Not giving a single damn he’s hurt, Gunz seizes my hand and folds his clammy fingers through mine. Those intense blues bore holes through me as he speaks. “I wanted to see you first. To make sure you know I’m sorry and I’m never fuckin’ leavin’ you again.” The sentiment is sweet, his care palpable… but he’s… hurt.

  “Jesus Christ.” I scrub a palm down my face. “That can come after we get the bullet out of you.” Like right now.

  Before I panic, I squeeze Gunz’s hand in the tightest hold I can muster and drag his stubborn ass behind me, over to the ambulance where his brother’s outside, stitching up another Sacred Sinner on the lid of a cooler. I drop Gunz’s hand, throw up his shirt, and expose the wound to Bonez.

  His brother’s wide eyes, pursed lips, and head shake say it all as he motions for us with the flick of his chin to climb onto the back of the ambulance. Before we do, I help Gunz out of his cut and hand it to Niki to keep safe. She hugs it to her chest, her eyes pinched closed, and smells it. I do my best to ignore the jealousy it bubbles to the surface as I tug his shirt over his head. He trembles and loses his breath for half a second as I discard the ruined fabric into a nearby bin. Not causing any fuss, he uses the railing to climb into the ambulance first, leaving bloody fingerprints on the steel in his wake, me hot on his tail.

  Ever so slowly, Gunz perches his behind on the edge of the stretcher as I sit across from him on the bench, out of the doc’s way. Like he can’t stop touching me, to make sure I’m okay, Gunz reaches out for me to take his hand into mine as he uses his other to cover the swollen injury. Gently squeezing his fingers in support, a slender, clean-shaven, white-haired man enters through the side door, takes one look at Gunz, and rolls his eyes heavenward. “You’re a dumbass.”

  My injured guy… friend… whatever you wanna call him… tries to pull a smile, but it ends in a wrinkled scowl. My expression mimics his in sympathy. “I know,” he wheezes out as his shoulders hunch forward in noticeable discomfort.

  “This’ll be the fifth I’ve dug out of you, boy. You’d think you would’ve learned by now,” the older man half-chastises, a hint of humor simmering beneath the surface.

  Holy crap… Five times. F-i-v-e.

  I shake my head at the thought.

  “It’s been almost a decade, old man,” Gunz grumbles.

  “Since the last?” Doc fusses with supplies on the wall at the head of the bed.

  “Yeah.”

  The male chuckles. “Well, alright, then. Guess you’ve learned a lil somethin’, huh?” He pops open a small compartment.

  Gunz looks up at me through dark lashes and rolls his eyes. “Seems so.” Despite his misery, a tiny smirk twists at the edge of his lips, just noticeable through his unkempt beard. I deliver him a sunnier one in return, so he knows I’m here to stay. That he’s gonna be okay.

  “Now, who’s this, pretty lady?” Doc flashes me a flirty smile over his shoulder and winks. Out of courtesy, I return a polite grin.

  Gunz is not impressed. His deepening frown says as much. “No more questions, Doc. Just cut me open.”

  The white-haired man tsks his patient. “Now. Now. You talk. I work.”

  “She’s my old lady.”

  Whoa. I’m… his…

  I don’t get a moment to contemplate whatever that means before the old man fires a high-pitched whistle and slaps his knee. “Damn. You gotta old lady now. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

  Patience hanging by a thread, Gunz chews his bottom lip for a long, painful pause before speaking. “Just cut the fuckin’ bullet from my gut,” he forces out.

  If he’s done, I’m done. Old lady or not, Gunz is hurt, and I don’t enjoy seeing him this way. Sweating profusely, the hair curls on his chest, and his skin glistens in the overhead lights. Speckles of blood dot his face and bald head. I watch him breathe. Each respiration’s more difficult than the last.

  Doc lays a small bag on the floor beside Gunz’s foot and digs around in the thing. “Might need to put ya to sleep for this.”

  “Just give me the morphine.”

  “We’re out.”

  “Fuck. Fine. Numb the area then cut it out. I’m not goin’ to sleep.”

  “It’s gonna hurt.”

  “No shit.”

  Doc hums.

  “Gunz, it might be better if you just—” I start, only to be cut off by an adamant biker.

  “Not a chance, love. I’m—” His words are severed as a fast-working Doc stabs a needle into Gunz’s bicep and expels a plunger full of liquid. Glaring at the doctor, Gunz curses up a shitstorm.

