Page 4 of Psycho

Huxley didn’t get that memo. He was a drunk bully who wanted a fight. And I was a scrawny twenty-something newbie, who looked like an easy target in comparison.

He accused me of putting my hands on his Old Lady. Which wasn’t true, since I never went anywhere near her.

But the damage was done. Messing around with a biker’s woman was a serious claim, and no one took it lightly.

Before I had a chance to defend myself, Huxley had me pinned to the dirt, trying to puncture my lung with that damn knife.

He ended up in prison, charged with attempted manslaughter.

“Why are you bringing up that asshole’s name, Prez?” I asked, my gut sinking with dread.

Pretty Boy gave an apologetic pause.

“He broke out of jail last night.”

I closed my eyes with a groan.

“And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that revenge will be at the top of his list.”

“Exactly. You’ve got a target on your back, my friend.”

I balled up my rag and tossed it on my workbench. This was not what I wanted to hear after three days of no sleep. With Huxley on the loose, I wouldn’t be resting easy any time soon.

“It looks like The Filthy Rebels will be darkening our doorstep again,” Pretty Boy added. “And this time, they’re coming after you.”

The breath punched out of me.

Shit.

Chapter two

Bobbie

I rubbed the scar in my palm out of habit, left there by the marriage pact I swore to Arrow all those years ago. A childish, foolish promise, sealed in blood. As if that was supposed to mean something. As if that would make it impossible to break.

I lingered on the other side of the street, watching the hustle and bustle of Steele Repair Auto Shop where Arrow worked.

Psycho, I corrected myself. He’s known as Psycho now.

Did he choose that nickname for himself? Was it some tongue-in-cheek irony to take the sting out of the struggles he’d endured with his mental health?

Or did his friends call him that? The crazy one. The lunatic. The psycho.

Arrow closed the hood of the minivan he was working on, gathering his tools from his workbench and piling them into his toolbox.

He looked good. Really good.

Taller than I remembered. With broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a scruffy five o’clock shadow that darkened his jawline. Back when we were kids, he used to keep his hair cut short in a bristly buzzcut. But now it was long enough that I could run my fingers through it, silky black strands like ink.

As Arrow reached to retrieve a wrench, his henley rode up a few inches, exposing a swath of tattoo at his side.

He used to be a quiet, introspective boy, prone to long bouts of silences when he was caught up in his own thoughts.

The man I saw before me was…different. Effortlessly masculine, confident. And hot. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I chewed my thumbnail, hugging my knees to my chest. Guilt gnawed at my gut for avoiding him.

It’s not stalking, I reasoned. I’m simply observing. From a distance. In secret.