He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
He isn’t. It’s there in the tension around the corners of his eyes and the way he holds himself too still. Ryder sees it too. Our eyes meet over the table, a side conversation in one look.
After we’ve eaten we head outside and Ryder looks up at the heavy clouds rolling in with concern.
“We should stop here,” he says. “Rest overnight and pick up again tomorrow.”
“No,” protests Wyatt. “There’s no time to stop.”
But it seems like everyone’s on the same page except Wyatt.
“Plenty of time,” says Jake. I wonder if he means it. “That’s enough driving for one day. We can arrive tomorrow at lunch if we leave early.”
He pulls out his burner phone and starts searching for local accommodation. Wyatt’s face is pale and drawn. He doesn’t protest much. While Ryder and Jake look at the phone, he goes to sit in the car.
“Is he okay?” I ask Damian.
“He’s fine.” Damian loops an arm around my shoulders, his warm, familiar weight pressing against my side. “You ever punctured a lung, Finch? It’s brutal.”
“Of course not. Why? Have you?”
“No.” His mouth quirks. “But I’ve watched enough idiots try to pretend it’s nothing.”
He lifts his arm away as Jake calls him over to look at the screen.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the Pine Crest Motor Lodge.
It’s a squat strip of rooms hugging the edge of the highway. The neon sign is half-lit, forming the words P NE REST. It’s the kind of place that just looks like it smells like cigarettes.
Jake disappears into the office, and a few minutes later he comes out dangling two diamond-shaped plastic key tags on his fingers.
“Okay.” He points at Ryder. “You and I are in room five.” He tosses the other set of keys to Damian. “Leathernecks crew is in room six. Two of you are going to have to share a bed.”
Ryder’s shoulders stiffen, but he schools his face into indifference. Damian catches the keys and jerks his chin toward our door. We grab our bags out of the cars and head to our respective rooms.
The room smells musty, like dust overlaid with lemon cleaner. Two queen beds with aging brown quilts are pushed up against fake wood-paneled walls, leaving just enough space to walk between the foot of the beds and the door.
But there’s a big TV and a brand-new mini fridge. We put what’s left of our food in the fridge, drop our bags, and Wyatt and Damian decide that the fairest thing is for them to share one bed and for me to have the other one to myself. Then we laugh at how thin the walls are, how we can hear the low murmur of Ryder and Jake’s voices next door and even the groan of bed springs as someone tries out the bed.
We take turns in the shower, dress in clean sweats and t-shirts, and turn the television on to a daytime soap opera. We’re laughing at the storyline when Ryder and Jake knock once and then come in, holding up paper bags of takeout food and two bottles of whiskey.
“Hellbent Night!” Damian exclaims enthusiastically, volunteering to go get ice for the whiskey, even though he doesn’t drink.
Between the two rooms we manage to find enough plastic cups for everyone, and Damian comes back with a bucket of ice and a large bottle of ginger ale for himself. We sit on the two beds facing each other—me, Wyatt, and Damian on one, Jake and Ryder on the other. We share out the Chinese food and Ryder pours out whiskey for four of us, then we all raise our glasses.
“To Hellbent,” he says. “To the best crew I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with—and living with. May we make it a whole year this time without any of us nearly dying. And to Max, who went and made herself our fifth, even if it’s turned everything complicated as hell.” His eyes flick to mine, burning with warmth, and he adds, “and who belongs with us, without question.”
The way he says I belong, the intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, makes a tender ache pull in my chest. It’s the first time he’s clearly said that I’m not just a problem they’re trying to solve.
We raise our glasses. “All grit, no quit,” the others reply in rough unison, and then we knock our drinks back.
The heat of the whiskey floods through me, blooming out through my chest and cheeks. I twirl noodles around my chopsticks. I’m not really hungry after our late lunch, but they taste good, and I realize how much I just lovethis—the five of us eating together, the light chit-chat, just getting to have everyday moments with these men.
By the time our cartons are half-empty and Ryder’s refilling cups, everyone—even Ryder—seems to be in a cheerful, gregarious mood.
“When did you decide to make Hellbent Night an annual celebration?” I ask, holding my cup out for a refill as Ryder passes the bottle around.
“A year after our first mission,” Jake answers, a warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “At a bar in Cartagena.” I can see nostalgia pull his gaze somewhere back in time.
