AJ
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since we pulled Grace out of hell. Since I put a bullet in Prophet’s skull. Since I shook hands with an angel in devil’s clothing and lived to tell about it.
Watching Grace as she sets the table, I can’t believe so little time has passed. The physical and speech therapy have done wonders for her. She still stumbles over her words more often than not, and has days when the vertigo leaves her off balance and migraines knock her flat. The doctors say this is her new normal, and I’ve made my peace with it. Grace…still struggles with it sometimes.
“Done,” she says, standing back to survey the table, a hint of pride in her voice. “I only dropped one fork this time.”
I wrap my arms around her from behind and press a kiss to her neck. “Darlin’, you could drop every single one of ‘em, break every plate and glass, and I’d still love you every bit as much as I do right now. You know that, right?”
“I do. Today’s a good day. It’s…impor-prr…shit. Im-por-tant.” She turns in my arms, tipping her head back so she can meet my gaze. All her bruises have finally faded. Yesterday, Emi—with Jasper as their bodyguard—took her to the salon to get her hair cut, and she came home with such a smile on her face, I almost broke down the second I saw her.
“You look beautiful.” I tuck a lock of her hair behind her right ear—she doesn’t like it if I get too close to the scar at her left temple—lean down, and capture her mouth with mine.
The kiss starts out soft. Hesitant. Gentle. We haven’t done much more than this since the night before her surgery.
I don’t want to push her too far, too fast. So for now, it’s kisses, long showers, soaking together in the tub—the kind of touches that build a bridge back to what we had, one quiet minute at a time.
Grace parts her lips as soon as I take the kiss deeper, but it’s her tongue that probes mine. Her hips that start a subtle swivel that drives me wild.
“Fuck, darlin’. Tonight. After everyone leaves. I…I want you so damn bad it hurts.”
Her palm settles against my cheek. “I need you too, Aaron.”
The doorbell forces us apart. Before long, Jasper and Emi, Parker, Hardison, Connor, Isabel, and Veronica join us around the table, enjoying extra spicy enchiladas, tamales, and fresh queso, and laughing like only family can.
Halfway through dinner, Hardison pushes his chair back with a scrape and gets to his feet, lifting his bottle of Shiner. “All right, before Jasper starts licking the bowl of queso, I’m making this official.” He glances at Parker, then tips his bottle toward me. “Thanks to Cap—sorry, Chief Stone here, Parker and I managed to stumble our way into the esteemed rank of Captain. Which is wild, ‘cause between the two of us, we’ve probably broken more laws than Harris has rules posted on his office wall.”
Parker snorts into her water glass. “Speak for yourself. I’ve only broken half as many as you.”
“Lies and slander,” Hardison shoots back, hand pressed over his heart. “Anyway, here’s to promotions we probably didn’t deserve, and to surviving the next six weeks until AJ takes pity on us and comes back from his leave of absence to boot Harris into retirement.”
There’s more laughter, the easy kind that makes the room warmer, but when I glance at Parker, I catch the shadows still lingering in her eyes. She’s smiling—even jabs Hardison in the ribs when he bows and starts asking me when it’s his turn for a nice, long, leave of absence—but I’m not sure she’ll ever be whole again.
But she’s got Grace to talk to when the nightmares get too bad. And while I know Grace would give anything to take those memories away from Parker, having someone who understands—even a little—has been good for her too.
After dinner, when everyone else heads into the living room where we’ve set up the poker table by the fireplace, Connor pulls me aside. “You can consider Marvin a non-issue from here on out.”
I almost choke on my whiskey. The day we landed back in Austin, Connor and Jasper went straight to the abandoned garage to have a little chat with the human piece of garbage before the FBI took him into custody. They warned him that if he didn’t stick to the “official” story—that a couple of Jefe’s guys beat the shit out of him—he’d find himself in lockup with a couple dozen Cordova Cartel members. And Connor would personally show each one of them the deep fake of the confession that sent Jefe to the compound that night.
“Did someone get to him?” I hold my breath, unsure I want to know the answer. Not truly.
Connor takes a long sip of his drink, as if he’s about to go into battle. “The dumbfuck was bein’ transferred to the cushy country club I promised him. He jumped outta the van at a red light, tried to play Frogger across three lanes of traffic, and got pancaked by a goddamn bus. His last words were apparently, ‘The Glorious One will save me!’”
“A bus. After everything, a bus took him out.” I want to laugh. Hell, I do chuckle briefly. After all the sleep I’ve lost worryin’ about what he’d say under interrogation, this…is almost comical.
“Yup. Some Glorious One.” He shakes his head.
“Oh, I dunno.” Jas wanders over to refill his drink. “I think Marvin gettin’ thrown under a bus is pretty damn glorious.”
I turn my gaze to the living room. Grace shines like the sun. She, Emi, and Isabel are trying to convince Parker to watch some rom-com at their next girls’ night, while Veronica plays with Belle in front of the fire.
Parker’s hands are still a little shaky as she divvies up the poker chips. She sits next to Grace, and they trade a quick look—a moment of connection between two women who’ve been pushed to the edge and survived.
“All right,” I say, taking my seat next to Grace. “Whose money is my wife takin’ tonight?”
“Not mine,” Hardison declares, leaning back in his chair and flashing a grin. “I’ve been running numbers in my head all week. Got odds, probabilities, whole-ass spreadsheets up here.” He taps his temple. “Grace doesn’t stand a chance.”
My wife quirks a brow and flicks a chip into the center of the table with practiced ease. “Bold. You’ll regret it.” Her voice is steady, her eyes sharp—like this part of her never went anywhere.
