Clutch_A Rock Bottom Novel

by Gabriel Love

  The sharp crack of the cue ball on another makes me wince and I rub my hand over the prickling hairs on the back of my neck. Glancing over my shoulder again, I expect him to walk through that door. Like he knows where I am.

  But he doesn’t. And I know it’s impossible. He has no idea where I am. “Do you think Dex will be okay?” I ask, suddenly wanting to think about anything other than the troubling thoughts crowding the fringes of my mind.

  I glance across the table at my quiet companion.

  He shrugs. “If you want to find the true mettle of a man, throw him in a fire.”

  I swallow hard, staring at him.

  We fall silent as the waitress drops off a beer and a coffee. He picks up the beer and takes a drink while I ponder the risk of drinking and driving. But he’d specifically ordered coffee for me, not alcohol. So he doesn’t want me drinking. I pick up a little container of half and half and add some to the coffee.

  “I think you mean trial by fire,” I say softly.

  He puts his drink on the table and stares me down. Something dark stirs behind his eyes and I shiver as he says nothing.

  Chapter Four

  Axl

  She cleans her plate like she hasn’t had a decent meal in months. Not that I’d call the food here decent. This shithole is one of the few places I’m still welcome and only because I helped the owner with a little problem.

  “It’s going to start getting cold outside,” I tell her, gauging her reaction as she freezes up totally still and stares at the fork she’d placed just so beside her plate.

  “I’m ready to go,” she says, sliding stiffly out of her seat and heading toward the exit.

  I grab her and pull her out of the way of one of the assholes playing pool. He lumbers past drunkenly as she stands stiff in my arms. The second he’s past, she pulls out of my grasp. I know she doesn’t like to be touched, but the need to protect her is just ingrained in the most annoying fucking way. This isn’t me. I’m not a fucking hero. What the hell am I after? Why am I doing this?

  I fall behind a step, wrestling with the whirling thoughts. When we’re outside I see the wind hit her and the resulting shiver that runs through her body.

  Before she can get to her bike, I catch up to her. “We should stop for the night,” I say, but she ignores me and walks up to her bike.

  Her spine is straight and stiff and I have that same sinking feeling I had inside when she’d sat next to me before quickly running to the other side. She’d spent a good portion of the time there looking over her shoulder. Watching the entrance.

  I’m not an idiot. I know she’s running from something. I didn’t know she was worried that that thing might follow her. Now I’m left wondering how accurate her fear is. But I’ve been followed before. I know the feeling. No one is following us.

  Still, she’s shutting down. Closing off. Refusing to even look at me or acknowledge I exist. So I break her no touching rule again. Grabbing her face in both my hands, I force her to look up at me. Her hands come up and grip my fingers as if she can peel me away.

  I hold her until her eyes finally meet mine. And I speak very softly. It works. She stops struggling to listen to me. “I know you’re scared, Sparrow,” I say and her eyes dart back and forth between mine. I can smell her fear. It’s acrid. It’s familiar. Fear is the language I’ve spent the last decade of my life speaking. “I won’t let it hurt you,” I say, careful not to personify her demons.

  The stiffness seeps out of her and I know I’m in. I shouldn’t be. I could do so much more damage to her than whatever she’s running from. I’ve done worse things to better people. “You need sleep,” I tell her. The dark circles under her eyes tell me it’s probably been as long since she slept well as it has been since she had a good meal.

  She nods slowly.

  “Okay,” I say, “follow me.” I let her go, making sure she has her balance before moving toward my bike.

  She throws her leg over and I enjoy the smooth motion. The curve of her thighs makes my mouth water and I want to run my tongue from that curve on her inner thigh right up to the sweet spot between her legs. But I’m fucking going to keep my hands to myself.

  I get on my bike and we drive the short distance to a hotel. She’s on edge until we close our door behind us. Even then, she spends a few moments peeking out the peephole like she’s still sure someone followed us. She begins to pace, an arm across her ribs, the other bent at the elbow so she can chew on her fingers as she walks back and forth. I watch her a moment, noticing her shoulders are hunched like her spirit is broken. It’s fucking tragic.

