Page 12 of Enzo

“So bad, I don’t know… I took these… I…” I passed him my phone, and showed the photos Doc had ordered me to take in case this ever went to court. Yeah right.

Logan blanched, “Jesus fuck… what the… fuck.”

“He’s staying,” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest.

Logan stared at me, his eyes bright with emotion, and he passed back the phone. “No question.”

“I don’t want him in there alone, Lo…”

“The room is where he feels safe and it’s all that matters.”

“He’ll need a bathroom, his meds, food, he can’t physically stay in there.”

“He won’t,” Tudor said from behind us, and we both turned to see him sitting on the stool by the coffee machine. “He’ll be forced to use the bathroom after a while, or the pain will get too much, he’ll need to eat, and if he’s as much of a survivor as he seems to be, then hell, it won’t be long. Still, give him the space, yeah? Make it his. Sometimes, a body wants four walls close around them.”

Tudor was gray-haired, but a force of nature, less a part of the running of Redcars now he’d retired, but he was the reason we were all here, the one who’d opened up his world to us when we needed help, and I respected the hell out of the man. Redcars might not be Tudor’s place anymore, not since he’d passed the reins to Logan, but he was over here at least once a day, if only to poke his nose around the corner and huff if he caught us doing something wrong. Redcars was more than a garage—it was a safe haven for men with pasts that left them bruised and broken, a place where they could build something stable, something good. Like Greg, who came to us after doing three years for a crime he didn’t commit, struggling to find work because no one would give him a second chance. Or Mikey, who’d spent most of his life in and out of shelters before Logan had given him a place here and taught him how to rebuild engines. Redcars didn’t just fix cars—it helped rebuild lives.

“Jamie and Rio are bringing down the cot.”

“I heard,” Tudor said.

How long had he been sitting there listening? Had he heard all of that shit with Jamie and Rio promising vengeance? Pain throbbed at the base of my skull, the kind of headache that comes from too many hours spent grinding your teeth and overthinking everything. We had no idea what kind of hell Robbie had endured, what horrors he’d been subjected to, but I wanted to scoop him up and take him back to the bed upstairs.

“We need to talk,” Tudor said. “Get the boy settled, and then back here.” He pointed at the floor still rough with Rio’s scuff marks.

That didn’t sound good.

“He’s staying,” I blurted. “We can’t throw him out.” Tudor stared at me unblinking, and I backpedaled. Of course, he wouldn’t throw Robbie out. What the hell am I doing losing my shit like Tudor was the bad guy? “Sorry.”

“I know.” Tudor was doing his best Yoda impression, with his piercing eyes that could see right through a body to the mess underneath—freaking intimidating.

Jamie clattered down, arms full of blankets, and Rio single-handedly carried the cot under one arm and tugged the mattress behind him.

“Robbie?” I knocked on the door he refused to open, and thought about what the hell to do now. “We’ve got you a bed and stuff. Can you open the door? Robbie?”

The door creaked open. “You can’t come in,” Robbie whispered.

“We’re not coming in.”

“You can’t,” he said fiercely, and I saw the glint of something metal in his hand—a fork. Where the hell had he gotten a fork? He stabbed it toward me, his eyes wide, blood on his lips. Had he opened some stitches? This wasn’t right. Did we need to get Doc back?

“We’re not going to hurt you,” I said, but reached for him when he leaned against the door frame, going deathly white.

“Go away!” he threatened with another jab of the fork.

I held out a hand behind me. “Knife,” I snapped, and within seconds I had a blade in my hand. Robbie huddled in on himself.

“No. No.” he tried to shut the door, but I slid the knife in where he could hold it. Was this a good idea? Was he suicidal? Was he murderous? Shit, I’d just armed him, but…

He bent down to pick up the blade, and held it tight, staring at me, then tossing the fork out where it clattered on the concrete.

“Now you’re armed, okay? We can’t hurt you.”

Jamie placed the blankets within reach then moved to sit on a pile of used tires, fingers interlocked, his gaze fixed on the cracked tiles near his boots. Rio leaned the cot frame and mattress next to the open door, then went over to Jamie and paced, restless energy snapping off him like static. Logan hadn’t moved and Tudor was watching carefully.

We all watched as empty boxes were pushed out of the space, and the bed frame was dragged in—how the fuck he was doing that I didn’t know. “Don’t open your stitches,” I said so he could hear.

“I won’t,” he said, and then ruined the effect by coughing and spluttering.

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