Something moved at the edge of my vision. India crossing the yard, book in one hand, steaming mug in the other. She had changed into leggings and an oversized shirt with some band logo on it. Hair up in a messy knot. Glasses perched on her nose.
Turnpike went quiet mid-breath.
India glanced up, caught him staring. One brow arched.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
He stared for half a second too long.
“Right,” he said awkwardly, his voice nearly cracking.
She smirked, shook her head, and kept walking.
I watched him watch her go.
Oh yeah. He was doomed.
“Smooth,” I muttered.
“Shut up,” he said, ears a little red.
Liberty stepped up to 8-Ball. “Get home,” she said. “Watch your own streets. We’ll watch ours.”
He nodded. “You keep my idiot breathing,” he said, jerking his chin toward me.
“Depends on hisbehavior,” she said.
Their eyes met. There was history there. Whole books’ worth I didn’t have time to flip through right now.
Then the engines turned over. 8-Ball and Turnpike rolled toward the gate. Indigo and Medusa pulled it open just enough for them to slip through, then dragged it shut again with the same metallic groan that always made this place feel like a creature closing its mouth.
I stood there with Valkyrie and Liberty and watched my family ride away.
No bitterness chewed at me. There was no feeling of being abandoned.
I was where I was supposed to be.
In the end, there’s no place like home though.
Inside, the clubhouse shifted back into its version of normal.
California was behind the bar, hair up, eyeliner sharp, sorting bottles. Raven leaned on the counter, talking shit about someone’s playlist. Medusa had her boots up on a table, smoking, arguing with Cobra again over what counted as punk. Arizona drifted in and out, camera around her neck, collecting moments like ammo.
I took a stool. California slid a drink in front of me before I asked.
“You look less like a kicked dog today,” she said. “Good news?”
I knew she meant Blackjack.
“He’s alive,” I said. “For now.”
“Then we drink to ‘for now,’” she said, tapping her knuckles on the bar once.
I took a swallow. It burned right, settling everything into sharper lines.
My phone buzzed. This time, it was a text from Blackjack.
I glanced across the room.