  If someone told me a year ago I’d be using my knowledge of hurting people to help someone, I’d have spit in their face and punched them in the throat. I’m not enough of a douche to think people change.

  She stops moving and I watch her as her eyes well up with tears. She gives a thin little sigh before resuming her pacing and I realize how fucking stupid my line of thoughts are.

  No amount of Good Samaritan acts could make up for my fucking past.

  I offer her my phone and she stops moving, staring at it a moment in confusion before looking up at me.

  “Do you want to call someone?” I ask. Surely she’s got family, parents, someone to check in with. No way in hell she’s out here alone with a stranger without someone knowing, right?

  Her lips part as she thinks about it and a minute ticks by before she shakes her head and begins to pace again.

  “Why don’t you take a bath?” I say. I don’t care about her pacing. It doesn’t bother me. I am worried about her state of mind, however. Even though I’ve been careful not to pry into her life more than she’s been willing to share, I know she needs to relax to sleep. Without sleep, her runaway plan is dead on arrival.

  She’s staring at me, totally still again. Her eyes tick to the bathroom, then to the front door, then to me again. Finally, she swallows hard, her whole throat moving.

  “Will you stay with me?” she whispers, her fingers leaving her mouth to lock around her neck. I stare at her slim fingers wrapped around her pale throat, fascinated by the stab of primal heat I feel.

  “I’ll be right out here,” I affirm.

  But she shakes her head. “I mean, in there. Will you watch the door?”

  Fucking hell, she’s scared out of her damn mind.

  Can I handle being in a room with her naked? Can I keep myself and the surging sexual desire I feel under control? The need to protect her ramps up and I give a tight nod. I’ll fucking figure it out.

  “Sure,” I say, my tone more casual than I feel.

  She walks into the bathroom and I follow, closing the door behind us.

  “Please leave it open,” she whispers and I open it wide. Grabbing the desk chair, I bring it over and turn it around. Straddling it, I watch the bathroom door and the room door while I hear the water begin to run.

  And I fucking sit there, watching the door for her.

  When the water stops, I hear her sigh and my cock leaps to attention. But I keep my eyes locked forward. I’m not a god damned dog. I can control myself.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  I want to ask her what she’s running from. I want to assess the threat myself. But I say nothing. Because there’s nothing I could say that would be productive. I’m not going to demand things from her. Not answers, not information. The most productive thing I can do is sit here, watching the door so she can bathe in peace without fear of her demons bursting in.

  So I fucking do that.

  Chapter Five

  Caitlin

  I open my eyes and blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling. And everything comes crashing back. I’m free. And I feel rested. Like that’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.

  I stretch and catch sight of Axl on the other bed. He bolts upright, a wicked looking knife parallel to his forearm as he thrusts his elbow forward as if ready for a strike. The attack is obvious and I freeze, terror turning the blood in my vei
ns to ice water.

  His eyes lock on my face and he settles back. Sets the knife down. Rubs at his eyes for a second. And I realize he’s got his own demons.

  “Where are you from?” I ask, unable to curb my curiosity. I’ve known the man for a couple months now, but I know nothing about him below the surface. Things like his brother runs the shop when he’s not there. That he rebuilds bikes. That he’s fearless and good with his hands and has wicked looking tattoos and scars.

  He says nothing.

  But that doesn’t surprise me. He’s not really the sharing type. He’s guarded. But I’ve also never really tried to get in. Never really tried to get him to open up and talk. Usually I ask a question, then let it go when he doesn’t answer.

  “Where were you before you opened the shop?” I ask, knowing he’d rolled into town a few months prior only because I only shopped in that little plaza he opened up shop in regularly.

  He’s out of bed in a moment, stretching and peeling his shirt off his frame. I see all his old scars, thinking about how shocked I’d been the first time I walked in and caught him working on a bike without a shirt. He looks like he’s been through battle. War.

