Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  “Will you sit?” His gaze darts around. There are two metal folding chairs by a workbench. He nods at them. They’re close to the side exit. Wall and Bucky are still by the Hummer, maybe twenty-five feet away. The back door isn’t too far.

  Besides this is Scrap. He’s safe.

  Not for my mental well-being. Not at all. But he’s not going to hurt me. This notched-up fear is my body being stupid. That’s all.

  I pat my phone in my pocket. My ankle sheath digs into my calf like always.

  It’s fine. Everything’s fine. This is fine. I am fine.

  I force myself to sit in a chair.

  Scrap lowers himself next to me, and he’s so long, he crowds me more than I expected. Even though his knee doesn’t quite touch mine, I can feel him. Like a magnet. My skin hums with awareness, and I want to squirm, but if I do, I might bump him. I need to chill out. Breathe.

  We’re at an angle to each other, so I focus on the guys working instead of him staring at my face, and that eases my nervousness a bit. Not much, but some.

  After a really long moment, he says, “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “Yeah?” A pang of disappointment bursts in my chest. He’s not going to tell me.

  “I wouldn’t want to know.”

  “I’m not you.”

  “Yeah. I been realizin’ that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean you’re stronger than me, aren’t you? All those years, I couldn’t stand to see you, to look at what I was missin’. Hurt too bad. I was a pussy. You ain’t scared of facin’ shit though, are you?”

  A face flashes in my mind. That’s not true. I am afraid. All the time. I want to say so, but my brain’s too full of what he said to form words. My heart is beating triple time, and I’m too gobsmacked by the idea that he thinks I’m stronger than him.

  “You sure you want to know?”

  He pauses again, giving me time to change my mind. I should change my mind. There’s no good that comes from reliving the past, especially so close to a visit to Finnegan’s Ice Cream, only the very real possibility of having a truly epic panic attack and giving Scrap a front seat to my crazy—but I nod instead.

  “You asked for Deb.”

  What?

  “You were crying Mommy. Over and over.”

  My chest aches like a mule kicked it. My nose tingles. My eyes burn. Those weird floaty feelings are gone.

  I take it back. I don’t want to know.

  Scrap swallows. “Pig Iron kept telling you she’d be right there.”

  That was a lie. Mom was in Pyle that day on a girl’s trip with Ernestine and Linda. I fold my arms around my middle, grab tight, try to hold on. He moves as if to touch me, and I flinch.

  He stops. Takes a long sip of water. “Can I ask you a question now?”

  What does he want to know? My uneasiness at the idea distracts me from my freak out, from the sadness that bloomed in my chest like a gunshot.

  I glance up, meet his eyes. It’s only fair.

  “Do you remember that cookout?”

  “Yeah.” It was a few weeks before what happened, a birthday thing for Hobs. A family event.

  Scrap and I played cornhole, and later, when most everyone was inside having cake, he pulled me into his lap when I walked past him toward the clubhouse. He brushed a kiss across my lips. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I wanted to be right where I was, so I stayed, blushing while he stroked my arm, until Annie yelled at me across the yard that Mom was coming outside.

  That was a long time ago.

  “Do you remember what you said?”

  I shake my head.

  “You were sittin’ on my lap. Remember what you said?”

  Of course not. I was sixteen, and I’d been sneaking sips from Annie’s beers all day.

  “First you said ‘we shouldn’t be doin’ this. Dad’ll cut your balls off.’ Then you laid your cheek on my chest. You said I made a great chair except the part pokin’ you in the ass.” Scrap chuckles, real low. My cheeks flame.

  “I did not say that.”

  “You did.”

  “I’d never say balls. Not back then.”

  “You were tipsy as hell. Cute, too.”

  He leans back in his chair. My eyes can’t help but dart to his bare chest. The sweat has dried some, but his muscles are still slick and defined. My fingers twitch. I pull them into the cuffs of my hoodie.

  “Why are you bringing this up?”

  He skewers me with those blue eyes. “’Cause every time I remember that day at the garage, the only thing that keeps me sane is thinkin’ about that other day, you in my arms, bitchin’ about my hard-on.”

