Angel

by Victoria Johns

  I didn’t fall far, but it felt like I’d been launched from a cannon as the ground came up to meet me. The stupid move was sticking my wrist out to soften the blow and I knew it was stupid the minute I felt a twinge of sharpness on its impact with the dirt.

  Throttle was close behind me, dumping his bike by mine, which was on its side, engine blaring. I could do nothing but cradle my sore wrist against my chest as I looked up at the sunny blue sky through dusty goggles.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” he roared.

  There was no need to reply. We both knew the answer to that question.

  I was crazy. I always had been. Even before I’d met him or any of the Black Sentinels.

  Throttle threw his own helmet off and lifted up my goggles to make sure I was conscious. When he was thoroughly satisfied that I wasn’t a useless lump of lifeless skin, lying dead on the ground, he disappeared and shut both bike engines down. “What hurts?”

  “Wrist.”

  “Gonna try to take your glove off for a look. If it hurts too much, let me know.” I nodded and watched as this brute of a man gently eased my glove off finger by finger until he could see the damage. “Swelling already. We need to get you to a doc. Could be fractured. Anywhere else hurt?”

  “My pride,” I grumbled.

  He looked at me like he wanted to kill me, but when Throttle laughed and breathed a sigh of relief, I felt better, too. My idiocy had ruined the day because I’d overreacted about a kiss that should never have happened. Although there was the small matter of him admitting that he was single because he was secretly interested in me.

  “What were you thinking? You were never gonna make that jump. Your approach speed was insane and you were riding too aggressively. Thank fuck you bailed, otherwise we’d both be looking at a trip in an ambo.”

  “Stop panicking. I’m a girl on a bike and a hotheaded idiot to boot. It’s expected of me, so it would have been my own fault. You could still be in for an ambo ride when my dad sees me.” I was struggling to hold back my grin.

  Even underneath all the dust, I saw the color drain from Throttle’s face sharply. “Fucking hell. He’s gonna kill me.”

  I shouldn’t have laughed. I was in a fair bit of pain but I couldn’t hold it back. Throttle was shitting himself. He’d let the Sentinels’ Angel get hurt and that was before anyone found out that he’d kissed me.

  As predicted, my dad went insane. Even my mom fussing around to remind him we had company was unable to calm him down.

  As if listening to his tirade wasn’t bad enough, the company my mom was nervously working around was Declan.

  I arrived home with my arm wrapped in a ridiculously pink, girlie bandage and it was not well received. The splint they’d wedged down the back of it to keep it stable just made it look worse than it actually was. It was safe to say this was not a fashion accessory to be flaunting.

  Throttle took me straight to the ER and the x-ray confirmed that I hadn’t fractured my wrist, but it was so badly sprained they wanted to stabilize it anyway. I thought he was insane dragging the truck and bike trailer to the hospital, but I suspected he was trying to delay taking me home at all for as long as possible. When I made some lame joke about saving himself the trouble and staying here because of my dad, his reaction was not great and he seemed genuinely scared about what my dad and the brothers were going to do to him.

  The long and short of it was, when he finally took me home and my dad laid eyes on me, he launched himself at Throttle and it was Declan who had to pull them apart. It had looked like Declan was leaving, but then he mumbled the words, “Fuck it, I’m staying to oversee shit.” And the mood deteriorated further.

  “You’re not. You’ll get under my feet and the brothers don’t need babysitting,” Dad barked.

  “I have other business. I’m staying with the cargo. Think of it as two birds and one stone.” The way he looked at me when said that gave me the jitters. Was I the cargo or did he mean the Mustangs?

  The glance he gave me seemed to rattle both my parents even more, but it was my dad who saw Throttle as the person who deserved his frustrations. “You’re on shit block cleaning duties until the end of time, Prospect.”

