And besides, Josiah had ten years on me, and the kind of self-control that never let a thing slip unless he wanted it to. I was a non-event to him—Knox’s screw-up sibling, a cautionary tale with a motorcycle and a mean streak.
But sometimes, if the light caught just right, I’d catch him watching me with this look. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t risk the words.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. I’d always been good at projecting meaning onto blank surfaces.
I finished the beer, tossed the empty in the direction of the trash can, missed by a mile. Cracked open another. My fingers were still trembling from the adrenaline comedown, but the ache in my jaw was enough to ground me.
I reached up and poked at the edge of the tape, testing the tenderness, then let my hand drift down to my right arm.The tattoo sleeve looked even more vibrant here, the motel’s sickly pink glow lighting up the pines and riverbanks and the silhouetted mountains along my forearm.
I’d added to it every time I survived something I shouldn’t have—a new tree, a wolf hidden in the branches, a streak of cloud curling above the valley.
Every time I looked at it, I remembered that leaving home didn’t mean leaving behind the things that mattered. It just meant you had to carry them with you, even when they hurt.
I leaned back against the wall and tried to imagine what it would be like if Josiah actually walked through the door. He’d take one look at the state of me and probably laugh, that low rumble that shook his whole chest. Then he’d tell me to stand up, dust myself off, and get moving, as if the world was never going to stop to wait for me to catch up.
But then he’d see my hands. The way they shook, the way I cradled my arm like it was broken, the way I kept glancing away because I couldn’t stand to have anyone looking at me too long.
And maybe—just maybe—he’d kneel down to my level. He’d put one of those big, careful hands on my knee, not too hard, not too soft, and he’d say, “You done with all this, Bo? You ready to come home?”
I could see it so clearly it hurt. I could see myself nodding, could see the relief in his eyes, could feel the weight of wanting finally give way to something real.
I squeezed my eyes shut and drank until the can was empty, then started another. The six-pack wasn’t going to make it through the night, but neither was I.
I let my mind wander, let the glow of the neon sign burn holes in my eyelids, and told myself that tomorrow would be different. That this time, when someone showed up for me, I’d stop running. That maybe—just maybe—I’d let them put meback together again, even if it meant surrendering the one thing I’d never given up before.
Maybe that’s what I needed all along. To be seen, to be known, even if the person who saw me did it with a wrench in one hand and a smirk on his lips.
I drained the last beer, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and crawled under the covers. They smelled like old detergent and the faintest hint of cedar, and for a second, I let myself pretend it was the scent of home.
Tomorrow, I’d face the consequences.
Tonight, I could dream a little longer.
Chapter Two
~ Josiah ~
My phone rang at 03:11 and kept ringing until the fifth vibrate buzzed itself under my right hip, damn near off the motel mattress. I surfaced out of a dead black sleep, one of those greasy, bloodless dreams that never quite leaves your system, and clawed for the phone on instinct.
First thing I noticed: dark, colder than hell, blue light in my eyes. Second: sheets tangled up around my legs, sweat slicking my chest, and the cheap polyester comforter sticking to every scar and tattoo like it had memorized the map of me. Third: the number on the screen. Knox McKenzie.
I thumbed the green circle and croaked, “You die or is this a collect call from Purgatory?”
He didn’t waste time. “Bo’s in Yreka. Got jumped, bike’s toast, he’s too stubborn to Uber home. Can you—?”
“I’ll get him.” My voice came out gravelly and two octaves below normal, but the words were steel. My heartbeat snapped from idle to redline, all systems go, not a trace of sleep left.
“Don’t suppose you care what happened to the Ducati.”
I sat up, feet flat on the cold tile, and scanned the room while the phone pressed to my face. “I care if Bo’s breathing.”
“He says he is, but…” Knox exhaled, and the sound was like air hissing out of a radiator. “He’s not in good shape, Jo. ER gave him stitches. He says not to call, but you know how he is with pride. If anyone else shows, he’ll bail.”
“Send the address.” I was already bending to grab my jeans off the floor, working them up over thighs still sore from the day’s work at the shop. I kept the phone tucked between jaw and shoulder, hands free to move.
“You’re closest,” Knox said. “I could call Ransom, but—”
“He’d make it worse.” I found my t-shirt draped over the back of the chair, shrugged it on, and grabbed my boots from under the window.