  It hurts. The words hurt. Missing the girl I was hurts.

  “I can’t remember what happened after the attack.” I look at him, and I want him to tell me, but his blue eyes have gone unreadable again. “It drives me crazy. It’s like, if I could only stitch all the pieces together, it’d make sense. But it’s not going to, is it?”

  Why does my voice sound so raw? Why am I even saying this shit?

  He shifts. Cracks his neck. “On the inside, at Wayne? I wouldn’t let myself remember. Only sometimes, and only the good shit. I saved up the good memories. Like for special occasions.”

  “How could you even stop yourself from thinking about it?” God, if only I could.

  “Worked out a lot. Read the rest of the time.”

  “You read?” I don’t know why this surprises me. Scrap’s no brainiac like Heavy, but he’s not a total dumbass like Creech or Bullet.

  He nods.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What did I read?”

  “Yeah.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Whatever was on the cart. All the President’s Men. Read that many times. Bob Vila’s Guide to Historic Homes of the South. A lot of books by this chick Beatrice Small.”

  Hah. I can’t imagine Scrap Allenbach reading historical romance. The idea must make me smile ‘cause Scrap’s focus drops to my lips, and he kind of leans forward. I draw my heels up to the edge of the chair and squish my tits to my chest with my knees.

  “I read.” I do. Way too much.

  “Yeah? Bob Vila?”

  I feel my lips twitch up again. “No. Action. Assassins. Spies.”

  “Like 007?”

  “More La Femme Nikita.”

  “See. We have something in common.”

  “We’re both literate?” I wince. Why can’t I stop being a bitch to him?

  “Hey, it’s a start.”

  “To what?” The bitterness is back, so strong I can taste it in the back of my mouth. He doesn’t answer me, gazes off instead so when he speaks again, he’s not looking at me anymore.

  “I know you’re pissed at me.” His voice is calm. Gentle, even. I squirm. I’m hot, and this chair is hard and uncomfortable.

  “Why would I be pissed at you?”

  “I left you. I sent you away.”

  I suck in a breath so hard I almost choke. The truth slams me, along with a bolt of rage. He did. He left me, told me to fuck off when I was sobbing in a stupid plastic chair and everything still hurt so fucking bad. I know he didn’t have to be there for me when he was so down himself, but couldn’t he have?

  And I know it’s not fair and I’m an ungrateful cunt, but still…. It’s like he’s cracked my heart open and peeled the lid back and now it’s all open to the air, and it reeks and it’s rotten, and I can hardly stand myself.

  “You didn’t owe me anything,” I manage.

  “Not true. You were mine to take care of, and I never did.”

  “I wasn’t yours.”

  “You can say that.” Scrap sucks his cheek. “Don’t make it true.”

  “So that’s it? I don’t get a choice?” Damn. I sound so angry. I’m getting loud, and there’s a nasty edge to my voice. I don’t even recognize it. I stand, sending the chair scraping back.

  Scrap stays in his seat. When he s
peaks, he’s completely calm. Measured. “No, you don’t.”

  He stares at me, his elbows resting on his knees, and I can see the deep line between the hard muscles of his back, running down his spine. He’s so strong. So much stronger than me.

  “You know, baby, you can be angry with me.” He’s so fucking chill and unconcerned. I want to smack him in his chill and unconcerned face.

  “I’m not angry at you.” I stand and fold my arms, glaring over his head.

  “You’re angry. At me. The world. Inch Johnson, what he did. I understand, baby. You can be angry. I can take it. You want to hit me. I can see it. Hit me.”

  “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “Won’t hurt me none.” With any other man, it’d come off as arrogance, but this is Scrap Allenbach. “Let that anger out.”

  “I’m not angry.” And I hadn’t been. Scared, yes. Vigilant, yes. But not so pissed off at the world that I come off like a hysterical, foul-tempered bitch. Not ’til he came back.

  I need him to shut up, but he keeps going. “There’s nothin’ you feel that I can’t take. Back then…I was weak. I ain’t weak no more.”

  I know he’s not. He should be worn down. Ten years on the inside. Bullet did eighteen months and came out born again. But Scrap…he stands tall.

