Briggs straightens, the smirk slipping from his face. “You think there’s someone else pulling strings?”
“I don’t think so. I know.” I drag a hand down my face, sweat drying cold against my skin. “Serrano’s crew was too organized for it to end with him. You don’t build an operation that size and have it crumble overnight. Someone else was funding him.”
Briggs whistles low, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “Christ. So what’s next, then?”
“Don’t know yet.” I sling the towel over my shoulders. “I can’t see straight right now. Katana’s face is all I can picture.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got a hell of a glare,” he mutters, trying to lighten the mood. “Could stop a grown man mid-stride.”
I crack half a grin. “She didn’t stop me. Just gutted me.”
He chuckles low. “Guess that’s worse.”
“Yeah.” I roll my neck until it pops. “Much worse.”
Briggs leans against the post, crossing his arms. “Suit yourself, man. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. Keep beating the hell out of that bag until your bones give out, or figure out how to fix it.”
I stand there, my pulse thudding in my ears, the silence pressing in. He pats my shoulder once, solid and heavy, and starts toward the office. “Lock up when you’re done killing yourself.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, but I don’t move.
I watch him head for the door, the sound of his boots fading down the hall. The gym goes quiet again, just the steady hum of the old lights and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I glance at the bag. It’s still rocking, slow and uneven. I step forward and stop it with one hand, the rough canvas scraping my palm. My reflection stares back in the mirrored wall all sweat-soaked, bruised, and hollow. For the first time in a long while, I don’t recognize the man looking back.
My knuckles are split, blood welling slow and dark. I stand there another minute, listening to the echo of my own heartbeat, until the stillness feels unbearable. I press my thumb into one of the cuts until it stings sharp enough to focus me.
I hit the showers. The water takes too long to get hot, then goes skin-peeling. I stand under it until steam wraps around me and the tile stops feeling like a cold wall at my spine. It does nothing to rinse out the feeling that I should have done a thousand different things in a thousand different ways.
Eventually I get dressed, grab my hoodie and throw everything else into a gym bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I lock the side door, the key cold between my fingers. My SUV sits under a streetlamp with a halo of moths. I climb in and the seat groans like an old friend. Sirens whine somewhere in the distance and fades. The engine turns over easy, the radio is off cocooning me in a heavy silence.
I drive aimlessly at first. Green lights, red lights, the wash of neon and late-night diners and shuttered bodegas. A couple arguing on a corner. A stray dog nosing a pizza box. I catch myself checking mirrors for a bike that isn’t there. Stupid habit. I cut across two lanes to make a turn I didn’t plan, then another to undo it. I end up in my spot behind my apartment building without remembering half the route.
My phone sits at the edge of the seat, screen black, a quiet dare. I flip it over. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. Her contact sits two thumb-taps away. I stare until the screen goes to sleep again and I’m looking at my own reflection. I do not like the man I see tonight.
I light a cigarette without thinking about it. The first drag burns and steadies. I lean back, let the smoke creep toward the ceiling, and close my eyes because open is not working either. Katana’s face floods in, crisp and immediate. The line of her mouth when it goes hard. The way she held herself upright on pain and pride and refused to let me be the one who took the weight off her shoulders.
I breathe in until my ribs protest. I breathe out until I feel lightheaded. I tell myself I am still here. That counts for something but for the first time in years, I don’t know what comes next.
17
KATANA
Ipushed myself too hard yesterday, and now I’m paying the price. My ribs burn like someone’s running barbed wire under my skin, every breath dragging fire across bone. My sheets still smell like Dante, that heat of his that clings to me no matter how hard I try to shake it. I hate how much I notice it. I hate how much I miss it. I should probably change these sheets if I’m going to stand a chance to forget about him.
The ceiling fan above me ticks out a lazy rhythm I can’t sync to. The room’s too warm, the sheets too twisted, his heat stamped into the cotton like a bruise I can’t hide from. I stare at the cracks marching across the ceiling like it’s a map out of this feeling and find nothing but more white space.
My phone on the nightstand buzzes again. His name lights up the screen. I don’t open it. Don’t even swipe to read. I can’t. Not after the way I cut him down, the way I shoved his warning back in his face like it was poison. He was trying to tell me the truth. I couldn’t hear it then. I wouldn’t. Now, with evidence burning a hole in my memory, I don’t have the luxury of denial anymore.
The buzz dies and leaves the room too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every heartbeat sound like a countdown. I flip the phone face-down. It still hums once, phantom, like my body’s memorized the feel of him and refuses to forget.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body protests, stiff and weak, but I force it to move. When I stand, the room tilts a hair. I breathe shallow and wait it out, palms braced to the mattress until the sway settles.
I get dressed slowly slipping into black sweats, a Royal Harlots tank top, and a hoodie. Clothes that won’t press too hard against the stitches. The motions are easier than yesterday, but my exhaustion is bone-deep. I spent half the night haunted by the way Dante felt inside me, the other half staring at the ceiling, choking on the thought that he might’ve been right about Riot.
I make my way downstairs, the clubhouse already a flurry of activity. The smell of coffee and bacon cuts through the scent of hops that always lingers. Voices bounce off the walls, low laughter filling the massive space, chairs scraping against the floor, forks clinking against plates. It should feel comforting, but today it just feels off.
Footsteps echo from down the hall, somewhere a radio hisses static before a song catches. Someone cusses at the toaster. This is my home, my family, and yet in light of what I know it doesn’t sit right with me.
