“What?” Wyatt looks shocked. “That same guy? He looks like Hargrove’s aide or something.”
“Yeah, it was him.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrow. His brow furrows. He sets his glass down on the coffee table like he needs his hands free.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Of course. I remember him so clearly.” I stare at the dark TV screen and see the clubhouse TV instead. Hargrove’s face, the scrolling chyron, that man behind him in a tie.
Wyatt takes a a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “We need to tell Jake, as soon as he comes down. We need that face. If Silas has anything with him in it, we need to tag it.”
“Okay,” I answer, feeling weirdly overstimulated. I notice my heart is beating quickly.
He shifts his hand off the armrest and leans forward, reaching out for my knee and resting his hand there.
“I hate that he knew your name,” he says, a rough edge to his voice. “I hate that he touched your life at all.”
“Ha.” I laugh bitterly. “Me too.”
Wyatt’s gaze holds mine, his bright, warm blue eyes that can always see right through me. For a second I’m not thinking about the TV, or the hangar, or Billy, or Silas. I’m thinking about the one bright thing in that whole dark place: him.
“I didn’t think I’d miss anything about it,” I say softly. “The clubhouse. I thought going back would just make me feel sick.”
“And it didn’t?”
“Maybe a little,” I say with another small, bitter laugh. “But it also…” I glance at him. “It also reminded me of not being alone in there. Of us.”
Wyatt’s mouth tightens. “Yeah, honey. I know what you mean.”
His hand feels heavier on my knee. Warmer. His fingers squeeze lightly. “I hate what it cost you,” he says quietly. “But somehow in the middle of all that shit I still have nice memories of us.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher and quieter than I mean it to be.
His thumb moves in small strokes. “And now we’re out, and I’m still here,” he says.
I blink, stupidly reassured by this. Yes, he’s here.
Since we got out, we haven’t had the time together that we had in the clubhouse. But that doesn’t mean we never will. We’ve been busy. God—running, hiding, dealing with all this fucking aftermath. But one day we’ll get back to normal. We’ll work sideby side at Leathernecks. I can’t exactly picture the future, but I believe in it more now than I ever did before.
Just then, footsteps hit the stairs, hard and heavy, and Damian comes up into the room, his hair damp at the temples, shirt clinging a little at the collar. He smells like sweat and adrenaline.
“Is dinner ready yet?” he asks, rolling his shoulders.
From the kitchen, Ryder’s voice carries over the chop-chop rhythm. “Ten minutes.”
“Fuck, I’m hungry.” He glances over at us, oblivious to Wyatt’s hand on my knee, our serious expressions. “Is there any more wine?”
“In the kitchen,” says Wyatt, his hand lifting from my knee. He straightens in the recliner, and gives me a wink.
Ryder serves chicken piccata. Chicken cutlets, browned at the edges, sauce glossy with lemon and capers. I’ve never had it before, but it’s delicious.
We’re all eating—Damian like he hasn’t had a real meal in days—but Jake barely touches his plate. He’s too excited and distracted.
“Well?” says Ryder after a few minutes. “What did you find?”
“It’s promising,” Jake says. There’s a spark in his tone.
Damian’s mouth curves. “That’s the creepiest way to say ‘evidence.’”