  His body is coved in wicked looking whip scars and deep lacerations that have long since healed over pink. Some of the scars are patchy, like road rash that’s healed over. It’s breathtaking. I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of pain he’s been through. But the scars are surrounded by tattoos that obviously came first. His whole back is a mass of black ink in intricate patterns that move up over both shoulders and down both arms to the wrists.

  “Why are you so good with bikes? Who taught you?” I ask, trying again despite his silence. I want to know things about him. I mean, we’re traveling together and I’d like to get to know him. Even though I shouldn’t want to know. I shouldn’t allow myself the chance to get attached. Or more attached, I guess.

  In all honesty, he’s the only friend I’ve got. And that’s sad because it’s a fucked up, weird, complicated kind of friendship, but it’s also kind of spectacular. I mean, he’s put a lot of faith and trust into me. After all, I could be a serial killer he’s helping escape, but he’s at ease with me. Comfortable, even.

  Not that I think he’d be afraid of me. No, I think he’d be upset that he’d be helping a serial killer in that scenario. Not that he’d fear for his life.

  He pulls on a clean shirt. “We should eat and get on the road,” he says and I know for sure he’s not going to answer any of my questions. And I don’t mind. I do want to know, but maybe it’s better if I don’t. Maybe he’s protecting me in a whole other way. Because he’s got to know that at the end of this, we’re going to part ways and never see each other again.

  “Breakfast sounds good,” I say, packing things up and heading for the door.

  Down at the complimentary breakfast, I see him grab a plate and begin to load it up with eggs, bacon and sausage while I grab a milk to settle my stomach and a yogurt.

  We meet at a table and I notice him angle himself to watch the door again. And I wonder if he’s ever been in a position where he wasn’t watching the door. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he is always on the lookout.

  I sip my milk while he shoves a bite of eggs in his mouth. His plate is piled high with fatty breakfast filth that makes my stomach queasy just looking.

  “Need a drink?” I ask, seeing that he didn’t grab one. “I don’t think they’ve got beer,” I tease lightly, but my tone falls a bit flat. He stops eating mid chew and stares at me.

  I meet his glance, then stare at my glass of milk. But he keeps looking at me and I begin to squirm in my seat. My cheeks sting and I squeeze my thighs together, aware of a tingling heat rushing through my belly and between my legs. What is wrong with me?

  “No thank you,” he growls and a shiver sneaks down my spine.

  I nod, picking up my spoon and digging into my yogurt.

  “That all you’re eating?” he asks and I peek up at him from under my lashes.

  I nod, unsure if I could even speak. It feels like my whole body is heating up and I have no idea why. Maybe I’m running a fever. Coming down with something. Getting sick. With all the stress I’ve been under the last few days, I wouldn’t doubt it.

  I can tell from the protective set of his shoulders he’s still guarded from all my questions earlier, but I feel his worry. “I’ll be okay,” I say, realizing it feels good to say the words out loud and actually mean them. How long has it been since I actually felt like things would be okay?

  “I know,” he growls.

  I drink my milk and realize I haven’t once peeked over my shoulder to stare at the door. And the thought sobers me. Hope follows. It’s like living proof I won’t feel the need to look over my shoulder forever.

  “How do you know?” I ask and he halts mid bite to study me.

  How does he know I’ll be okay? What makes him think so? I watch him, fully expecting some blow off answer. Some run of the mill statement about how strong I am. Which is totally off the mark.

  He nods at my face. “You broke the cycle,” he growls, picking up his napkin to wipe his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as my heart stops in my chest.

  Chapter Six

  Axl

  Seven Weeks Ago

  I glance up as she walks in the door again. And here I’d been sure I’d never see her again. Every muscle in my body tightens as I see her face. She’s been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy and her nose is red.

