He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if you change your mind…”
“I’ll let you know,” I say, not meaning it.
“She already likes someone,” Dorothy chimes in. “And he’s a biker, not a bum like your grandson.”
“Careful, Dorothy,” Thomas warns. “You keep talking like that and I’ll tell Gladys you cheated at bridge last week.”
The room buzzes with chatter and the sharp scent of glue sticks. The radiator hisses in the corner. I pass out baked goods with a smile and small talk, keeping the frayed, anxious parts of myself tucked deep beneath the surface.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out. A number I don’t recognize lights up the screen, and my stomach flips.
Unknown numbers usually mean danger.
I use a burner now. Three months ago, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. Cartel money buying a judge Flores’s favor in a murder case.
Panicked, I ran home and packed in under ten minutes. Grabbed what I could. Documents, clothes, my grandmother’s recipe book. Called the cops, but they did not come. Then I watched from across the street as some men broke into my apartment, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might give me away.
I didn’t wait to see what they wanted. I already knew. They were after me.
I took a cab, bought the burner, and kept going until I landed in Lovestone Ridge.
Mr. Hayes rented me a room cheap. Now he acts like that means I owe him.
The phone is still ringing.
I step into the hallway for a sliver of quiet and thumb the green icon.
“Hello?”
“Sweetheart.”
Havoc’s voice is gravel and velvet all at once. It slides down my spine like it belongs there.
I lean against the wall. My knees weaken with a rush of heat and something else I’m not ready to name yet.
Relief.
Safety.
Craving.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m… at the community center.”
“One of our prospects told me. He’s just across the street.”
My head jerks toward the window. Sure enough, a Harley waits across the road. The man on it wears sunglasses despite the clouds. He lifts two fingers in a casual wave.
“He’s not there to scare you,” Havoc says, voice lower now. “He’s watching your six.”
My first instinct is to bristle. To tell him I don’t need help.
But then I remember how my lungs tighten when the streets go quiet. How every shadow feels like it’s waiting for something. How I still sleep with the lights on, just in case.
And yeah, Mr. Hayes. His hand on my arm. His body too close. Close enough to make my skin crawl.
Maybe letting someone watch my back doesn’t make me weak.
