RIOT
The hospital doorsslide shut behind us. The sound is soft and automatic, but her shoulders jump before she forces them down, her jaw tightening like she’s annoyed at herself for reacting. I don’t call it out. Instead, I shrug out of my jacket and step in front of her.
“Put this on,” I say.
She shakes her head, dismissing me. “I am fine.”
“Put it on,” I all but order.
She hesitates for half a second before sliding her arms through the sleeves. I adjust the collar at her shoulders without thinking about it, then drop my hands and fall into step beside her. I slow my pace enough to stay close without crowding her and shift so I’m between her and the parking lot where people cut through without looking, engines idling too long, nobody paying attention to who they brush past.
Wind pushes across the concrete and she pulls my jacket tighter around her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, her gaze lowered not in submission but in calculation as she tracksmovement, shadows, shoes, direction changes, every set of footsteps getting logged without her making a show of it.
I unlock my truck with a chirp and she studies it before stepping closer, eyes moving across the interior, dashboard, floorboard, back seat, under the seat, and I stand there with the door open and my hand on the frame so she doesn’t feel rushed, letting her take whatever time she needs before she lowers herself into the seat with careful, controlled movements and clicks the seatbelt into place. I close her door gently, more aware of the force than I ever am, then walk around and slide behind the wheel, starting the engine and pulling out of the lot toward the east side where the safe house waits with cameras, reinforced locks, and a schedule Mason already organized, which is the right move, the predictable move, and I follow it for the first few miles without saying anything.
Traffic builds near the intersection and she tracks every vehicle that drifts too close to our lane, a motorcycle ripping past loud enough to make her flinch before she catches herself and lifts her chin like she refuses to let the reflex own her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, keeping my tone even, doing my best not to spook her.
“I am fine,” she replies without hesitation.
Fine isn’t accurate and we both know it, but she doesn’t look at me when she says it, so I let it go. The turnoff toward the safe house comes up faster than I want it to, my blinker clicking on as I shift lanes and picture her stepping into that house with a rotation of club brothers and their wives and a dozen well-meaning questions waiting for her, picture her standing in the middle of it and enduring the attention because she doesn’t know how to refuse without apologizing. The clicking fillsthe cab and my hand tightens on the steering wheel before I straighten it at the last second and drive past the exit, the blinker cutting off as soon as I correct the wheel.
“You were turning,” she says, watching me.
“I was.”
“Where are we going now?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
She studies my profile for a long second. “Is it safe?”
“Yes.” The answer comes easy because that part isn’t up for debate.
My phone buzzes against the dash with Mason’s name lighting up the screen and I let it ring out before texting at the next red light.
Me: Change of plan. She’s staying with me.
Mason: The safe house is ready for her.
Me: I know. She’s still staying with me.
Mason: You sure about this?
I glance at her and see her fidget in her seat. She watches the side mirror, then the rearview, then the car drifting too close in the next lane.
Me: Yeah.
There’s a longer pause this time before the response comes through.
Mason: If you were anyone else this shit wouldn’t fly.
That’s an agreement, even if he’ll have something to say about it later, and I toss the phone back onto the dash as the light turns green.
“Did I misunderstand something?” she asks after a few minutes.
“What do you mean?”