  Her hair is pulled back today and a few strands escape to frame her face. She’s wearing an oversized shirt and baggy jeans that shouldn’t have such an effect on the front of my pants. But somehow, she affects me even when she’s so obviously trying not to be sexy.

  She’s careful to avoid my gaze and moves right into the room to touch. I stay in my office, watching her through the window as she wanders. I see peace fill her face as she touches the bikes with soft fingers filled with reverence.

  She looks like she needs time to think so I let her be. It’s been a quiet day and I’m taking advantage of that to catch up on paperwork I should have done weeks ago. I should fucking make Dex do it. That’s why I hired him, after all, to do the shit I don’t want to. Like he did to me when we were kids.

  I hesitate, losing my place in the paperwork and forgetting what I was doing. Glancing at her, I consider telling her I’m here if she needs help. But I know I don’t need to. I’m sure she’s as aware of me as I am of her. It’s an odd sensation. Worse, I’m sure if I go corner her I’ll just end up scaring her again.

  I find my spot and try to get back into the paperwork. But part of me feels like an antenna, tuning in to her frequency as she moves about the shop and I can’t really sink my teeth into the work.

  She moves on to another bike before I feel her creeping up behind me. Her steps are so quiet I don’t hear her coming, no I feel her presence to my right. She says nothing, though, and I don’t respond to that feeling of prickling on the back of my neck warning me she’s there. Instead, I stare at paperwork and pretend I’m working.

  I want to confront her, but something tells me to wait and see what she does. That need to find out what she’ll do next wins and I continue to ignore her as I reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. I hear her speak. Or rather, I hear her try to speak. The sound is like a crisp fall leaf skipping along the sidewalk. Like it’s the first time she’s spoken in months and she just can’t get the sound out.

  She clears her throat and I turn to face her. And say nothing as I wait for her to try again. There’s fear in her expression and she looks both ways. As if checking to make sure the coast is clear. Like she’s not sure she should talk to me. And I’m glad Dex isn’t here. Partially because I worry his added presence would make her more on edge and partially because I don’t want to hear his fucking opinions.

  “Um,” she says, her face filled with relief as if she’s just figured out that speaking to me won’t make the grou
nd open up and swallow her whole. “What bike would you recommend if I wanted to get away fast?” she asks quietly. Her voice is silken and rich and punches me right in the dick.

  Her question makes my blood run cold in my veins, but I don’t let anything show outward. I’m a fucking incredible poker player and I guess a shit skill is serving me outside the usual shit things I use it on. “You’re not thinking about stealing a bike, are you?” I ask seriously and her face goes white.

  I see the fear in her eyes and feel bad for her, but I also want to push her a little bit. She’s gathered up the courage to speak to me, but there’s more to come if she’s going to step outside her comfortable box. Besides, I can’t figure her out without pushing.

  Why the fuck do I give a shit about this little woman?

  Her cheeks suddenly blaze red as every thought she’s having crosses her features. Her head drops and she stares at the floor. Everything in her posture tells me she wants to run. But she doesn’t. And a seed of respect for her sprouts. I know I must look like a fucking monster to her. I am a god damned monster. To people like her. Or I was. I guess I’m reformed now or some such shit. Like that makes up for my sins.

  “I don’t know anything about motorcycles,” she admits in a soft whisper.

  I can work with that.

  Rising to my feet, I slow my movements as she shrinks back in fear. “Let me show you what I’ve got,” I say without acknowledging her reaction or her fear. Experience tells me to ignore her terror like I don’t even notice.

  She nods.

  I lead the way, showing her the bikes I think would be best for her and explaining why I think so. I want to give her as much info as I can, but I’m also careful not to overwhelm her. It’s a lot all at once and everything tells me she’s already got a whole fuck ton of shit to worry about.

  And I decide that if she comes back again, I’m going to learn everything I can about her. I’m still not sure why I give a fuck. But for some reason, I do. Something I can’t even explain. But I learned a damn long time ago to fucking listen to my gut. That sense has saved my life a dozen times over. The least I can do is shut up and pay attention.