6. Gavin

6

GAVIN

S ome days drag on for what feels like weeks.

This week's been full of those days. I'm worn down and strung out. My job has always taken its toll, to the point where I'm numb to the gore, the bodies.

Because I deal in blood .

I always have.

From the first time I fought off the group of older boys in juvie trying to beat me down and rape me, putting four of them in the hospital and one in the morgue, to the notches I put in my helmet for my country, even more when my country turned on me, and the multitude of bodies that piled up under the cash in the private sector.

Money or orders, the true currency is always blood.

And it carries its own price on my soul every day. What's left of my soul, anyway.

So, when I get home after cleaning up another gang hit and find someone skulking around my garage…well, let's just say they're lucky I didn't stab first and ask questions later. I'm rattled, shaking from sleep deprivation, and running on six cups of coffee and an Adderall.

But even my wavering double-vision can tell something's off in the shape of the silhouette, the way the person moves.

Training ticks off the facts, assesses the situation.

Smaller frame.

Too short.

Long hair.

Might be a crackhead, a hobo who wandered onto my property. Happens occasionally.

No. Too clean.

It's their smell that hits me first, takes me off guard. Subtle, cinnamon sweet, and soothing.

I'm taken off guard again when blue-gray eyes, wide with shock, look me straight in the eye. More than the surprise at the bold gaze that doesn't shy away from my glare, it's the fact that I know those eyes that really has me shaken.

Where have I seen those eyes?

I don't, however, know the soft, round face that goes with them, the flowing, waving dark hair framing that face that curls down to her waist. And I don't know what to do now that I've got her pinned to the metal siding, becoming more and more aware of her cushy curves pressing up against me.

What I do know is that I should back off before a part of my body lets her know exactly what her scent and the feel of her hips are doing to me.

Fuck. It's been so long since I've been this close to a woman.

"Well?" I grind out. It takes me a few seconds to realize she can't answer around the grip of my hand at her throat. Whoops.

I step back, releasing her but keeping my guard up. She's just been attacked, and you can never predict how someone's going to react.

"Who are you?" I ask again, trying my best not to growl like a deranged grizzly bear. It's difficult to focus beyond the thoughts of scrubbing the blood and sweat off my body and collapsing into my bed.

A fleeting image of her lying sprawled across my sheets naked flashes through my head.

I'm losing it. A deep breath helps clear my head.

She's flushed, her hands quivering, probably from adrenaline. Most people aren't used to what it does to you. She'll get sick to her stomach soon from it.

Shockingly, her eyes don't show fear.

A glare that could give me a run for my money nails me right in the eyes. She's not terrified, she's… pissed off.

Keeping my eyes on her face, shadowed in her incredible hair, I try my best to ignore the fact of how I must look. Forgot to take off my leather apron, spattered in guts and bone chips. Haven't shaved in a couple of days.

But she takes a deep breath after giving me a once up and down and says, "Are you Gavin Rorshak?"

Guts. This girl's got guts .

In my visceral state, it riles something deep inside me in a way I haven't felt since…

My tactical brain tells me to snap back to attention.

This woman knows my name.

My real name. Not the one on the mail I get at this address. The real name that would get me disappeared to a black site and waterboarded for treason.

Alarms go off in my head, logic telling me to kill her, dispose of the body, shut down, pack up, get the fuck out of Sanctum. But my instincts are quiet. Calm. I've always trusted my instincts. It's why I disobeyed unforgivable orders and went dark.

"I'm only going to ask you one last time. Who are you? What are you doing here?" My hand drifts to the Glock holstered at my hip. She follows the movement before looking back at my face.

Where do I know her from?

"I–I was told you could help me. My Aunt Rachelle…"

It hits me like a freight train. Those eyes.

His eyes.

Damon Michaels. My best friend.

"Good God. You're…"

"Hellena. Yeah. She thought it was about time we met." Is that a smirk curling the edge of those supple, round lips?

I catch myself, jabbing the tip of the skinning knife in my left hand into my thigh to stay grounded. She's my best friend's kid.

That realization settles into my skull with a thud.

But it does nothing to relieve the wonder that keeps my heart pounding at this beautiful creature standing in my driveway. The voice that gives orders in my head is shouting off in the distance that I'm off the deep end and need to go to bed.

She's a stranger, for all intents and purposes, but I can't seem to get my gut to believe that.

Memories filter into the mix as I slide my blade back into its sheath. Memories of her dad through great times and the worst I've ever lived.

None of that should have any bearing on meeting her, but it does.

Sighing, I carefully raise my hands to show her I'm not going to hurt her. It doesn't seem to have much of an effect. Hellena's standing with her arms crossed, holding herself rigid.

Fuck, she must be freezing out here.

"Come on inside. It's too cold out here to talk."

Some clarity settles in as we step into my living room and I become even more self-aware. If I don't strip my gear off and shower, the whole house is going to stink. Sweat, gore, bleach, and ammonia. They're common to me, the usual smells of my job. Now, they stink my eyes and burn my nostrils.

"I'll, uh… be right back." A quick trot to the garage leaves the worst of the items in the disinfectant tub, and I step back into the warmth of the house to find Hellena sitting on my couch like she belongs there.

"Why are you, um, covered in blood?" She's staring at me like I just killed someone, which technically isn't true. But.

The gang wars have gotten out of control lately. The Holy Ghosts. The Block MC. And they all call me to clean up. It's part of the way the gangs in Sanctum work. They keep their little wars as quiet as possible.

Ridiculous. But it pays my bills, buys my safety here.

"Work stuff. Do you mind if I…?"

