Broken Soul (Deviant Souls MC #3)

1. Diesel

1

DIESEL

“ N ow that’s a nice bike,” Domino says, whistling as he walks toward me.

I finish buffing the custom brass finish of the frame before spending some extra time wiping the gothic cross decal on the back fender until it’s shining. “Took me forever to track down brass-finished foot pegs and a muffler to match. Antonio has been bugging me every day for two months about his damn bike, so believe me when I say I’ll be happy when he picks it up tomorrow.”

“He’ll be fine. Lord knows he already has a dozen bikes to choose from.”

“That’s what I told him,” I grumble. “He didn’t take it so well.”

Domino, the president of Deviant Souls MC, chuckles and claps my shoulder. “I can only imagine his response.”

The garage goes silent as we both stand back and admire the machine in front of us. I’ve been a member of Deviant Souls since I retired from the military over five years ago. After three days of sitting in an empty apartment in the dark, alone with my depressing and twisted thoughts, I knew I needed to find something to do with my time if I was going to survive as a civilian.

Luckily, I found a motorcycle club looking for a mechanic. I’ve been turning wrench since I was ten and knew I’d be up for the job. Fast forward a few years and now I’m a member of Deviant Souls as well as the one in charge of the garage.

“Any word on Hell’s Scoundrels?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“After our last encounter with those bastards, things have fallen apart.”

“Good,” I grunt in approval.

“I still have my doubts,” Domino counters. “It feels unfinished between us and our ex-brothers.”

I nod and uncross my arms only to cross them again in a slightly different way. The real falling out happened almost a year ago when the former Prez of Deviant Souls got busted for a laundry list of shit we had no idea he was doing. The club split up, with the majority of us committed to cleaning up our act and being a force for good in the community.

A small fraction broke away and tried starting their own chapter of a national MC, Hell’s Scoundrels. We surrounded them and fucked up the drug deal they were carrying out, managing to get a few of the men thrown in jail.

“I heard Hell’s Scoundrels denied their membership and said they could never join or apply to be a chapter again,” I tell him, hoping he can shed some light.

Domino nods. “It’s true. But I think that will only add more fuel to the fire of rage that’s been blinding our ex-brothers for months if not years now. Rejected from their own club, denied entry into another… I just don’t see these guys as the type to give up.”

“They’ll come back swinging twice as hard,” I mutter, finishing the thought for him.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Our conversation is interrupted by Domino’s phone ringing. I can tell by the dopey smile on his face that it’s his woman, Calista. The Prez tips his chin down in a silent goodbye and then answers his phone. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the softer tone he uses with Calista. Jett has been that way with Rowan as well.

Two of my closest friends are well on their way to being husbands and probably fathers soon, while I’m just… here.

Not that I’m searching for a woman. Hell no. First of all, it wouldn’t be fair to her. I carry around a darkness few people have seen and even fewer understand. I’d suck the joy and happiness out of anyone who tried to get close, I just know it. That’s why I don’t try. I don’t look. I keep my head down and my hands busy. When I’m idle for too long, bad things happen.

I shake those thoughts from my head and toss the towel in my hand over my shoulder, making my way over to the sink. I wash my hands and take a deep breath, staying in the present moment. My anxiety and paranoia flare up at the most random times, like right now. Nothing’s wrong and yet something… something is off.

Looking around the shop, I don’t see anyone else here. There’s no one in the lobby, either. It’s been a slow day - not that we get many walk-ins. Our clientele is mostly Deviant Souls members and a few motorcycle enthusiasts from the surrounding towns.

A loud pop has me jumping out of my skin, every one of my senses on high alert. Another pop slices through the otherwise silent autumn afternoon, followed by the rumbling of an engine that sounds like it's drowning in motor oil.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a car , I tell myself. A shitty car from what I can hear. A shitty car that is coming closer and closer to my garage.

I step outside in time to see an ancient Ford Mercury shudder and clank and blow out a puff of black smoke from beneath the hood. The pile of rust rolls to a stop outside one of the closed bay doors of the shop, and I stare at the vehicle while the smoke clears.

There's no way this beat-up car is going to be worth the man-hours to fix. Plus, the last thing I want to do is tinker around with a four-wheeled monstrosity. I can do it, I just prefer bikes to cars. I also tend to get along with motorcycle owners better than car owners. Weird.

As I scan the vehicle for any obvious signs of an accident or an external reason for the way the engine is running, I see a flash of white-blonde hair from where the driver is sitting. I take a step closer, something in me drawn toward the silhouette of the woman behind the window.

My feet continue carrying me toward the car. Or, more accurately, toward the woman inside the car. She has her hands on the steering wheel, gripping it hard enough that her knuckles are white. Her shoulders move up and down with a big sigh, and then she rests her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat.

What is this flicker of pain in my chest? The longer I look at her, the more consistent and relentless the pain becomes. When the woman doesn’t make a move for several moments, I lift my hand to the driver’s side window and knock.

