Big claps his hands together. “Yeah. Seems it is. Now get your ass home. Sleep. I better not see your ugly mug for the next forty hours.”

  To be an ass, I cock a lopsided smirk and salute my best friend.

  He flips me off.

  Then we come in for a hug. Both arms. None of that one-armed, we’re too manly to embrace, bullshit. Huggin’ a thick, giant ain’t the easiest, but I pound his back, and he returns in kind. The familiar earthiness of his leather cut in my face sets me at ease as I finish our embrace with a final thump.

  Havin’ joined our hallway festivities, Viper whistles lowly, “Awe. Brotherly love,” as he approaches.

  The fucker opens his arms wide to Big and gets a punch in the shoulder. “Fuck off,” Prez rumbles, not at all impressed by our drunken brother’s antics.

  As if just now realizing shit’s off-kilter, Viper sees the dried ruminants of blood on me and our fearless leader. His eyes widen, and he points. His mouth moves without words. Big slaps the green-haired punk between the shoulder blades, his massive mitt covering more than half the span.

  “What happened?” Viper sputters out.

  Annnd that’s my cue to get the fuck outta here.

  I thumb by way of the incident for him to go check out if he wants, then bump shoulders with Big, slap Viper on the shoulder far harder than I should, and escape out the back door of the clubhouse before anyone tries to rope me into the welcome home party or attempts to blow me.

  Forty hours with my woman.

  Forty hours of bliss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  GUNZ

  With my son fast asleep on the couch, and clothes commandeered from my closet, I’ve showered, towel dried, and rebandaged my wound. Standing naked in front of the bathroom vanity, I’m minutes from getting shut-eye. I tug on a pair of ratty gray sweats, sans boxers, and brush my teeth as my phone vibrates on the counter with an incoming call.

  Expelling a groan, I flip the thing over. Bonez’s name is scrawled across the screen, along with his request for FaceTime.

  Only because he’s my brother, I hit connect, and prop the device on the back of my sink as I continue to do my business.

  “What do ya want?” I grunt good-naturedly when his face comes into view.

  “Checkin’ in.” He’s lounging in bed, phone held on his chest, just below his big, hairy pecs. I can see up his nostrils from this angle, and it’s not the best view.

  Speaking from the side of my mouth, I resume my dental hygiene. “Didn’t I already see your ugly mug this week?” I wink and waggle my eyebrows like a cartoon character.

  This yields an eye roll and snort from him. “Yep. When I was sewing your gut back together.”

  I pat the bandage. “Healin’ up.”

  “That’s good. Listen…” My brother’s eyes morph from normal, to glum, I’ve-got-important-feelings-shit-to-discuss—the edges go soft, a deep crease forms across his forehead.

  Fuck.

  I should’ve known.

  Not pleased by what’s about to go down, I grumble under my breath, “Big called you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Thought so.

  “I’m fine.” And I am.

  “You sure? ’Cause it’d be understandable if you’re not.”

  I’m not doin’ this. Not now. Not tonight.

  Toothbrush propped in the corner of my mouth, I smile wide around it and pat my living, breathing, still standing, albeit old-as-fuck body. I smack my biceps and my abs. To drive my point home, I dance around in a circle, twerk for the sake of makin’ him uncomfortable, and bow at the end of my small enthusiastic show. Toothpaste runs down my chin into my beard. I use a tissue off the back of the toilet to wipe the mess away and discard it in the trash when I’m through.

  The dim face on the phone is none too impressed with my conduct. Bonez opens his mouth to therapize me as pain-in-the-ass brothers often do. Well, mine.

  I arch a brow, testing him.

  He returns the exact sentiment, his lips smashing into a firm, unpleasant line.

  “You got somethin’ to say?” I press, doin’ my best to curb a smile. No need to piss him off when he’s obviously callin’ because he gives a fuck.

  “Nope,” is his simple, far-too-calm reply.

  Good.

  To ease the tension, I go about my post-shower routine of shaving, balming the beard, lotioning the tattoos, nail clipping, and shit like that as I ask him about life, how things are coming along there, and any new stuff I might have missed. Bonez is a talker, so it doesn’t take much to get him going.