  “Now, lay down.” Not giving Gunz a chance to fight him, Doc grabs his brother’s shoulders and forces him flat onto the stretcher. I move as they move, to keep our fingers entwined. Doc removes Gunz’s belt with a mighty tug, unfastens his jeans, and shoves them down his thighs to get more space to work. Then he folds the edge of his boxer briefs down, exposing the skull tattoo at his pelvis, and disinfects the wound with a squirt of iodine. Enraptured by his no-nonsense way of getting shit done, I watch Doc as my biker stares away from the scene, straight at me. His eyelids flutter open and closed until they come to a solid rest. Once his patient is out, Doc places a pulse-ox on Gunz’s finger, an oxygen mask over his face, and checks his blood pressure with a cuff from the bag.

  “What’d you give him?” I ask as quiet as a church mouse, not wanting to disrupt the process.

  “A sedative.” Another one of those charming, toothy smiles flashes my way.

  In the open bay, Bonez removes his dirty gloves, snaps on a fresh pair from a box on the wall and climbs in beside me. I release Gunz’s limp hand to give his brother’s large body room to maneuver in the smaller space.

  In sync, Doc and Bonez work as two bodies, one mind—far better than any doctors I’ve watched on any trauma series before. Or perhaps I’m biased because I’ve never seen this in real life. Not as a professor. Not even as a mother to Adam. He kept the bleeding incidents to a minimum. Skinned knees and a couple of broken bones, which I assume is normal when parenting boys.

  They speak in hushed tones as a group of Sacred Sinners, most of whom I don’t recognize, gather at the open doors to watch them work.

  “He’s gonna be pissed you put him down,” Bonez states.

  “I don’t care. It’s better than havin’ to hold him down and make his old lady listen to him scream.” Doc opens a small refrigerator and extracts a bag of blood. He hangs it on a hook above the stretcher. Then he IVs the sleeping man like he’s done this very thing a million times before and feeds the fresh blood into a vein as Bonez irrigates the wound with a syringe.

  In quiet fascination, I curl up on the seat to watch them, and they let me. One pries open the wound as the other fishes a gloved finger into the hole to assess the internal damage.

  “Nothin’ major,” Doc announces confidently.

  I sigh in relief, and two bikers standing watch throw their arms up in celebration before high-fiving. Tucking my arms around my middle for comfort, I chuckle to myself at their antics. Gunz means a lot to many people. He matters. It’s nice to see others care. Being a loner, it’s been a while since I’ve witnessed this level of give-a-shit. Not since… I was married, I guess. Before our world went haywire and I started on this new path of finding myself. Becoming the real Melanie. Realizing I don’t need anyone, but me and my son. Us against the world. My heart aches at the thought. Such lonely times.

  Wrestling their way to the front of the crowd, Loretta and Jade signal to me with a wave of their hands. Not knowing what to do, I return an awkward wave in greeting.

  “You need anything?” comes from a black-eyed Loretta.

  Shaking my head, I mouth, No thanks.

  “We’re here if you need us,” Jade adds, tugging the beanie further down her head, stopping just above her eyes.

  Thank you, I mouth, my chest getting all weird and fuzzy. For no reason at all, water clouds my vision. Turning away, I swallow to stop the icky emotions from doing whatever they’re doing. Jade and Loretta were my crew on the inside. I wasn’t alone with them by my side. They made sure of it. Outside, they’re doing the same. I love them for it and appreciate it more than they could ever know.

  To get my crap together for Gunz’s sake and my own, I close my eyes to do just that, and I’m transported back there—dark closet, cold floor, shivering, naked.

  Loretta nudges my shoulder. “Kit, ya gotta eat.” Her voice crackles with emotion.

  Refusing to show weakness, I cup my sore vagina. Viscous liquid coats my palm, remnants of their fun. “I can’t.” Or I’ll wretch.

  “Just a bite.” Jade presses a rough piece of bread to my cheek, trying to locate my mouth.

  I turn away, my stomach cramping in hunger, in…

  “Almost done,” Bonez announces, hurling me back into the now.

  I sag in relief, grateful to be here. Grateful to be alive. I shake my head to purge the raw memories.