She jerks her head up and lets out a startled yelp, her blue eyes widening in fear. Jesus, I never want this woman to fear me. She’s far too precious for the look of terror taking over her features.

Precious? I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before but it fits.

I hold my hands up, palms out, in surrender, and back up a bit to give her some space. She slowly opens the car door and steps out of the vehicle, giving me my first real look at her.

My head spins and my breath catches in my throat. Stunning. Gorgeous. Mine.

She has wavy blonde hair that hangs over one shoulder, light blue eyes that carry far more pain than anyone her age should know, and her curves… I allow myself one glance up and down her features, trying not to focus on her wide hips and thick thighs.

The woman blinks up at me, her ice-blue eyes piercing me with one look. I somehow feel her anxiety, her fear, her helplessness. She’s trembling but I can tell she’s trying to stand tall and not let a man of my size intimidate her.

"Having a bit of car trouble?" I ask, breaking the silence in hopes of putting her at ease.

She snorts out an adorable laugh which has me feeling some kind of way I don’t want to think about at the moment. “What gave it away? The clanking engine or the cloud of smoke?”

I grin at her response, thankful that she seems comfortable enough with me to joke. “I’d say neither one is a good sign.”

The woman nods and nibbles her bottom lip before blowing out a breath. “That makes sense. This whole thing has been one bad sign after another,” she mutters to herself.

“Why don’t I pop the hood and see what we’re working with?” I suggest. She nods and reaches into the car to unlock the hood. I open up the damn thing and wince at what I see. My earlier diagnosis of an engine drowning in motor oil wasn’t too far off.

“That bad, huh?” she asks as she walks up next to me. We stand there together, staring at the catastrophe. “I don’t know anything about cars, but I think the black oozing liquid is supposed to be more contained, right?”

I chuckle softly and nod. "Correct. We're looking at replacing quite a few parts, possibly the entire engine. I won't know for sure until I can dig in and find the source of the issue. Either way, you also need a new muffler, and from the sound of your brakes when you pulled up, I wouldn't be surprised if those needed replacing as well."

The woman hasn’t said a word and I look over at her, everything in me softening at what I see. She’s holding back tears and trying to take deep breaths, but I sense this is the final straw for her. Whatever her plans were when she hit the road have been thwarted and now she’s staring at thousands of dollars of work before she can continue.

“Where are you headed? If you’re on a time crunch, I bet we can find a bus or a train to get you to where you need to be. I’ll work on the car and you can come back and pick it up on your way home,” I offer. Did I really just say I’d fix this heaping pile of shit?

“Uh… no, that won’t be necessary. I don’t have… I mean, I don’t really know…” She trails off and shrugs before looking down at the ground.

“Where’s home?” I ask, thinking I can give her a ride if it’s not too far.

The woman visibly shudders and squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head no. “That’s not an option,” she whispers.

Normally, I’m more than happy for people to keep their lives and thoughts to themselves. But this woman? I want to know all of her secrets. Why doesn’t she want to go back home? Why did she leave? Where is she going? Does she even have a plan? Money? The more I think about this young woman traveling on her own in her unsafe vehicle, the more agitated I get. Anything could have happened to her.

She’s here now.

I take a cleansing breath, letting that truth settle in my soul. She’s here now. I can take care of her, whatever that means. I’ve never felt this way and I’m not sure what to do about it. All I know is that I can’t let this woman go. Not without knowing she has a plan and she’s safe.

“Look, I, uh, I appreciate you looking at my car,” she starts. “Truthfully, I don’t have the money to fix it. Do you know of any place I could sell or scrap it? It’s an older car and the parts are metal instead of plastic or aluminum. That has to be worth something, right? I can take that money and…” She nibbles on her bottom lip again, unsure of how to finish her thought.

How did she end up here? It sounds like she just got in a car and drove and drove and drove until it broke down on her. But why?

The woman sways a bit on her feet, steadying herself with a hand on the car. I look up at her, noticing for the first time how pale she is. A thin sheen of sweat beads her forehead as she continues to prop herself up against the vehicle.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she answers unconvincingly. “Just must have forgotten to eat something today.” I frown and she looks away from me as if ashamed. “Okay, so maybe it’s been two days. I don’t know.”

I move closer, resting a hand on her hip to keep her steady. “When was the last time you had any water?” I ask in a soft tone.

"Uh…" The look she gives me says it all. Of course, she's not feeling well if she hasn't eaten or had any water in two days. She's going to pass out–

No sooner do I think the words than the woman’s legs give out and she collapses into my arms. I immediately scoop her up, ignoring how good she feels right here in my embrace.

Carrying her inside, I take the mysterious woman to my office in the back and carefully lay her down on the couch. I grab a clean washcloth and dampen it with cool water before placing it on her forehead. Kneeling down in front of the couch, I take her pulse, relieved when it’s well within normal range. She needs water and a good meal and I intend to provide both for her when she wakes up.