"No. Go ahead." She waves toward my room like she has every right to give me permission to shower in my own home.

For the first time in a long time, I'm completely out of my depth here.

How am I supposed to deal with Damon's daughter? I haven't seen him in years. No one has.

The thought gathers into a concept as I make my way into my room and drag my sweat-soaked shirt over my head. She's clearly here for a reason. I just need to fix whatever little problem she has and send her on her way.

Yeah. That's it.

"Why don't you start from the top? Fill me in on… well, everything."

"That could take all night," she says loudly so I can still hear.

"Good point. Let's go with bad news first."

"Heh, it's… all bad news." A little chuckle that sounds so much like Damon greets me as I lean in my doorway. Her eyes dart away from my bare chest. Hope she's not uncomfortable. On the other hand, I'm not about to change my whole routine because someone's here.

It's not discomfort that I see there.

She's calculating. Taking notes in her head, assessing. I know that look and what's behind it—a wit and intelligence that never misses a damn thing. She's smart like her dad. He really was one of the smartest people I've ever met, except when it came to women. From the little I know, Hellena's mom was a real piece of work.

"Basically, there are some bad people whom I owe money to. They threatened Rachelle, and I need to get the money together way too soon."

"And you thought I would want to get involved?"

"No! I mean, that's not… Okay. I really should start further back."

And she does, pretty concisely, without as much fluff and self-centered bullshit as I would have expected from a twenty-something-year-old woman.

Her mother, her stepfather, and I know she glosses over some of the stuff that went on.

How she came to Sanctum, if not exactly why, although I get the feeling it's something pretty horrible.

Finding out her father is dead, or missing so long that he might as well be.

Her schooling, extracurricular activities, and how they led up to her getting talked into making a bad call and getting caught. Frankly, a lot of it's kind of silly. Like a stereotype from a B movie, and she admits as much when she tells it.

But it's real, and none of it sounds like she's trying to play me. It's her life, so it matters to her. And she is in real danger.

My tactical brain says no way.

Trouble. Unnecessary risk.

Her behavior tells me that she'll do it again, in some capacity, even just by mistake. She's absolutely in over her head. I should send her packing for my own good.

Something holds me back.

Maybe it's the worry in her eyes, the way she's keeping it together where most people would lose their shit. Maybe it's just because she's Damon's kid and I feel responsible. That I owe him.

Or maybe it's the old goddamn heroics, that spark I thought was long dead in me.

A beautiful woman in trouble. Gavin to the rescue.

And I said Damon was an idiot with women…

I find myself heading to the fridge as she talks, grabbing a couple of bottles, popping the tops. She takes the beer without hesitation. Is she old enough to drink? Has to be, if memory serves me right.

She catches the question in my eyes and rolls hers. "I'm twenty-four."

"Uh. Thanks. Sorry." I can't keep my eyes off her as she continues.

"Anyway, now this psycho wants double or he's going to…" Her fists clench the top of her jeans. I wait, letting her fight through the fear and frustration. "It just… all blew up in my face." She's not wallowing in self-pity, just stating facts as she wraps up her story. "Now, I just want to make it through this alive, and more so, I have to make sure Rachelle gets her life back. No matter what."

That determination sends a chill down my back, fueling that little spark into a flame. Fuck. I want to help her. I have to.

The second she stepped through that door, I felt the draw.

Of course, I can compartmentalize. Heading back into my room, I crank the water on as hot as it will go.

"What do you do for a living, Mister Rorshak?"

"Gavin. Call me Gavin. I'm not that old!" Well, much older than her, but not quite old enough to be her dad. She laughs, and my stomach clenches at the sound. This house hasn't heard laughter in a long time. It's musical.

"I'm a mechanic. More or less. I fix things, clean up messes." And by fix, I mean I dispose of murdered corpses. Clean up evidence. Occasionally finish off a hit gone wrong.

"Like industrial waste kind of stuff?"

"Sure." Wastes of human life, criminals, gang members, murderers.

I push the door closed, dragging my pants down as the water heats to a steaming blast. From this angle, I can still see her through the crack, out through my open bedroom door. Taking my eyes off her takes an effort of will, but I have to if I'm going to shower. There's nothing but silence for a while as I stand there under the water, scrubbing. Usually, I would take my time, scour myself several times, let the water ease the tension in my back and shoulders.

But my buzzing brain won't let me relax, wondering what she's doing out there. Other than sitting awkwardly on my couch with nothing to do.

Playing host is not in my skill set.

Stepping out, I whip a towel around me, swishing it a couple of times and tucking it around my waist. I'm halfway done drying my hair when I realize the door swung back open and she's staring right at my back, her cheeks flushed a bright pink.

She looks away quickly when she sees me looking.

Another pointed reminder that she's Damon's. We used to call him Demon. Not just because of how viciously he fought, but for how red he would get when he got embarrassed, agitated, or flustered.

Only with her, it's stunning. And I have to shove away the swell of male pride that surfaces at the idea that I might be making her flustered with my half-naked body.

Yeah, right. Get your head out of the clouds, Gavin.

She's your best friend's daughter.

Who needs protection from two guys I know I've run into before, members of the Holy Ghosts gang. Not the kind of people you cross or get away from easily. Which means I can't let my guard down for a second if I do this. A moment of distraction could mean we're both dead.

I definitely should not do this.

The problem is, the second I look out there and our eyes meet, it's like she knows exactly what I'm thinking and exactly how to use it against me. And when she asks again, "Will you help me?" there's an intensity in her gaze that has my heart skipping a beat.

Just like that, I'm done. She's won.

I'm so fucking dead.