  The only light at the end of my tunnel was that with my stupid splint arm thing, I’d been signed off on sick leave and told not to drive for a few weeks. Davis would be unhappy and I was looking forward to seeing that—a girl needs something pleasant to look forward every so often. His real problem wouldn’t be that his admin bitch was missing; it would be that I couldn’t drive and rescue him from the pussy pickles he got himself into. Davis would need to keep his dick in his pants or man up and learn to scrape off the women he was done with. The biggest problem with not being at work was that I still had lots of questions that were slowly growing into one gigantic conundrum. How was I supposed to figure out the Davis and Declan connection if I wasn’t there to grill him or snoop around? There was always one option, but it was terrifying: I could ask Declan where he’d been myself. I could see if he would open up and give me the lowdown on how he ended up the president of a motorcycle club. I’d never wanted to know so badly, and not knowing made me feel all weird and girlie.

  After resting up overnight with a couple of killer pain pills, boredom was already creeping around the corner and I decided there was no way I was sitting around the house. I knew Dad wouldn’t let me near the Mustangs, but my Plymouth was outside the workshop—technically, that wasn’t near the Mustangs. I wouldn’t be disobeying him and I could spend a bit of time observing Declan to see if the mystery became clearer.

  My dad’s grumpy face grimaced even more when I arrived at the workshop. I’d tried to talk to him over breakfast but it seemed any reasonable discussion was not on the cards. It was exasperating trying to remind him that I was a grown woman and accidents happen, and after about thirty seconds it became clear he would never see it that way. At least I thought that was the reason, but it turned out that his bad mood was down to Declan. He was pissed that he was hanging around. I figured he could morally square off doing motor work and restoration stuff for the Carnals, but having one present permanently gave no one a good feeling and none of the brothers were happy.

  I spotted my dad working alone on a car when I wandered in to collect some tools, so I decided to chance a couple of questions. “What do you know about Wolf?” I asked, remembering at the last minute not to use his real name.

  “You only know what he wants you to know,” he sighed as if he’d been expecting my question.

  “Do you trust him?”

  He finally looked up from the toolbox he was rifling through. “Why the interest?”

  I did my best to school a reaction that breathed ‘not bothered at all,’ across my face. “Just making conversation. He seems to make you edgy, different.” After that, I retreated back to my own world and decided to cheer myself up by blowing Davis’ world apart. Within a minute of texting a picture of my pink wrist, he was blowing up my cell.

  “Who did that to you?” he yelled down the line.

  “I did it, you fool. Why’d you think someone did it?”

  “I… just… nothing. What’ve you done?”

  Only a stupid person would have failed to notice the relief in his tone. “Took a spill from my dirt bike. I’m gonna be out for a few weeks.”

  “Sure. Okay. Good, that’s good. You feel better soon.”

  Uh… what?

  What the hell just happened? The crying and anger I was counting on to give me some joy and satisfaction were not forth coming. This was not what I expected. “That’s it?”

  “I said feel better soon. What do you want? A gift basket?”

  “I’m going to pretend this conversation went a whole different way. One where I feel, you know, appreciated. I’m gonna pretend that I have a boss who gives a shit that he’s going to have to make his own damn coffee and type his own shit up for a while. Gotta tell you, this is a dent to my admin ego.”

  I hea
rd Davis huff into the phone receiver. “I care. I’ll miss you, but I was going to make you take some personal days anyway. You’re due. So, rest up. I assume it’s your preferred punching arm that’s injured, so we need that in tiptop shape. My female enforcer can’t work at half strength anyway. Keep in touch.”

  I went to bitch again but was met with dead air. The asshat had hung up on me. So, now Davis was being a random jerk, which was just another mystery to file in the conundrum bucket.

