Maverick’s truck pulls into the driveway. It rumbles unevenly, chugging as it does. I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that, but Scythe gave it to him, so maybe it just has a fancy exhaust. There’s a garage at the clubhouse and I’m pretty sure if there was anything wrong with the vehicle then it would have been checked out.
He left a few hours ago with Scythe, and I’m slightly worried that he’s back already, but maybe there wasn’t anything to do at the clubhouse. His work hours and even what he’s supposed to be doing, is still being established. I just hope he didn’t feel that he had to leave to come back to check on me. I promised him I wouldn’t try anything risky like going outside if no one is home, and if I did need something, I could always call.
Maverick storms through the back door. It bangs shut loudly. I hear his heavy footsteps in the kitchen.
“Maverick?” He probably thinks I’m downstairs.
There’s a pause and then they change direction.
I can already feel it. Something is just…off. It’s not like there’s a chill in the air or anything, but the hair on my arms stands up. It’s his steps. They’re too heavy, dragging at the end.
I set my coffee cup down as I get up. I meet him halfway. He’s in the hall, and when he sees me, he stops. There are shadows under his eyes, but the demons in those dark depths are worse. He’s sweat slicked, even though I saw him drive here and not walk.
I don’t hesitate. I run at him and thank goodness, his arms open and then close around me. He holds me close and I breathe him in. He still smells the same as he usually does. Leather, cedar, cloves, fresh air.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell you this,” he groans against my hair. One of his large hands palms the back of my head. He gathers up a few strands of hair and rubs them between his fingers like he needs the silk of it to ground himself.
I wait a moment, giving him that span of peace before I pull back. “What’s happened?” His face practically crumples, which tells me that it’sbad. My heart stops as pain flickers across his face, but something else too. Anger? Grief? Pain? My hands slip from his shoulders to grasp his forearms. My fingers dig into the buttery soft leather. “You can tell me.” I see the doubt, though, skittering over his face. “I won’t break into a million pieces,” I say defiantly. “I won’t shatter at all. I crack down the middle, I’ll glue myself back together again and be stronger for it. Anything, whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”
“He’s dead.”
The two words hit me like a speeding car. My head practically snaps back with whiplash. Who’s dead? What’s happened? It finally filters into my numbed out brain exactly who Maverick is talking about. That’s why he came from the club in such a hurry. It’s why he had such pain and grief on his face.
The man who attacked me.
Dravin or Wizard, or both of them, found him.
“O-oh. Oh my god.” It’s all I can squeeze out. I cling to Maverick. He sets one hand on my hip and the other shoots to my neck. He cradles my head like it’s going to come loose and flop around. Maybe it is.
I’m breathing fine. I’m not panicking, but I still feel as though I’m going to pass out. It all hits me at once.
Pain, anger, sadness, flashes from the past, fear, regret, but overriding all of it isrelief. Relief so keen and sharp that tears prick my eyes. Does that make me a terrible person? I want to be ashamed of that feeling sweeping through me, strong enough to buckle my knees, but it refuses to come. This man probably had family. People who are mourning his loss, or who did. Even if I don’t feel bad that a monster like that is dead and can’t hurt anyone else, certainly I should feel bad for those who loved him? They might not have even known what kind of person he was.
Finally, something trickles in. A squeeze in my chest.
“He died a few years ago,” Maverick says, now that I’ve had time to process his words.
I always thought that I could feel this man’s evil still out there. Still haunting me, but that wasn’t true. It was just my mind, my memories, the trauma etched into my muscles.
“H-how?”
A muscle in Maverick’s jaw clicks. “A car accident.” The hand at my waist clenches into a fist before he unfurls it. “I have no way of knowing if it hurt, but I hope it did. A lot. I hope it was agony. The worst kind of hell.”
I know I don’t want that, but I can’t say that I blame Maverick for feeling that way. If someone hurt him, I’d bemurderous. I would wish the worst kind of suffering on that person. I suppose that in a way, he was hurt. Painfully. For years. He was forever changed by being in prison, but it’s harder to personally wish something awful on a nebulous gang of criminals. Do I wish they weren’t in the world? Yes. Of course. I wish that they wouldn’t hurt innocent people, that good people wouldn’t die because of them, that families wouldn’t have to suffer. I do wish that there was something anyone could do to shut down criminals that extend all the way to the top, corrupting the justice system itself, but I don’t know how to do that.
At least Maverick gave it a shot.
I do wish that the judge that sentenced him and that all those who let the real evil just get away with it, would have to face jail time themselves. I’d like them to suffer to the full extent of the law.
A sinking pit opens up in my stomach. A weird, warm blanket descends over me, smothering me. I’m too hot suddenly, but I’m also shivering. Shaking. Trembling. Is this shock? I should be angry, sosoangry, but maybe after years, I’ve just had enough of it. The real disappointment I feel is that this man won’t serve any sort of jail time for what he did. Although, isn’t death worse than prison?
“Does he have any surviving family?” I’m not even aware that I asked the question until Maverick responds.
“The mother is still alive.”
This man. He was human like the rest of us. Born to a mother and probably loved by her. Unless she was a terribleperson, or someone else was. Abuse doesn’t excuse anything, but it would explain the way some people turn out.
“I have her address,” Maverick admits.
