“Bossy,” I murmur.
“Efficient,” she corrects again, and pinches me.
I hiss and she smiles—small, satisfied.
It should feel like victory.
Instead, the room feels like a trap tightening around my ribs.
Because I can feel it now—how deep she’s letting me in. How easy it would be to ruin her without meaning to. How I’m going to destroy someone no matter how this ends.
Her.
Or June.
No matter who I save, I will pay the price.
Molly lifts her head, eyes narrowing as if she senses the shift.
“What is it?” she asks.
I force my mouth into something that passes for a smile. I cup the back of her neck, press a kiss to her forehead.
“Nothing,” I lie.
She watches me for a beat longer, then settles back down, fingers curling into me again.
And I stare at the ceiling, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and skin, knowing I’m running out of time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Evan
I’m on the garage roof before the sun’s fully burned the mist off the pines, boots planted on shingles that don’t deserve the attention I’m giving them. I’m here for a lie, a lie and generosity and love.
Mayhem’s below me by the ladder, one hand steadying it like he’s responsible and not a walking disaster, the other hand sparking something that looks like a homemade lighter with a knife attached to it. Tank stands off to the side with his arms crossed, built like a wrecking ball in a cut. Bishop leans against the open bay door, coffee in hand, eyes sharp like he’s taking inventory of everything I do and filing it away. He probably is. The only friendly audience I have is Molly, whose red hair I glimpse through the bar window every so often, a crimson hurricane whirling about preparing The Noble Fir for another day.
“Roof looks fine,” I say, driving another nail anyway. “It’s got years in it.”
Mayhem snorts. “Yeah. Like you know what you’re doing saying that.”
“Isn’t that why you hired me?”
“Touché.”
Tank grunts. “Less talking. Just do the job.”
Bishop lifts his cup. “Club pays, you fix. That’s the deal.”
I keep my head down and work like I don’t know the way they’re watching me. Like I don’t feel the weight of being here.
“Contracting’s been slow lately, so it’s not like I’m not thankful for the work.”
“Don’t thank me,” Mayhem says. “Thank Molly. She’s the one who begged for you.”
Tank’s mouth twitches — almost a smile. “Heard that.”
I force my hands to keep moving, and keep my focus on not bashing my fingers as I drive in another nail. “Didn’t ask her to beg.”
