Faith & the Dead End Devils (Sweet Omegaverse, #8)(78)

"Someone's been playing boy scout since we got back from the ride," Skid said.

Rider snorted as I tried again—and failed again—to ignore them. "When's the last time you got laid, Ghost?"

When your brother fucked me into his mattress and then told me not to come back, I thought, grimacing at the engine in front of me.

Skid feigned a whisper. "I know what's got his balls all bunched. There's new pussy around, and he's not getting a piece of it."

I nearly burst out in laughter, but Skid misinterpreted the hitch of my smile and ran with the joke.

"Pretty little thing, the whole group of them pretending they ain't dangling ripe omega right in front of us," Skid said. "You ever knot an omega cunt?"

Rider started to hum, pretending to think, and I rolled my eyes.

"Don't be a dickhead, we all know we've never been within feet of an omega before. Not one with a perfume, who wasn't already bitten and claimed," I said.

"And now here we have one all but in our laps," Rider mused speculatively.

And I happened to despise her. Or was at least burning with a jealousy that pooled acid in my chest. Even so, I didn't like the direction of the conversation.

"Ass is ass, cunt is cunt," I said, looking up from my work as Skid chortled. "And hers isn't worth three of my brothers wanting to rip my balls off."

"Don't chu know? Ghost prefers betas," Rider said, low and sinister.

My eyes didn't know where to look. Was I imagining the pointed hint in his voice? Did he know about my relationship—no, it couldn't be called that, could it—with Chance? My back was so tense, it was starting to drive daggers of pain up into my head.

"I'll take my chances with whatever cunt I can get," Skid said.

Rider snorted. "We know."

"Can you two fuck off so I can focus?" I asked, sharper than before.

Quiet followed and my jaw ground, adding to the growing headache. I was not this guy, pissy and defensive, telling my friends to fuck off. Rider had once told me that I had the walk and attitude of a man who was perpetually getting his dick sucked. Maybe that's what I need, I thought, lying to myself.

"Man, what is your—"

"Sure thing, brother," Rider answered me before Skid could jump down my throat.

The work bench creaked as they rose, and my fist clenched around the wrench, muscles coiling tighter, just wishing one of them would reach for me, start a fight.

I imagined the clamp of a hand on the back of my neck, fingers digging in, and I held my groan behind my lips, head dropping forward as Skid and Rider's boots marched away.

I needed Chance. It wasn't those dickheads' fault I couldn't focus. I wasn't tense because they were disgusting idiots. I needed to be fucked, dismantled from the persona I wore every day, exposed for the truth. Weak. Worthless. Desperate. Disgusting.

I released the breath I'd been holding, sucking in a fresh lungful of grease and hot concrete and metal. Boots crunched over stone, and I rolled my neck on my shoulders, preparing for whatever private chew-out Rider was bringing.

"Don't tell me, Skid left his dick behind again," I said, bracing.

"Uhhh, I hope not. For his sake, whoever he is."

I stiffened, dropping the wrench and rising, turning to face the unfamiliar voice. The man standing in the open entrance of the garage was tall, handsome, with long brown hair tied back in some kind of artful man bun that would've gotten him eaten alive in the club. He was a civvy of some kind, and not a face I recognized.

I stepped forward, glancing over his shoulder to see the yard between here and the club clearly. This guy didn't look like a member of the Wasted. His hair was too long, and he was too…pretty, really, in a masculine way. But he definitely wasn't a local.

"Can I help you?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

He grinned, all easy and cheerful, and stepped forward. His boots were right for riding, and they looked dusty, like he'd been out on the road with them, but there was something off about him that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise up.

"Gabe Cleary. My Triumph has a broken carb," he said, nodding his head to the left. "Station down the way on 78 said you'd be the place to take it."

"Didn't hear the tow."

"I walked it," he said.

That was a solid five miles away, which explained the hair bun, and also the sunburn on this guy's face and shoulders. I moved forward and he walked back, leading me out of the garage. His scent was juicy, almost alluring, but there was a sharp bite underneath the sweetness, enough to warn me this was an alpha in sheep's clothing. Not that I'd been likely to let my guard down with everything going on with the club.

But as promised, sitting just out of sight, was a dusty Triumph 900 Thunderbird. It looked to be in decent shape, an older model than I'd expected. It was the kind of bike I would've coveted for my own collection, really, a biker's beauty. There was no real rule of thumb when it came to who rode what, but I couldn't resist eyeing this guy over, trying and failing to imagine him on the bike.

"What do you think? Can you fix it?" he asked, still smiling.

Too friendly, bad timing, my head warned.

"Definitely. But I'm booked up for a couple days, and it'll take that long to get the part anyway," I said.