“Yeah. You and Blade. Keep it quiet.”
“Copy.” Another beat. “Sin?”
“If it’s trafficking, there’s money. Loop in Sin. Treasurer knows how to follow a trail.”
“Done. I’ll keep Havoc on standby,” Ghost says. “You think it escalates, you tell me.”
“Will do.”
I set the comms down and breathe once, slow.
That’s the difference between being alone and having brothers. Alone, you watch the dark and hope. With the Damned Saints, you watch the dark and plan.
Two years ago, I didn’t want brothers.
I wanted quiet. Distance. A life where no one expected anything from me except to keep breathing.
Ghost had other ideas.
We crossed paths overseas a few years ago. He got patched up under my hands and didn’t complain once, which told me everything I needed to know about him. Later, when I was back stateside and trying to pretend I was fine, he found me at a clinic and told me about Lovestone Ridge and the Damned Saints. He didn’t sell it like a dream. He sold it like a fact.
We need you.
You can have a place here.
I said no the first time.
Then I woke up from another nightmare where I was back in the sand, hands slippery with blood, trying to keep a soldier alive who was already gone.
I said yes the next time.
Now I’m here, in a cabin tucked into pines, not far from the clubhouse, with a girl on my couch who looks like she ran through hell and stumbled into my doorway.
My gaze goes back to her.
It hits again, that pull. The stupid, immediate certainty in my body like it already decided she matters.
I don’t do that. I don’t attach. Attachment gets you hurt.
I learned that before I could spell the word.
Foster homes teach you quick what it means to be temporary. People feed you, house you, sometimes even care, but you always have a bag half packed in your head. You always watch for the moment their patience runs out.
Some people told me I’d end up on drugs. Some told me I wasn’t worth the trouble. One man told me, laughing, that kids like me always came back around asking for money.
I didn’t.
I worked. I studied. I kept my head down until I could get out.
Medicine was the first thing that made sense. Body breaks, you fix it. Bleeding stops when you clamp it. Pain eases when you do the right thing.
Simple.
Then war made it complicated.
Then the woman soldier on my table made it personal. But she died anyway.
That’s the part nobody talks about when they call you a hero. You can do everything right and still lose.