  “You can ask me anything you want, Crista. You can tell me anything.”

  My eyes are burning now, and I wish I could blink and be out of here. This is too much. I don’t know what to do.

  “You should let it go,” I say. “It’s all the past anyway.”

  He’s silent a long time. I guess he agrees. I know I’m right, but there’s a weight that makes my legs heavy as I start to walk away.

  “Crista.”

  I stop. Turn. He’s still leaning forward, but his head is raised, and those crystal blue eyes are as clear as a summer sky.

  “Ain’t the past. Ain’t never gonna be in the past between you and me.”

  And I can’t make out if he means that like a curse or a threat or what.

  “I’m not yours. You’re not mine. This isn’t going to happen.” I can’t bear to see my words hit his face, so I give him my back and stalk off back toward the main garage.

  My heart’s aching like it’s been squeezed in a fist, which doesn’t make sense. I hardly know Scrap Allenbach, right? I kind of knew a twenty-one-year-old prospect with serious eyes, but now? I have no idea what kind of man this is, and he sure as shit doesn’t know me. Why should it tear me up to tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree?

  I get halfway up the drive before I hear his heavy boot tread behind me. He falls into step, close but not too close.

  I glance over.

  He shrugs. “Gotta get some Lexus keys from up at the shop.” He quirks up the corner of his mouth.

  And we walk the rest of the way together.

  CHAPTER 7

  SCRAP

  The thing about Crista Holt is that not only did she go through what happened with Inch Johnson, even before that, she was shy as hell. I must have taken her home from band practice a half dozen times, sat next to her at cookouts and days at the lake. That whole time, she probably said ten words to me. Thank you, Scrap. Okay, Scrap. And she’d blush so red I was afraid Pig Iron’d think I was talking dirty to her, and he’d call chaos on my ass.

  So the fact that I been sittin’ at her bar for two hours now, and she’s only said four words to me? It ain’t out of character.

  It seems to be pissin’ off the sweetbutts, though. They keep hangin’ on me and casting Crista looks, talkin’ real loud for her benefit. I ain’t Creech or Forty; I don’t have that dick gene that lets you just say git gone. Wish I did.

  All these tits in my face are causin’ a great deal of hassle for me. Crista’s makin’ herself scarce at the other end of the bar, and I’m gettin’ pissed off. I’m slammin’ beers quicker than I would normally so she’ll come back down and gimme a fresh one.

  She’s cute as hell today. She’s wearin’ the same light green hoodie and torn jeans from the other day, or close enough that I can’t tell the difference. Her hair’s tucked behind her ears. She keeps herself busy, always wipin’ something down or restocking or drying mugs.

  Compare her to the sweetbutt strokin’ my arm, maybe she don’t come off so good. The sweetbutt’s big, bouncy titties are hangin’ out of her skintight dress, and she’s wearing stripper heels. She’s tanned and tight and all the brothers at the bar are appreciating the peeks of her ass cheeks as she shifts on her stool.

  She ain’t got Crista’s freckles, though. She ain’t got the pretty red in her hair that only flashes when the sun hits it just right.

  “So what do you say, Scrap? Want to take me up to your room for a real welcome home?”

  Shit. How’d we get to that? Last I was payin’ attention, this chick was telling me about her plans to be a Jägermeister girl at Thunder in the Valley.

  Where’s Crista? Did she h—

  Crack. Thump. Crista plunks a beer in front of me.

  She’s clenched her jaw to the point her chin has dimpled. Yeah, she heard that.

  I still have over half a beer left; I don’t need no refill. Guess Crista’s not too keen on the direction of this conversation. I can’t stop the smile.

  Unfortunately, my smile is ill-timed. The sweetbutt, Angel, takes it to mean I’m open to her proposition.

  “Lemme finish this and then we’ll go, and I’ll suck you off good. I bet you missed that upstate, didn’t you?” She smooths my hair, and my skin crawls.

  Crista’s pulling her hands into her hoodie sleeves. Shit. I need to turn this around.

  “Thank you, honey, but uh, I’m gonna finish my beer. Beers.”