  Later in the afternoon, I grabbed some more tools and headed outside into the sunshine. I felt some semblance of relief at the thought of doing car maintenance. Mindless car care was just what the doctor ordered to sort through everything jumbling round my brain, but as soon as I got started, I knew things were not going to go as planned. My wrist ached when I tried to tighten any screws and the strapping was too fat to fit between the immovable body and engine parts. Worst of all, the damn thing just itched. After commandeering an old dipstick, I rooted it down beside the splint and felt something close to pure orgasmic joy at being able to scratch the itch that had been causing my latest mental trauma. Dad had only appeared once to show me he was unimpressed with my plans to work on the Plymouth and tell me it was time for me to leave. We had a huge argument in front of the brothers, which was nothing new, until I lost complete control of my temper and told him that if he didn’t leave me to work on something under my own steam, I was going to move out. He thought better of that and decided to go back to taking his frustrations out on Throttle.

  After he let me continue, I stopped to pause at the beauty that was my Plymouth. Honestly, if cars had feelings, this one would definitely have been feeling rejected. It had been a while since I’d worked on it and of course now it had been dumped outside, it was feeling unloved for sure. Popping the hood was awkward; everything was with my bandage, but I was determined to get in there and show it some TLC. Grabbing a ratchet and socket, I set about removing the alternator. I needed to check the condition of it to see if it was repairable or wanted full on replacing.

  I settled into a natural rhythm and although it was peaceful, I could still hear the guys inside the main shop some fifty feet away. They were blasting an old Nickleback classic album, Silver Side Up, and I loved that the tunes covered all the main bases. Rhythm, feelings, and emotions poured from Chad Kroeger's voice in some kind of crazy life affirming poetry. My toe tapping turned into hip jutting and soon enough, I was in the mood to throw out full on vocals from under the hood of my car.

  An hour later—at least that’s how long it felt—and I was still trying to cajole the Plymouth’s death grip on one of the alternators main pulleys. It was small and innocuous, but it was the only thing keeping it attached to the damn car and with every passing second, I could feel a proper temper tantrum coming on. I knew I needed to use a bigger breaker bar but also knew I just didn’t have the grip strength. Even more frustratingly, there wasn’t room for my hand as well as my pathetic pink wrist strapping.

  “Dammit!” I was only an hour in and my temporary disability was a complete nuisance. It was killing my much needed car maintenance buzz. At one point I managed to get my splinted wrist wedged in a slot in the engine space and that was when my temper finally won. I tugged my arm free in a rage and felt the pain throb and extend down to my fingertips, before I picked up the nearest screwdriver and threw it at the floor in frustration. “Stupid fucking thing!”

  “That’s no way to treat your tools. Here, let me help.” I was still leaned under the hood, breathing heavily, when Declan’s dark, gravelly voice washed over me. The anger I’d felt only seconds before had now been replaced with fear, intrigue, and excitement. I stood back and looked at him. He was wearing old, raggedy jeans covered in oil and grease, and an equally old, smeared grey t-shirt. His feet were in work boots, and before he came and stood next to me, he bent down and picked up the temper thrown screwdriver. “What are you doing?”

  He was acting completely normal, just another conundrum addition. No threats, no snark, and no sexual tension, at least not from him anyway.

  “Keep getting this stupid pink thing wedged in.” I held up my arm, which was now sporting a grubby, pink colored bandage. “I’m trying to get the alternator out.”

  “Nice color. Did you choose it, princess?” He laughed. “I bet you got a popsicle for being a brave girl.”

  “Yeah. Sure, the doctor knew I needed something sweet to suck on.”

  His face changed and he went back to looking at my car. “I’m amazed you know what an alternator is, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t be a caveman, Declan.”

  “Wolf,” he snapped. “There’s no Declan Foster here.” His eyes were cold and determined.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. President.” I finished my line sarcastically, reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe when she sang happy birthday to JFK.

  “Same smart fucking mouth I see,” he mumbled as he set to work under the hood of my car. “You happy here?”

  “They care about me. I’m one of them, even if I don’t possess the right genitalia to be a mechanic.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got some good in your life and found your happy.” Declan wasn’t speaking loudly, but he was finally speaking. So, I leaned under the hood beside him and began to pass him the tools I knew he’d need to get the job done. I was desperate to keep him with me, keep him talking.