  Suction and irrigation run in tandem as they remove the final fragments from Gunz’s abdomen. Before long, most of the blood bag is empty, and they’re stitching him up. I watch every minute of it and ignore the once was in preference for the what is. I pretend I’m not bald, that my skin doesn’t crawl with every breath, that I’m not tainted. I’m grateful. I… am. I’m strong. I…

  Straightening my spine, I focus on the bandage they place on Gunz’s ripped stomach, over the perfect line of stitches.

  Tossing bloodied gloves into a receptacle, Bonez turns to me. “Welcome to the family, Kit. I look forward to meeting my nephew real soon.” An exhausted smile is the best Bonez offers before he stuffs a fresh box of gloves under his armpit and slings a bag of supplies over his shoulder. “He’ll be up soon. Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks. You, too,” I call to his retreating form as the crowd parts and he jumps out of the ambulance, into the night. An angel to heal the less fortunate. A savior in leather. Right now, I couldn’t be prouder my son shares DNA with that man. One of the good ones. An obvious rebel with a heart of gold. It gives me hope for Adam. For his future.

  Just as Doc removes the mask from Gunz’s face, those pretty blues flutter open and land straight on me. “I’ve got you, love,” he slurs before passing out again.

  Cleaning up, Doc’s head shakes in amusement. “He’s gonna do that for a bit.”

  Less than a minute later, the same thing happens. “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey back.” I offer a tiny finger wave.

  “I’ve got you…” Out he goes again, his head lulling to the side, mouth slack.

  Wanting to be closer, I get up. “I’ve got you, too,” I whisper as I lean over to peck his upturned forehead, letting my lips linger there.

  He hums a deep, content kinda sound. “My… lady.”

  “Your lady,” I repeat, to hear it in my own words, to let it sink in.

  His lady.

  Gunz’s.

  I don’t know how I feel about that. Hell, I don’t know what to think about much of anything. Staying alive, staying sane, has been the focus for… however long we were kidnapped. Yuck. I don’t like that word.

  A terrible prickle rises at the base of my neck, forcing a shiver down to the tips of my toes.

  Eyes still closed, Gunz’s lazy hand flops around, seeking mine. An itty-bitty smile peaks at the corner of my mouth as I rejoin us as one. His cool, damp palm in my small, warmer one.

  The handsome man hums once again, squeezing our connection with far more strength than I expect. “Mine.”

  Yes.

  Yours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  KIT

  Elbow perched on the window ledge, palm cradling my face, I sag against the door and watch a colorful world pass by. Trees and grass. Grass and trees. The most beautiful sky I’ve ever seen. Gunz squeezes my knee, a simple gesture that means everything. Soothing heat penetrates through the cotton of my sweats where his hand lingers. Grateful for the connection, I pat the top of his hand to communicate what words cannot. I don’t know how or why, but he gets me. He knows what I need before I do. He reads between lines I didn’t know existed.

  I sigh loudly, one tick past the point of exhaustion, not the normal kind, the kind that makes your skin weigh a thousand pounds as it hangs off your bones. The half-gone Dum Dum in my mouth clinks against my teeth as I roll it to the other cheek. Peach. Another comfort from Gunz despite healing himself. Despite having been on the road for months, resting his head in places not home, eating fast food day after day. Not that you’d know it. He acts as if he wasn’t shot, as if this is the norm. Stubborn, strong, stalwart man. Beautiful man.

  Less than forty-eight hours ago, they freed us from hell. You’d think that’d mean the worst was over, right? Wrong. Wrong. Triple wrong. Nobody tells you what happens in the wake of trauma. You read books and watch movies where the girl gets banged up, then she’s saved. The survivor. The resilient one. What they don’t talk about is the edginess. The need to always glance over your shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When you close your eyes, you’re there again… like an old, scratchy record player that gets stuck on repeat. You worry about your friends. Not the normal kind of worry. The obsessive, anxious kind. You wonder how they’re doing. If they’re experiencing the same. If they’re sleeping. How they’re healing. But you can’t talk about it. Not with them. Not with anyone. Why? Because it’s not their burden to bear. On the slight chance, they’ve moved on… if they’re that woman in the movies, the resilient one who can pick up life where it left off, like nothing happened, you don’t want to trudge up horrors. It’s selfish. So, I live in the now for as long as I can before the eerie coldness reclaims me.

  At the thought, I shiver, despite the warmth in the truck.

