Five
Adena
The fear that’s been wrapped around my lungs slowly begins to let go.My grip steadies.My heartbeat finds its rhythm again.Out here, with nothing but heat and open sky, the danger feels distant—still real, still possible, but not pressing against my spine.
Jagger rides just ahead, leading the way.
I still don’t know if I can rely on him.But for the first time in hours, my body believes we might actually be okay.
He veers toward the Lake Pontchartrain exit, and I fall in behind him, the road narrowing to a ribbon between cypress trunks and drifting curtains of moss.The air shifts—thicker, salt-wet—and I inhale it like it’s the first real breath I’ve had all day.
Then the trees break open, and the lake stretches out ahead of us, wide and glittering, too bright to stare at for long.
We pull into a gravel lot beside a worn-down seafood shack.Gravel pops under my tires as I stop.Faded umbrellas sag over picnic tables, and the tang of fried fish curls toward me before I even take off my helmet.
Jagger’s already standing beside his bike, helmet in hand, hair a tousled mess.He rolls his neck like he’s shedding something heavy, and for a heartbeat, he looks less like the man who lives for violence and more like a man trying to breathe.
I climb off, and my legs wobble for half a second.The adrenaline is still buzzing through me, waiting for a threat that—for once—doesn’t immediately come.
He nods toward the shack.“You hungry?”
“Sure.Illicit activities always make me hungry,” I mutter.
He huffs a laugh—an unexpected, unguarded sound that’s completely at odds with the man who was steel edges an hour ago.
We walk to the window, he orders shrimp po’boys and sweet tea, and we settle at a picnic table overlooking the lake.
For a few minutes, we just eat.No words.No threat.No game.
When I finally speak, I ask the question Nolan wouldn’t answer.“How many times have you done this?”
He wipes his thumb against a napkin.“What?Lunch?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
A pause.“A few.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
I study him.The blank walls.The way he watches everything without looking like he is.The coiled readiness under the casual posture.
“You ever lose track of… who you are today?”I ask.
His jaw clenches.“I keep track,” he says.“That’s the job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Another pause—longer this time.“Some days are… noisier than others.”
It’s the closest thing to honesty I’ve heard from him.
“You don’t ever want out?”I ask.
“Want’s not part of it.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
