Page 162 of Broken Pieces
Hell, he already did, that day I showed up at the garage after my first fight. I fed him a bullshit story about tripping while I was working on the car he gave me, said it was late and I was tired, and lost my balance.
He didn’t call me out on my bullshit, but I saw it in his eyes. That flicker of disappointment. He gave me that long, quiet stare and handed me the wrench.
He knows I’m falling.
Mason though… that fucker knows.
I caught the smirk on his face that morning in the workshop, stiff and aching after my first fight. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to as he leaned against the hood of the beat-up Chevelle he’s been working on with Rainer, arms crossed, mouth twitching with whatever smug bullshit he was choking back.
That’s when he said it. Called it a “hobby.” That one word, thrown out there with a little too much bite, a little too much knowing behind it.
It means he was there.
In the crowd watching. Probably one of the fuckers in the back corner placing bets, sipping beer, laughing with his boys.
And if he fucking says one word to Skylar or Rainer with that cocky mouth of his, I’ll end him.
Ten grand in cash. Stacked in a rubber-banded roll in my backpack, tucked between a busted charger and a half-empty bottle of painkillers. More money than I’ve ever touched in my entire fucking life.
It’s heavy in all the wrong ways. Stained before I’ve even touched it. Blood money.
I crashed at a piss-stained motel off the highway.
A place where people go to disappear. The walls reeked of mold and cigarettes. The mattress sagged in the middle. The sheets were stiff. The air con kept rattling, stuttering, before choking out warm air.
I lay there all night, eyes on the ceiling, with a sick weight crawling under my skin as I thought about her.
Skylar.
She deserves better than a guy who comes home with busted knuckles and a bag full of dirty money.
For the first time in my life, I want something clean.
Not easy, or perfect—just clean.
I want mornings where the sheets are tangled around her legs, where her hair’s a fucking mess and she’s half-asleep, grinning at me through the sunlight.
I want her voice to be the first thing I hear when I open my eyes.
I want her laugh, that low, raspy one she only uses when she forgets the weight she carries.
I know now that I want a fucking future with her.
I love her.
God, I fucking love her.
It’s not a gentle love. It’s brutal, consuming, and bigger than anything I’ve ever had inside me. It takes up all the space in my chest and still doesn’t fit. She’s everything… chaos and calm, fire and softness, and she doesn’t even realize it.
She smiles at me sometimes when she thinks I’m not watching, when Skylar forgets she’s supposed to keep those walls up. That smile tears straight through me, because I know what she’s giving me in those moments.
Trust. Hope. A glimpse of what life could be if I were someone else.
And it kills me. Every fucking time.
But the world I come from doesn’t hand out shit like that. It fucks you up early and teaches you to stop hoping. It dangles the good stuff close enough so you can taste it, and when you reach for it… it rips it away before you get your fingers on it.
Happy endings aren’t for people like me.
