TWENTY-FOUR
LUCKY
The bathroom doorclicks shut behind her. I stand in the hallway, ear pressed close until I hear the shower kick on steady. She's in. Safe. For now.
I turn and stalk back to the kitchen, blood still roaring in my ears. Phone's already in my hand. I hit Riot's name. He picks up on the first ring. "Talk," I growl.
The shower's still running steady when Riot's voice crackles through the line.
"Got him," Riot says, flat and certain. "Brian Michael Cross. Thirty-six. Divorced from Savannah two years. Protective order filed, then dropped after she left the state. Lives at 1427 Maple Grove, off Highway 17. White 2022 F-150, plate incoming. Part-time at the east-side lumber yard. No girlfriend listed. Posting 'healing journey' bullshit on Facebook for months. Burner and real line both active. Last ping was two miles from her dad's office this afternoon. He's circling."
Brian. The name hits like a slug to the chest. My vision tunnels. The kitchen wall is right there. I slam my fist into it hard enoughthe drywall caves, knuckles splitting fresh, a fist-sized dent staring back at me.
"Fuck!" The word rips out raw. I flex my hand, blood already beading on the cuts. "It's him. That motherfucker."
Riot doesn't flinch on the other end. "You good, brother?"
"No." I drag a bloody hand down my face. "But I'm handling it. Sundown. Meet at the gate. Bring Ghost. Quiet. No bodies unless he forces my hand."
"Copy. I'll have eyes on his house by the time you roll up. See you at sundown."
I hang up. Pocket the phone. Stare at the dent in the wall like it's personally offended me. Blood drips onto the tile. I wipe it on my jeans. Walk back to the hallway and lean against the wall opposite the bathroom door. Water's still running. She's in there trying to wash off whatever fear that asshole put in her bones.
I don't knock again. Just stand there. Arms crossed. Listening to the water. Listening to my own breathing slow down from rage to something colder. Sharper.
She comes out twenty minutes later in my hoodie, hair wet and dripping, eyes red but steady. She sees the dent first. Then my hand. Stops dead.
"Lucky..."
I push off the wall. Step close. Don't touch her yet. "Riot confirmed it. It's Brian."
Her face crumples for half a second. Then she straightens. Nods once. "Okay."
I cup her face with my good hand. Thumb brushes her cheek. "I'm handling it tonight. I'll be back before you go to bed."
She doesn't argue or beg me to stay. Just nods again. Walks past me to the laundry room. Starts folding clothes. Slow. Methodical. Like if she keeps moving the shaking stops.
I follow. Lean in the doorway. Arms crossed. Watch her fold my T-shirts, her leggings, a pair of socks that don't match. She glances over once. Doesn't speak. I don't either.
She moves to the kitchen next. Pulls out flour, sugar, chocolate chips. She starts mixing cookie dough. No music. No talking. Just the clink of the spoon against the bowl, the soft thud of dough on the counter.
I sit at the island watching her scoop the cookie dough onto the tray. Watch her slide the tray in the oven and set the timer. Then she wanders to the living room. Curls up on the couch with the remote. Puts on one of those weird-ass documentaries she likes. Something about deep-sea creatures or ancient cults. I sit next to her. Pull her legs across my lap, resting my hand on her thigh. She leans her head on my shoulder and stares at the screen.
We don't talk. Don't need to. The sun moves slowly across the floor. Cookies cool on the rack. She gets up once to flip the laundry. I follow her to the laundry room, stand in the doorway while she switches loads. She doesn't look at me. I don't leave her side all day.
When the light outside starts to turn gold, I stand and stretch.
She looks up from the couch. "You're going now?"
"Yeah." I crouch in front of her, hands on her knees. "I'll be back tonight. Promise."
She nods. Eyes wet but steady. "Come home to me."
"Always do."
I kiss her forehead. Hard. Then her mouth. Slower. Taste chocolate and her. Stand up. Grab my cut from the chair, pull it on, and walk to the door. "Stay inside. Lock up. Phone close. Anything feels off, call me first, then Mason. Got it?"
"Got it." She follows me to the door, locking the deadbolt behind me.
