I nod once, then follow Tank and Steel out into the night.
25
EMMA
Iwake to emptiness.
The bed beside me is cold, the indentation where Bones lay barely visible in the pillow. For a moment I’m disoriented—the guest suite at the clubhouse, ice packs gone warm around my ankle, pain meds wearing off enough that I can feel the dull throb.
Then I remember.
The town meeting. Carlos. Running. The woods. The bath. Bones holding me while I fell apart.
And then . . . nothing. I must have fallen asleep.
I sit up carefully, wincing as my ankle protests. The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM. The clubhouse is quiet in that particular way that means most people are asleep, or gone.
My stomach drops.
I know where they went. Know what they’re doing. Bones didn’t say it explicitly, but he didn’t have to. “I’ll take care of it” means exactly what I think it means.
I should go back to sleep, trust him to handle it and be the good MC girlfriend who doesn’t ask questions.
But I can’t.
I swing my legs off the bed, testing my ankle. The pain is sharp but manageable. The surgical boot is on the floor where Maggie left it. I strap it on, then use the nightstand to haul myself upright.
The clubhouse hallway is dim, lit only by a couple of lamps. I make my way to the stairs, gripping the railing, taking each step slowly.Where the hell are my crutches?
Downstairs, the main room is mostly dark except for the bar area where a single downlight glows. Ginger sits at the bar, a mug of tea in front of her, staring at nothing.
She looks up when I hobble in. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Bones is gone.”
“Yeah.” She gestures to the stool next to her. “They’re all gone. Come. Sit down before you fall over.”
I make my way over and ease onto the stool, propping my booted foot on the lower rung. Ginger gets up and pours another mug of tea, sliding it toward me.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. “How do you do this? Just . . . sit here and wait?”
“Practice.” Ginger looks at me, and in the low light she looks older, tired. “Been doing this for twenty years, Emma. Every time Tank leaves on club business, I sit and I wait. And I don’t ask questions when he comes back.”
“But don’t you want to know?”
“No.” She says it with finality. “Knowing doesn’t help. Knowing just means I carry the weight of it too. And that’s not my job.”
“Then what is your job?”
“To be here when he gets home. To make sure he knows he’s got something good to come back to. To help him wash the blood off—literal or otherwise—and remind him who he is underneath all the club shit.” She sets down her mug. “That’s what we do, Emma. We hold the light while they wade through the dark.”
The words settle heavy in my chest. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
I’ve spent my whole life running from this. From the club, from Stoneheart, from what it means to love someone who lives in the gray. And now I’m being asked to not just accept it—but to be the light that guides him home.
“You already are.” Ginger gestures at me with her mug. “You’re down here, aren’t you? Waiting. Even though every part of you wants to call him, text him, demand to know what’s happening.”
She’s right. My phone is upstairs and part of me is grateful for the distance.
