I look at him, skepticism riding me hot and hard. I can't figure why the boys would give me a car, when neither Callum nor Oscar ever had one. And now, Aaron doesn't have one either when he needs it most.

“Why don't Cal and Oscar have their own cars?” I ask, truly curious. But even though I don't mean to, my voice is thick with disbelief and suspicion. Nothing good ever comes for free. Fucking nothing. I'm under no illusion that I'm a goddess to these boys—these men. Victor might be into me, Aaron maybe even loves me still, but I've seen what they can do, how easily I can be thrown away. That, and I'm still pissed about the video. There was a breach of trust there, and it's not something I'm going to get over easily.

“I totaled my last car,” Callum says with a shrug of his shoulders, pulling out a packet of salted almonds from his pocket and pouring them into his palm. “Got my license taken away. We pull enough illegal shit without bringing the cops’ attention to me on a technicality.”

“I have no interest in owning a car,” Oscar explains, completely deadpan. “If I wanted to waste my time playing chauffeur, I’d have been born as Hael Harbin.” He tucks the iPad under his arm and gives me a look. “Trust me: if it were up to me, I wouldn't give you such a nice car. Hael has enough to do without spending hours every day under a hood.”

“Who fixes these up then?” I ask, pointing at the other cars.

“I consult; we have people who do the grunt work,” Hael says, moving back over to the shell of a vehicle that's supposed to be mine. He taps the side again, caressing it with tattooed hands like an adoring lover. “But not on this one. I'm going to have everything I need towed to my place, so I can work on it on the regular.”

“But why?” I repeat, genuinely curious. I can't for the life of me understand why they'd do this for me, not without getting something in return. And trust me: I've been giving them the one thing I thought they truly wanted. Unfortunately, they're going to keep playing the mysterious card on me, and I'm not going to learn shit now am I?

“It doesn't matter why,” Vic says, going back to being an asshole. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bernadette?” He drags my full name across his tongue like it’s poison.

I ignore the entitled fucker.

“What about Aaron?” I ask, thinking of the girls. I’m not about to accept a car when his got freaking fire-bombed—and likely because of what I did to Kali’s face.

“We’ve already selected one for him,” Vic adds, pulling a pair of keys from his pocket and tossing them to Aaron. “Happy early birthday from the rest of us assholes.”

“Hint,” Callum starts, hopping down off the hood of the car he’s standing on and pointing down the row of vehicles. “It’s the Bronco.”

“It’s a ’96. Highly desirable. Already a classic. The value on these rises every year,” Hael explains, so euphoric sounding that if I didn’t know better, I’d think he were rubbing one out over there.

Aaron studies the white SUV with a slight smile.

“What about our other gift?” Aaron asks, looking from me to Vic and back again. “For Bernadette, I mean. Are we really doing that here?”

“Oh, we're doing it now,” Vic says, reaching into a bag on the ground beside him and pulling out a box of latex gloves and a tattoo machine before he turns his attention to me, lifting the items up for emphasis. “Get ready, Bernie, because you're about to get your Havoc tat.”

“Officially becoming one of us,” Callum adds, grinning as he stuffs almonds into his mouth and flashes a monster's smile. It's scary, how pretty he is but how dangerous. I never expected I'd see him kill a boy though, not now, not ever.

Much to my surprise, Victor ends up handing the tattoo machine over to Aaron, of all people. One of my brows goes up.

“Last person to join tattoos the newbie,” Vic says with a grin, tossing Aaron a pair of the black gloves. “Hope you've been practicing.” My eyes find the letters inked into Victor's knuckles, the lines blown-out and ragged. It adds to his attractiveness though, adding a hint of danger to an already sharp appearance. My attention slides to Oscar and Hael next. I'm not sure who the true second-in-command is, but one look at their knuckles and I can take a guess. Hael's work is fine-pointed and exact while Oscar's is more utilitarian. Oscar then, had to be second. I would recognize Vic's work anywhere.

I look up at Aaron as he fingers the silver machine in his hand, his gold-green eyes contemplative as he studies it with an expression somewhere between resignation and fear. When he looks back over at me, I can tell he's conflicted.

If he does this, it might be too late. I might never escape.

Little does he know: I don't want to.

“Are you sure?” Aaron asks, as if he or I have some choice in the matter. We look at each other, and it's as if the rest of the world falls away. The smell of grease from the open garage, Hael's coconut oil, Callum's cinnamon-sugar almonds. Oscar's intense scrutiny, Vic's unrelenting stare. Aaron takes another step toward me, putting the toes of our shoes together. “I mean, do you want me to do this for you?”

He takes my hand and rubs his thumb over my naked knuckles, igniting every nerve ending in my body.

There's a long pause before Oscar approaches with a small glass bottle filled with black ink.

“Bernadette likes it here, don't you, Bernadette?” he purrs, lifting the glass up between two fingers and shaking it back and forth so that it sloshes around inside the bottle. “Stop dragging your feet, Aaron, and accept it.”

Aaron's jaw clenches and he runs his fingers through his auburn hair, taking a step back and turning away, toward the dark maw of the garage.

My eyes narrow, and I exhale, feeling all of their eyes watching me, like they did that day in Billie's trailer, when I stripped my tits bare and changed in front of them. This is worse, though, like my soul is exposed somehow, like I'm emotionally naked in front of them.

“I'm not designed to live any other life,” I say, and the words feel too real, like I wasn't quite ready to say them. I move over to the rusted shit-heap that's supposed to be my future car and hop up onto it, shedding my pink leather jacket as I do. “So do it. Make me bleed for Havoc again.”

“We need to talk about the video,” Vic says finally, and I laugh, shivering as Aaron lays the tattoo machine down on the hood next to me, and starts to slip into the gloves. As he snaps the black latex into place, I get all sorts of dark thoughts, and my mind strays back to his hard body under mine as I rode him into a violent climax. My eyes lift to Aaron's and stay there.

“What is there to talk about?” I quip as Aaron reaches out to take my hand. Even with the latex covering his fingers, I shiver when he touches me, laying my left hand out on my jeans-clad thigh. He weaves our fingers together, and it's impossible to miss the way Vic's staring at us.

“I want to offer up an apology,” Victor says, and Aaron goes stone-still, lifting his gaze up to his leader's like he's seriously pissed him off. “I was wrong. No excuses. I fucked-up.”