled immediately, mixing with the dark oil already staining my skin.
The pain barely registered. Today was a patchwork of discomforts I'd been ignoring—hunger, thirst, the burning in my eyes from lack of sleep, the ache in my lower back from lying on the rock-hard surface beneath me.
Why was the solution alluding me? I'd rebuilt classic cars from nothing but rusted frames; usually, this was the kind of repair I could do blindfolded. Yet a mundane oil leak had defeated me for an entire day.
I tried again. The oil pan gasket was brand new, but I double-checked the seal before re-tightening each bolt carefully, being sure not to overtorque.
I’d had the performance car for about six months, and it was nearly complete.
Even had a buyer lined up. He was supposed to come in two days to pay.
But not if I couldn’t stop the persistent, escaping oil.
It was therapy for me: getting a lost cause, methodically bringing it back to life, and then selling it to fund the next project. Shit was cheaper than an actual therapist, and bonus, I didn’t have to talk about bullshit feelings.
I swiped away oil again, trying to clear a patch that would tell me if I’d succeeded in the repair. I watched, holding my breath. For a moment, the dripping stopped. The semi-clean spot stayed momentarily clear of oil and the cardboard beneath the car gained no new stains. Victory seemed possible.
Then, like the delay was designed to give me false hope for the purpose of crushing my damn emotions completely, the drip resumed. The clean spot slicked with dark amber. A brand-new Rorschach image began forming on the cardboard beneath the Porsche.
Something inside me snapped.
My tenuous control dissolved. Heat rushed through my veins, turning my vision red at the edges. My large hands, always surprisingly precise and careful, curled into brutal fists. I didn’t want to damage this car. I’d spent so much time fixing it. But I was…
So… fucking… angry.
Lifting my hands, I grabbed whatever my fingers could reach—a hose, a fitting, the edge of the oil pan itself—and yanked with all my strength.
A guttural growl tore from my throat, primal and unrecognizable. The sound echoed in the concrete space, bouncing back to me like the voice of a stranger. I pulled harder, feeling something give way beneath my grip.
Metal groaned. Not from the components I was manhandling, but from above me. The car shifted.
The floor jacks supporting the car wobbled. One tilted precariously, the metal stand no longer perfectly perpendicular to the floor. In my rage, I'd shifted the car's balance.
Instinct kicked in before conscious thought. I shoved the creeper hard, propelling myself out from under the vehicle just as the first jack collapsed. The car lurched, dropping several inches on one side. The second jack followed a split second later.
The crash was deafening in the enclosed space—nearly 3,000 pounds of car slamming onto concrete, exactly where I'd been lying moments before. Tools scattered, some crushed beneath the fallen vehicle. The cardboard with its oil stain disappeared, hidden beneath the vehicle.
I sat on the floor where the creeper had carried me, breathing hard, staring at the shadowy space beneath the low sports car. The exact space where my body would have been crushed into unrecognizable pulp if I'd been a second slower.
My hands trembled as the adrenaline surged through me. Sweat broke out across my forehead, my back, my palms. My heart hammered against my ribs with such force I could hear it in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I should feel relief. I should be shaking with the narrowness of my escape, grateful for the reflexes that had saved me.
Instead, a strange thought slithered into my mind: What if I hadn't moved?
The thought wasn't as shocking as it should have been, like it had been waiting just below the surface of my consciousness, biding its time until my defenses were down.
Would it have been so bad? A quick end. No more of this restlessness that had plagued me for weeks. No more feeling like something essential was missing, something just beyond my reach.
I swiped an oily hand down my face, smearing a new layer of grime across my skin. What the hell was wrong with me? When had these thoughts started creeping in? I loved my life—the pack, the brotherhood of DemonX, the rush of creating and building with my hands. Why would I ever think about dying?
I stood up abruptly, the creeper rolling away from me.
I picked up the first thing I saw—a socket wrench—and hurled it out through the open carriage door.
Next was my impact drill. One of the fucking jacks, even though it was my fault the damn thing failed.
In a rage, I grabbed a steering wheel from a work bench and tossed that too.
Then I stalked toward the pricey ass car, ready to beat it to a pulp.
Unfortunately, my foot found the dinged-up oil filter before I could take out my anger on the vehicle. I stumbled, fought to keep my footing, and still ended up flat on my ass.
“Fuck you!” I growled, grabbing the filter and slamming it like a quarterback out the door to join the other discarded shit.
Then I just sat there like a dumbass, covered in oil and sweat, staring at the havoc I’d inflicted on the space.
After the rage died away like an unfed campfire, I stood up, swiped hands down the front and back of my cargos to loosen dirt and began the walk of shame outside to retrieve the shit I’d thrown.
I squinted against the jarring light, the brightness startling me from my dark thoughts. Nitro was kneeling next to Xander’s Harley. My eyebrows lifted at the sight of the knife embedded in the nearly new tire.
“You’re a goddamn mad man,” I breathed out, finding it hard to believe that Nitro would be so categorically stupid. Yes, he was probably the most reckless of our pack, but even so… this was some next level shit.
“Says the guy hurling power tools,” he said sarcastically.
“He’s going to kill you.” I made it a statement. One hundred percent fact.
“I’m betting on that,” he muttered, voice barely audible. Then he got up in a swift, fluid movement. “Murdering a car in there?” He changed the subject whiplash fast.
“Saving it wasn’t working out,” I shrugged, then crossed my arms, muscles bulging against the arms of the filthy white tee.
“Did you check between the camshaft housing and the heads? Porsches like to leak there, older 911s especially.” Nitro wasn’t a car guy, but he spoke with confidence. I gave him a funny look.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“You taught me. Six years ago, when you had that Boxster.” His lips spread into a cocky grin, as if to pour salt in the wound. “Anyways, I’m going to go patiently wait for Xander to see his bike.”
Nitro walked away, sauntered really, tossing his knife into the air and catching it expertly.
Tail between my legs, I picked up my tools and the oil filter and went back into the garage.
I stared at the fallen car, at my oil-blackened hands, at the smears of blood across my knuckles and forearms. The answer had been so simple.
Pop out the cam tower, scrub the seal surfaces, and slap on Loctite.
All that rage, all that frustration, all that.
.. whatever dark impulse had gripped me, over something so easily fixed.
The worst part was that I knew how to fix it all along.
Maybe it was me that was fucking broken, not the damn car.
Maybe that was the problem with all of us lately. Something ridiculously simple was broken, but we were too close to see it. Too busy fighting our individual battles to recognize the war we were all losing.
Too busy waiting on some hot shot company to find us an Omega.
Dropping to my knees, palms flat on the concrete, I peered beneath the car to see how bad I’d fucked it up. A mangled hose, oil pain tilted, hours of additional work.
But first, I needed to wash the oil off my skin.
I needed to cleanse the darkness from my thoughts.
I needed to remember that I liked my life, and I wanted to be alive.
Fuck, I needed to find my way again, before whatever was wrong with me—whatever was wrong with my entire pack—caused irreparable damage.
And the ‘wrong’ was spreading. Sickness sinking deeper. It was well past the skin and meaty flesh. My organs were suffering. My skeleton was next.
I knew it would keep rooting through my body, until there was no turning back. Terminal decay.