  Once more, Gunz reads me like an open book. The hand resting on my knee squeezes longer than before, imbuing me with whatever magic he possesses. I calm as I always do, his enchantment weaving through me as I focus less on feeling and more on now. Loretta’s in the passenger seat, holding her man’s hand across the console. Rock music bumps low-key through the speakers—enough to make out the lyrics but not enough to really jam like I used to in my jacked-up truck. Man, that feels like a decade ago now. A different life.

  The rumble of tailpipes suffuses the air, a steady reminder we’re not alone. Men in leather joined our motorcade an hour ago. Sacred Sinners in the front, Sacred Sinners in the back—an escort home. The promise of a safe return.

  Brilliant streaks of the mid-afternoon sun gleam through a cloudless sky as we roll past a freshly painted compound gate and matching guard station. Black. Matte black. Those on bikes guide us across a parking lot crammed with people. Blimp parks our SUV next to another and cuts the engine. I don’t get a chance to ask Gunz what’s next when my door’s nearly torn off its hinges by a big-breasted blonde in an oversized Harley shirt and skintight leggings. I’d recognize the woman anywhere. Bink. One look at me, and bam, I’m hugged right out my seat. Having no clue how to react, I look over my shoulder for help, only to find Gunz climbing out behind me, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen, his eyes glistening in delight. A giant of a man with long, dark hair braided down his back shuts our door as I’m squeezed nearly half to death by a woman far mightier than she looks.

  “Welcome home.” Bink’s voice trembles, her breasts mashing against mine. Stuffing my nose into the side of her hair, I squeeze her back. Not because I have to. Not for any other reason than… I think I need it. Wetness begins to leak from my eye sockets into her strawberry-scented trusses. Not at all disgusted by this, Bink holds me tighter, making it more difficult to breathe. We sway together in the parking lot, feet slotted between feet. I note her sniffles alongside my own. The giant man grumbles his discomfort at our display, but neither of us seem to care as she clutches the back of my sweatshirt and I let her.

  A palm I know to be Gunz’s, by touch alone, lays upon my shoulder. He leans in and kisses the back of my beanie, then shifts, and I hear him kiss Bink’s head too. They exchange muffled words as his hand slides up and kneads the base of my neck, a reminder he’s here and not going anywhere.

  “Mom!” a voice I’d know anywhere calls above the raucous crowd of men and women, of bikes, and rock music pulsing from inside the clubhouse. “Mom!”

  My boy’s here!

  Having heard Adam, too, Bink releases me. I turn just in time to be swooped up by my son, all six feet of him. Wrapping both arms around Adam’s strong neck, he lifts me off the ground as if I weigh nothing. Spitting my empty sucker stick out, I pepper kisses across his cheek as tears of happiness rain down my face. I missed him. I missed him so much. He kisses me in return. The press of warm lips upon my cheek. Giving zero fucks how I look, or that I’m being a gross, icky mom in front of a parking lot full of bad boys in leather, he lets me love him. I accept the rare gift and kiss him until he begins to vibrate in full-body laughter at my ridiculousness. Heart full, I beam at his chuckles, at the way his chest quakes against mine, at his tangible joy. What an incredible feeling… a feeling I wasn’t sure I’d be lucky enough to experience again.

  Not caring if he minds, I wipe the remnants of my tears on his t-shirt-clad shoulder. Adam says nothing. Nor does he mind me squeezing him hard enough my muscles begin to twinge. Actually, the jerk doesn’t seem to notice. My mom muscles are no match for his. He bulked up in jail. The hardness of his pecs and the roundness of his shoulders are evidence enough. He put on some weight. I open my mouth to comment as much but stop short when I realize he’s talking to his dad for the first time outside of jail. Face-to-face, no glass between them.

  “How ya holdin’ up?” Gunz asks him as if he genuinely wants to know.

  Our son’s arms lock tighter around my center. “Good. Now that she’s home safe.”

  Awe. He was worried. Quite the change in our dynamics when I’m usually the one concerned about him and what shenanigans he’ll pull next.

  Alone in our hotel room last night, Gunz explained that Big, his president, picked Adam up from jail upon his release. Then took him to gather his things and brought him back to the compound to keep him safe. What that meant I didn’t know, nor did I ask. I trust him. It was late, and we were exhausted from being on the road most of the day. Now that we’re here and Adam’s here, I’m suddenly more tired than I’ve been since I was cut from my restraints.