  Angel seems to take this as a challenge. She walks her fingers down my chest, ignoring Crista. I wonder if they have beef or if Angel’s just a bitch. Regardless, I’m about to not be nice about it when Crista slams a cutting board onto the counter behind the bar, and then jumps like she startled herself.

  She shakes it off and grabs some limes, diving after one that she drops on the floor. Damn but that girl is always messing with limes. I didn’t figure my brothers took so much fruit in their drinks, but shit has changed since I went away.

  It takes her awhile scrounging under the bar to find that lost lime. I guess someone ain’t as cool as she acts.

  Angel rests her hand on my thigh and squeezes. “We can wait until you’ve finished your beer. What is it they say? Waiting makes it taste even better?”

  Crista pops back up. “Hunger is the best spice,” she mutters under her breath.

  “True.” I meet Crista’s eyes in the mirror behind the bar. She’s got her back to me, and she’s hackin’ away at those limes again. “A long wait don’t make you forget. Makes you want it more.”

  “What I’m gonna do to you, Scrap Allenbach. You won’t forget.” Angel’s whispering so loud, spit hits my ear.

  “Just because something don’t come easy, don’t mean waiting is wasted time. I’m a patient man.”

  Tiny, rosy circles bloom on Crista’s cheeks. Oh, she knows I’m talking to her. And she ain’t scurrying off to the other side of the bar anymore. She’s all ears.

  Angel laughs. “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re gonna cum real easy.”

  I ignore her. “For example, a man who’s waiting patiently can sit back and take in the view.” I stare at Crista’s backside. You can’t see shit between the huge hoodie and the men’s jeans, but it’s the thought that counts.

  In the mirror, Crista rolls her eyes. I grin, and a flush creeps up her neck. That’s one thing I like about her boy haircut. You can see her neck. It’s real thin and graceful like a dancer or something. I want to nibble on that neck ’til she moans.

  “A man could satisfy himself just watching a pretty woman.”

  Crista slices faster.

  “The way she moves. The way she blushes so pretty.”

  Crista’s face
is flaming, now.

  Angel huffs and drops her hand off my thigh. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Yup.” I keep my eyes on my woman.

  “I, uh, I need to get something from the back,” Crista mumbles, and she bolts.

  Angel watches Crista go and leans back in her stool. “Really? ‘Cause it don’t seem like I am interrupting.”

  I shake my head. “Ain’t happenin’, Angel.”

  “You’re beatin’ your head against a wall.”

  “Lucky I got a hard head.”

  Angel rolls her eyes and wanders away to try her luck with Wall. I wait a few minutes, polishing off one of my beers. It’s pretty mellow in the clubhouse tonight. The prospects are playing pool. Creech and Hobs are shootin’ the shit on a couch by the jukebox while Bucky sits between them, getting his dick sucked. Annie’s flirting with Bullet in a corner, taking advantage of the fact that Pig Iron and Deb are M.I.A.

  It don’t escape my notice that Heavy, Forty, Charge, and Pig Iron are holed up in Heavy’s office again, and I’m out here. Even Harper’s back there.

  I get it. Our old beef with the Rebel Raiders is flaring up again, and I’m on parole. It’s penny ante shit so far—vandalism, breaking and entering—and it’d be stupid for me to have to serve out five more years over that kind of stupid shit.

  Do they think if I was in the discussions, I’d go seeking it out, though? Shit. I ain’t Nickel.

  I tell myself to breathe. They’re just tryin’ to have my back. If any serious decisions are to be made, Heavy’ll bring it to church. I ain’t sidelined. At least that’s what I tell myself as I drink beer alone at a bar with nothin’ but pissed off club pussy for company.

  I ain’t accustomed to feeling sorry for myself. What’s Crista doin’ in the back anyway? She hiding in Deb’s office again?

  I should check. See if she needs help. Goddamn but I’m pussy whipped.

  I head for the hall she disappeared down. The door to the storage room at the end is cracked open. She’s probably stockin’ up on more limes.

  When I get closer, I can hear her rustlin’ around in there. I stop in the doorway—I don’t want to startle her or nothin’. She’s got her back to me with a box propped on one hip, and she’s reaching for a bottle on a high shelf.