Zoe
I threw myself into the bikes the next morning, mostly because I didn't know what else to do with everything sitting heavy in my chest. Jax had left before sunrise to chase down leads on the third man in the photograph, and Ryder had disappeared into his office with a stack of old club records he clearly didn't want company for, which left me alone in the workshop with nothing but engines and my own thoughts, which turned out to be a worse combination than I expected.
I told myself I was fine. I told myself that a lot, lately, and it was getting harder to believe it each time.
By midmorning I'd stripped down half of Jax's carburetor for no reason except that my hands needed something to do, and I was elbow deep in cleaning solvent when the wrench slipped and I split my knuckle open
