I try to find my voice. “Thank you, Troop 347. It’s the greatest honor of my life.”
And then they all — ALL of them — rush forward and hug me.
Little arms that squeeze me all over my ribs. Over my arms. Over my dignity. I hiss in pain, but bite it back and hug them back anyway. Riley lifts her phone, snapping shots rapid-fire, cackling behind her hand. After what feels like a lifetime, they pull away, chattering, climbing over each other like squirrels, and that’s when Officer Maya Alvarado appears in the doorway.
“Okay, troops. Give Mr. James and Miss Riley a minute.”
The Girl Scouts shuffle out reluctantly. “Don’t die!” one of them calls back. “We need you for next year’s float and makeup!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
When the door closes, Officer Alvarado turns back to us, all business and sharp eyes.
“I’m sorry to be brief like this, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay out there. I need more details for my report before I can close out the case,” she says. “What happened in that house?”
Riley’s hand finds mine and squeezes. Her grip is fierce, grounding.
I give Officer Alvarado the stripped-down version — the kidnapping, the drugs, the basement, Pike, Viper, the fight, the shooting. Riley adds what she remembers, voice trembling but strong.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll probably have to follow up with both of you, but honestly? This is as open-and-shut as these get. Two men, multiple homicides, documented history of assault,criminal ties, planned kidnapping, murder, and attempted murder. You’re both safe now.”
Riley leans into me, her head heavy on my shoulder. For the first time in forever, she looks lighter. There’s a loud, impatient knock at the door, and through the smudged window I see four Girl Scout noses pressed against the glass, the rest of the troop lined up behind them like an anaconda of pastel and plastic beads.
“Alright,” Officer Alvarado says, turning toward the door. “I can’t keep the mob at bay any longer.” She stands, straightening her jacket. “I’ll be in touch. Take care of each other.” She gives me a look, the kind that says I see you, and then she’s gone.
The door swings open again, and this time, it’s like someone detonated a clown car made entirely of bikers, bartenders, and the extended Twisted Devils family. The entire room population quadruples in seconds. Reaper, Tank, Mayhem, Havoc, Bones, Hammer, and every man who wears a cut. All the ol’ ladies, and all the staff of The Noble Fir. There’s an avalanche of black leather, club patches, perfume, and the raw noise of thirty people talking at once. Rabid enters last, slow and measured, flanked by two Girl Scout lieutenants who are holding his hands like he’s their long-lost grandpa.
The room is total chaos. Girls are climbing the window ledge, Reaper’s got an entire box of donuts jammed under his arm, and Mayhem is already taking bets on how long it’ll take for me to break out of my neck brace. Bianca is fussing over Riley, dabbing her eyes and trying to tuck her hair behind her ears. Cheering, laughter, a few of the Girl Scouts chanting“Mr. James! Mr. James!”like I’m Santa Claus.
I try to clear my throat for silence, but the attempt is pointless against the noise hurricane of Devil and Girl Scout voices. The sound rattles the glass in the window; children climb over bikers’ knees; grown men holler at the top of their lungs. I try again,louder, but I've got nothing on this crowd. Finally, Rabid raises two fingers and whistles — a noise so sharp and authoritative that every last body in the room freezes mid-motion.
They all look to Rabid, who inclines his head in my direction, and all eyes turn to me.
And Riley.
I look at her, and she nods.
I swallow and clear my throat. “I… We have an announcement.”
As if rehearsed, the entire room leans forward in a perfect synchronized motion — the horde of children, the army of bikers, the wall of women. Even Tank, whose chief personality trait is disdaining everything, arches an interested eyebrow. Beside me, Riley bites her lower lip and smiles.
“I asked Riley to be my ol’ lady,” I say, and as I do so, my chest expands, proud, full. “And she said yes.” The room explodes into a chorus of cheers, shouts, whistles, and Molly claps her hands like a deranged seal.
One Girl Scout tugs on another’s sleeve and says above the cheers, “But she’s not old.”
Another girl replies, scandalized, “She’s totally old. She’s like… twenty-something.”
Riley snorts next to me, trying to hide her face in my shoulder.
When the chaos calms a little, Riley squeezes my hand.
“I, uh… have an announcement too.” Silence falls instantly. She looks radiant and terrified and beautiful and brave, and she laces her fingers with mine. “I’m pregnant.”
The world freezes for a heartbeat.
Then the room erupts again, and the explosion of noise is nuclear; girls shriek, fists pump, and Reaper yells, “Hell yes!” with a mouthful of sugar. Havoc pops a can of beer that foams all over the foot of my bed, and immediately three Girl Scouts start chanting “Chug! Chug! Chug!” like they’ve been raised in adive bar. Molly lets out a whoop, high and sharp, and hugs the nearest person, which turns out to be Rabid. The prez takes it with the stoicism of a man who’s seen it all, but even he cracks a tiny smile.
Riley turns to me through the noise, with her hand on her stomach, and I reach out so that my hand is covering hers. And in the middle of the chaos — the Girl Scout patch in my hand, my found family around us, the future in front of us — I kiss her. Slow. Deep. Certain.