  “Whisky hired more survivors to work at her bakery. They’re takin’ online orders now. Shipping anywhere in the US. Mags and Cas have been teaching classes daily on general car maintenance to the survivors. They’ve also taken in multiple survivors, not only to work at the shop, but Mag’s and Smoke have ‘em livin’ in their home.”

  Not surprising. My brother’s club is solid. Their old ladies are top-notch.

  “They’re good people,” I comment.

  He nods in agreement. “They are. The entire club has stepped up with the influx of newbies. Whisky especially.”

  That woman is a saint. A curvy, firecracker version of one, but still the best of humanity.

  “Take good care of Beth, please,” I express, not because it needs to be said, because I know better than to think they’d let her fall through the cracks. I say it because… guilt. The ugly kind. The kind that keeps ya up at night. I don’t feel it much. But for those I care for… those who matter in my world, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for them. Her included. Beth not ending up like Niki is goddamn paramount.

  Bonez’s expression goes soft along with his tone. “You know we will. Big wouldn’t have sent her to us if he didn’t trust we would.”

  He’s right.

  It’s just hard not havin’ a say in something like this. Not seein’ Beth and helpin’ her myself doesn’t sit well. I dunno if it ever will. Especially after Runner died. I was the one she vented to when he did what he did. The one to help pick up the pieces of her broken heart.

  We talk longer about life before he seems convinced I’m doin’ well enough to hang up.

  When we’re through, I palm my iPhone, quietly exit the bathroom, and join my woman in our bedroom. The flashlight on my phone works wonders in the darkness as I navigate around our bed. Kit’s asleep on her side, curled up like a burrito in the blue comforter. Not sure of the protocol of us sleeping together after what she’s been through, and knowin’ I don’t wanna wake her to ask, I pull my pillow off the side of the bed and grab a blanket from the top shelf in the closet.

  Having slept in worse places, I lay my pillow on the floor, close to the nightstand, and spread out by Kit’s side of the bed, in front of the door, not only as protection but in case she needs me. I leave enough space to keep from being stepped on should she need to pee in the middle of the night, as I often do. The blanket keeps my legs warm as I turn off my light, tuck both arms behind my head, and let my eyelids drift closed. Within seconds, I’m dead to the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  GUNZ

  Pacing my living room like a caged animal, my arms down at my sides, biceps flexed, jaw ticking, I pump my fists open and closed, open and closed, sucking furiously on a root beer Dum Dum. This is not okay. This is…

  “Gunz.” Debbie sighs my name as she and Candy Cane, two of the Sacred Sisters, give me a wide berth, watching as I wear a hole through the floor with my bare feet.

  This morning, Adam woke both his mom and me up when he knocked on our bedroom door to inform us he was headed to work at the Sacred Sinners’ auto shop and that the doc was here. The one Big told me about. The one who’s in our bedroom right now with my woman, doing God knows what to her body. The doc, a nice brunette close to my age, I’ve met multiple times before, as she’s a regular ‘round here to treat the sisters whenever they need. Them… not Kit. Not my female. Not…

  Goddammit!

  I’m losin’ my mind. That much is certain. My nightmares last night don’t help matters either. An hour of sleep, two tops, most of it riddled with visions of Niki, of the women, of Kit, of Runner, of blood, death, and decay. Drenched in a cold sweat, I woke briefly to check my lady was safe, only to once again be dragged back into the abyss, where the creepiest of terrors thrive, hungry for a midnight snack. Again and again, they came. Nightmares morphing into uglier versions of themselves. Tangible entities as real as you and me, breathing life back into the horrors like the resurrection of Frankenstein’s monster. We spoke—Niki and Runner, fragments of themselves.

  I shiver at the memory.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” comes from a concerned Debbie.

  Logically, I know she’s right. Try telling my brain that. He is not on board.

