“Not dirt.” I paused, scissors hovering over a particularly unruly stem. “Soil.”
Knight chuckled, the sound gentle despite his intimidating appearance. His tattooed face and colored eyes made strangers cross the street to avoid him, but the brothers knew better. Beneath the ink and modifications was a man who’d hack government databases without hesitation but couldn’t stomach killing a spider in the clubhouse.
“Soil therapy, then,” Knight conceded, shifting his weight. “Sorry to interrupt your” -- he waved his hand vaguely at the ground – “soil time, but we got a delivery at the gate.”
My hands stilled. Something shifted in my chest, a subtle change in rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. “The woman from last week?”
“Yep, Cora. The one with the blue eyes that had you looking like you’d seen a ghost.” Knight paused, immediately regretting the word choice. “Jesus. Sorry, man.”
I set the shears down with deliberate care, wiping my hands on the towel tucked into my belt. “Hannah handling it?”
“She’s with the kids at the shelter today. Knuckles took her.” Knight watched me stand. “I can take care of it if you’rebusy.”
“No.” The word came out more forcefully than I intended. I moderated my tone. “I’ll get everything inside and put it away.”
Knight’s mouth twitched, a knowing look crossing his features. “Thought you might say that. She’s waiting at the gate.” He stepped back as I moved past him, giving me space. Knight always seemed to understand the need for physical distance, for the bubble of emptiness I maintained around myself.
“I’ll be right there.” I glanced in the direction of the front gate. I hadn’t meant to give away more interest than Knight already knew I had for the girl, but I’d never had much of a poker face.
I walked to the hose coiled neatly against the wall of the warehouse, where I lived in an apartment on the first floor in order to be close to the garden. Turned on the spigot, washing the dirt from beneath my fingernails, from the creases of my palms. The water sluiced over the burn scar, momentarily cooling a phantom itch that sometimes plagued the damaged nerve endings.
Knight pulled out his phone, sending a text to whoever was manning the gate, most likely. I moved toward my bike, parked in its designated spot beside my door. The machine gleamed in the filtered sunlight, meticulously maintained like everything in my life.
I started the machine and the motor rumbled to life beneath me. I guided the motorcycle through the compound, past the inner ring of warehouses, toward the gate. The wind rushed against my face, cooling skin that felt unexpectedly warm. I hadn’t felt this particular sensation in a long time, this anticipation.
I’d watched Cora drive away last time, the envelope of cash clutched in her hand, and found myself hoping she’d return. Not just for the convenience of having someone willingto deliver to our compound, though that was rare enough. But because something about her had pierced the carefully constructed numbness I’d maintained since Sarah died.
The gates appeared ahead, the metal barrier standing open. Beyond it, I could see her car. And beside it, Cora herself, one hip leaned against the driver’s door, her posture attempting casual confidence but betraying tension in the set of her shoulders.
I slowed the bike, approaching with deliberate care, not wanting to startle her with the engine’s roar. She straightened as I drew near, those striking blue eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before sliding away. The ghost of a smile touched her lips like an instinctive reaction quickly suppressed.
A feeling I thought long dead bloomed in my chest, an emotion I hadn’t allowed myself to feel since Sarah’s murder. If I embraced the emotions and let things progress naturally, I feared the danger I’d be putting my heart through.
I stopped my bike and killed the engine. I parked a building away to keep the noise to a minimum. The women thought we kept quiet so we didn’t scare newcomers or people around us who might not like noise or were afraid of bikers in general, but the truth was, we knew the less attention on us the better. I found myself uncertain of what to say next, because as I approached and Cora straightened, her gaze focused squarely on me, something inside my chest snapped like an overstretched rubber band. I knew beyond anything reasonable and sane, the woman standing in front of me would be mine.
She stood straighter this time, looking less timid. The morning sun caught in her auburn hair, highlighting copper strands I hadn’t noticed before. Her gaze met mine for a heartbeat longer than last week before darting away. The blue of her eyes reminded me of a clear winter sky. Today she wore jeans and a light blue T-shirt that seemed to match the color ofher eyes perfectly. Christ, could the woman be any lovelier?
“Hey,” she said with a small wave of her fingers.
I nodded, acknowledging her greeting without words. Silence had become my refuge in prison, a weapon and a shield. Six years inside had taught me the power of stillness, of making others fill the void with nervous chatter. But with Cora, I found myself wanting to speak.
She shifted her weight, one hand resting on her car door. The other played with her keys, a restless movement that betrayed the composure she tried to project.
“Hannah’s not here today?” she asked, though her gaze didn’t break from mine.
“She’s at Haven.” I was aware my voice was rough. I cleared my throat and tried again. “She helps at the women’s shelter on Tuesdays.”
Surprise flickered across Cora’s features, quickly masked. “It’s… really kind of her.” A pause, her gaze dropping to the ground between us. “Of all you guys. To help there. I’ve heard a couple of the women you’ve helped talk about how they’d never felt safer than when they stayed at Haven.”
I nodded solemnly. “We don’t like bullies here. Especially when they hurt women and children.”
She held my gaze for long moments before nodding. “You know, I think maybe I believe you.”
The space between us seemed charged, electric with a feeling I couldn’t really name and wasn’t sure I really wanted to try. I cleared my throat, tried to remember how normal people conducted conversations. Sarah had been the talker in our relationship. I’d been content to listen to her voice fill our home.
“Follow me.” I gestured toward the compound interior. “To the kitchen. Around back.”
Relief softened her expression. Instructions. A clear path forward. Something concrete to focus on rather than thisstrange, unexpected tension humming between us.