  “Did you find some good? Some happy?”

  Declan snorted before answering. “With my old man, fuck no.”

  “That day—”

  “Is in the past.” He was so firm about it that I understood it was a topic he didn’t want to discuss.

  “How do you know my boss, Davis?”

  Declan carried on clanking tools inside the engine bay of the Plymouth until the alternator came free after a bit of intense mauling, and he placed it on one of the covers I had draping the wings. “He’s in business. The Carnals are also in business.”

  “With Davis? As in business associates?” I asked too quickly and my eagerness had him raising his eyebrows at me in amusement. After he got his fill, he looked away and went back to the car part where he began to check over the internal fan and drive belt pulley attached to it. “Is that a yes or no?”

  “It’s a none of your business, Rosie.”

  “Gracie,” I bit back. “No one calls me Rosie here.” If he was going to be an ass about his name then so was I. “Why are you still here, Wolf?”

  With another mumble, he said, “That’s a good fucking question.”

  Our time together continued. Declan stayed with me, working on my car, and we moved into an easy conversation about nothing of great significance, but mainly based on cars. He didn’t really answer any questions about himself but seemed intent on learning about me. With each little piece of information I gave him, he seemed to relax, content in knowing I’d had a good life with the Sentinels.

  The longer the conversation went on the more obvious it became that the brothers had noticed us talking and my dad was definitely keeping a close eye on us.

  “If we hadn’t, well, you know, axed Chopper,” I whispered, fumbling for words. “If we were still in each other's lives, would we still be Declan and Rosie do you think?”

  Declan stopped work completely. “We are Declan and Rosie, somewhere on some level.”

  I smiled at the memory. He was always my second skin, the beta to my alpha, the salsa to my chips.

  “What would have become of us?” I knew my voice was small. The times when I felt vulnerable or needed reassurance were few and far between, but they always leaked in when I could probably do with showing some strength.

  Declan and I were still facing each other as I searched his eyes for the slightest acceptance that I wasn’t alone in what being together again felt like. He put his tools down and brought his arm up slowly until his hand was in reach of my jaw. My breath hitched, pleading for him to take that leap and connect with me. My eyes took in his dirty engine fingers as he
gently brushed a fingertip along my jaw. “Babe.”

  It was one word.

  One simple word.

  But it sent my belly into a tailspin and it seemed to connect with a whole host of feelings that I’d only ever felt when I was heading for an orgasm. I’d never been so close to someone who could make me feel this way while wearing clothes.

  All of my instincts kicked in the minute I heard the rumble of a motorcycle break the spell. Declan’s head shot round to see who’d ruptured our moment and when he saw who it was, he backed away from me like I was something contagious. It was then that I noticed my dad had stopped work altogether and he looked fit to be tied, seconds away from coming and dragging me away from Declan Foster.

  “Shit. Fuck.” His tone was clipped and I could see the openness had gone. The shutters had fallen firmly down on his face. Declan was gone, and Wolf had come to take his place. The man I was looking at now was the mean president of the Carnals and definitely scary.

  “Who is that?”

  “Razor. VP. Stay the fuck out of his way. I find out he knows your name or even knows you exist, I’ll be extremely displeased. Understood?”

  Declan gave me no chance to reply. It seemed my compliance was expected and a predetermined conclusion.

  And like I didn’t exist for him either anymore, he wandered away from me. I watched him go back to the workshop in a hurry, as Razor wandered inside it, pulling his helmet from his head, I assumed in search of his president.

  “He’s dangerous, Angel.” Throttle’s voice made me jump.

  I’d been so intensely wrapped up in Declan that I hadn’t noticed him stood just a few feet away from us, the thought that he’d overheard us was not good. “According to you.” I felt protective over the real Declan. I knew who he was at heart and I wanted to scream at Throttle for trying to tarnish it. I hated being reminded that he was different. The Declan I knew still lived deep within him. They’d just never seen it.