  Muscles aching as they contract, the vein in my forehead throbs in time with my pulse. I swallow hard around the sucker stick. It does fuckall to quell the racing thoughts. There’s no sound comin’ from the room. No words. I can’t hear or see a thing. All I can picture in my head is her, not here, but there, in the warehouse… on some table, tied down against her will, and those fucking pieces of vile shit raping her. They touched her in places I haven’t even been able to touch. Places that I don’t even know if she’ll be able to give me after what they’ve done. Not that I care. I’m not goin’ anywhere.

  I’m pissed.

  Scared.

  Sick.

  Gut churning somethin’ fierce, bile surges up my throat.

  I force it back down.

  It feels like hours since they entered the bedroom. Debbie and Candy Cane came with the doc. She greeted us. Even shook mine and Kit’s hands before taking her into the bedroom for an examination, with a medical bag slung over her shoulder. I know I need to give ‘em privacy. I understand this is irrational as fuck. But I’m spiraling like I’ve been spiraling for weeks. It’s getting worse. Not better.

  Debbie crosses the room and rests a fresh mug of tea on the entertainment stand for me. She gestures to it to let me know it’s there to drink whenever I want it. I mouth, thanks, unable to articulate legit words.

  Sweat drips down the sides of my face, collecting in the hairy beard/goatee shit I have growing on my face. The hair on my chest curls from perspiration. Droplets trickle down my abs and into the waistband of my sweats. I should’ve put a shirt on.

  “Gunz, why don’t you tell me what kind of food you’d like us to pick up for the house…to get you both settled in.” Again, Debbie changes tactics, clearly worried about my state of mind as Candy Cane types away on her phone, likely alerting the brothers to my outrageous behavior.

  I say nothing because I don’t know what food Kit wants at home.

  Our home.

  Christ.

  Home.

  She’s here.

  Ugh.

  Massaging the knot in my chest, right above that damn erratic organ, a tidal wave of realization crashes down on my shoulders about what’s happenin’ here… I’m a dad, but more than that, I’m someone’s old man. I’ve never been anyone’s anything. Not like this. How do you meet someone one day and end up here? I haven’t a fuckin’ clue. The universe is laughing her fine, stubborn ass off at me. The man who had his head on straight. The man who doesn’t fall in love. I wouldn’t know the first thing about what it felt like until now. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but the intensity is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I’m protective. I’ve loved. This is not the same. It’s watching the sun rise on the horizon for the first time after a millennium of nights.

  Knowing I can’t keep this up without worrying Kit half to death, and none of us need that added to our heaping pile of bullshit, I stop dead in my tracks, about-face, and meet Debbie’s gaze with determination set in my own. “Cheesecake for Adam,” I blurt before more word vomit ensues. “Fried pickles for her. They’re her favorite.” I recall from our walk by the dog kennels.

  The edge of Debbie’s mouth kicks up as if I’m amusing her. Candy Cane nods along with my words as she types on her phone, focused on me.

  On a roll, I take care of my family the best way I can at the moment and focus less on what’s goin’ down in the bedroom. A list of shit flows out. Shit she might need, shit she will need, and food I wanna cook for her because I’m gonna feed my woman well. Get some weight back on her bones. On mine too.

  “Clothes—” I begin, only to be cut off by the slim, big-breasted brunette running the show.

  “We’ve got that sorted,” Debbie explains. “The sisters already cleared out her place. Everything she’ll need from there is inside labeled storage bins in your garage. Jez and Bink are picking up more clothes today before they come home from Jade and Loretta’s. I’ll leave them and the groceries on your porch later.”

  That works.

  These women are lifesavers.

  We men are damn lucky to have ‘em.

  Bypassing the sisters, I head into the kitchen and grab the first rag in the drawer. It’s got ridiculously bright hearts and flowers on it. I use the thing to wipe the sweat from my face and body. A damp, stinky mess ain’t attractive to anyone. I don’t need my lady thinkin’ I’m some slob when I just got her home safe, under our roof.

  Now that that’s handled, Mrs. Doc better get her ass in gear. She’s got ten more minutes before I’m pullin’ the plug on this whole up-inside my woman’s vagina visit.

  But before that, I’ve got one last thing I wanna discuss with Debbie.

  With a half-assed toss, the damp rag meets the empty sink, before I rejoin the sisters for a little chat before they leave.

