Living by the code of an outlaw was easy.But situations sometimes require giving respect to the thin blue line of the law.
He had someone who had the power and resources he needed.Except to call her meant opening a door he slammed closed.
Juanita Banks had a life she loved.Heartbreak didn’t hold her back.She refused to be crushed by a man, no matter how much he still turned her on.
He called.She answered because she felt she owed him one last marker.Deed done, this time it was Nita who walked away without looking back.
Having her close again, Loco would show the world his crazy before he lost her again.Even if it was the last thing he did, he was going to have Nita back.
Chapter11
Nita
Thirteen years was long enough to convince yourself a wound had healed when all it had really done was scar over.The marks were soul deep but barely visibly to anyone else.I knew they existed though.
I had learned how to live with scars.
Washington, D.C.had a way of demanding that from you—polished surfaces, sharp elbows, and the quiet understanding that everyone in the room was carrying something they didn’t talk about.I had built a career in the spaces where secrets lived.Special federal investigator.Political orders.The kind that didn’t make headlines but shifted lives anyway.
I was good at it.Clinical.Precise.Detached when I needed to be.
It was the only way I had survived losing Lamonte.
It was the only way I had survived Dante leaving.
I told myself that as the train rolled south, the city bleeding away into blur and trees, my phone face-down on my thigh like it always was when I traveled.I didn’t need distractions.I didn’t need reminders.
This weekend was about Char.My baby sister—though she’d been a mother longer than I had ever planned to be one.Kids weren’t in my future and I had accepted it.Once for a short stint I thought, maybe, but work was work and my particular job was demanding.
Char met me at the door with flour on her cheek and laughter in her voice, the house already loud with small feet and big feelings.Her husband, Elijah, lifted the youngest princess onto his hip while the oldest barreled into my legs like she was tackling a suspect twice her size.
“Aunt Nita!”she shrieked, wrapping herself around my knees.
I laughed, bending down, scooping her up.“You’re going to knock someone out with that kind of force.”
She grinned, missing a tooth, proud of it.Soon I wouldn’t be able to pick her up and spin her around like this.They were growing so fast.
Char watched from the kitchen doorway, arms folded loosely, her eyes soft in a way they hadn’t been in years.Not since before hospitals.Not since before ICU monitors and whispered prayers and the smell of antiseptic clinging to our clothes.
She looked happy.
Really happy.
And it still startled me every time.
We spent the afternoon on the floor, puzzles scattered, crayons rolling under furniture, the girls arguing over whose turn it was to be the “doctor” and whose turn it was to be the “patient.”Eli cooked dinner like he always did when I came—something hearty, something warm, something that felt like home even to someone who never quite trusted the concept.
Char caught me watching her more than once.She didn’t call me out on it.She never did.
Later, when the girls were finally asleep and the house had settled into that rare quiet that only parents truly appreciate, Char and I sat on the back porch with glasses of wine, the night air a soft kiss to our skins.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she expressed gently.
I exhaled.“You always say that.”
“And I’m always right.”
I smiled into my glass.“You look good.”