  Nine minutes and counting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  KIT

  Dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas, well, Gunz’s clothes, I make the bed, pick his bedding off the floor, and return the blanket to the closet where it belongs. His pillow rests beside mine on the mattress. I can’t believe he slept on the floor when there was plenty of room next to me. I know, he’s too considerate to assume I’d want him there after all that’s happened. But I do. He’s safe. I want safe. I want him. Plus, his nightmares kept waking me. Every hour, his tossing and turning became violent. Once, he kicked the bed frame so hard I was worried he’d broken a foot. Seems we are both experiencing, for lack of a better term, stuff. Stuff we should wade through today, ya know, if he has time.

  My new gynecologist left a little bit ago. The examination was your standard fare—a peek inside, a swab, and a blood draw from my forearm. No frills. No real discomfort. No flashbacks or triggers. It’s still weird to me that the Sacred Sinners have an actual gynecologist on their payroll, and she does house calls like it’s the 1800s. It was nice, though. She was nice. Accommodating. Informative. With far better bedside manner than most physicians.

  Collecting Gunz’s Sacred Sinner ring from the nightstand, I pocket it for safekeeping and exit the bedroom. The place is still. Peaceful. In the living room, I find the man I was hoping to see seated on the couch, his elbows perched on his knees, palms cupping either side of his skull as he leans forward, brooding. Or so it seems by the tension radiating from his bare, heavily inked shoulders and bestial grumbles he emits to himself.

  Hands stuffed in the pockets of my oversized pajama pants, I pause at the arm of the sofa, not wanting to invade his space. “Gunz?” I whisper, hoping not to spook him.

  The handsome man looks up slowly and blinks as if he’s surprised to see me.“Love?” Lines accentuate his eyes as they rake my form from head to toe, assessing every inch.

  Butterflies wreak havoc in my middle at his… attention.

  Unsure how to respond, I force a smile that looks more constipated than genuine and deliver a shy, two-finger wave. “Hi.” My greeting’s too high-pitched and awkward even to my ears. Heat singes my cheeks in embarrassment, but I refuse to look away.

  “Hi back.” The shirtless man sits up and once again does a full once-over of my body. “You look…”

  Growing even more uncomfortable by the second, I reach up and tug the edge of my beanie down to further cover my head.

  “Sexy as fuck,” he finishes with a low, flattering whistle.

  Oh.

  Wow.

  That’s not what I was expecting.

  A deeper blush suffuses my checks at the flattery.

  Worried he was gonna say something else, like how tired I look, or the weight I’ve lost, or how visible my bruises still are, I inwardly sigh in relief. This is far better. This is open, no-holds-barred attraction, like it’s the first time he’s seeing me, the real me, no makeup, no bullshit, no frills, and he’s savoring it.

  More butterflies take flight, losing their minds.

  I press a palm there to calm them.

  Giving zero fucks, those intense blues continue their perusal as Gunz pats the seat beside him. Right. Next. I glance at the spot I curled up in yesterday when Adam visited and back to him. Like a hawk, he watches my every move. Noticing everything. Missing nothing. Again, he pats the cushion inches from his thigh—slow and deliberate, coaxing. Okay. I can do this. Going along for the ride, I follow his lead. If I’m uncomfortable, I can always move.

  Wordlessly, I lower myself into the seat, hands on my knees, heart pounding a million miles an hour, like I’m some nerdy lovestruck teenager, and he’s my mega-hot high school crush. Sheesh, this is pathetic.

  Ever the gentleman, Gunz snatches the same blanket I had yesterday from the back of the couch and drapes it over my lap with practiced ease, his muscles flexing with every movement. Then he gets close. You know the kind—where you can smell his cologne, sense the radiant warmth, and see every intricate line on his forearm tattoo as he relaxes back into the cushions. Acutely aware of my own reaction to his proximity, I note his too—his labored breathing. Out of my periphery, I catch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s frowning. Not the angry sort, but in concentration. He adjusts something in his pants. It’s long and massive. You get what I’m referring to. If I had the gall to say it aloud, I would, but I’m a chicken shit.