“You did it?” he said.
I nodded. Couldn’t speak yet.
He looked at the blood pooling on the floor, then at my hands. “You need help?” he asked.
I shrugged, then grinned, the adrenaline finally breaking through. “I could use a smoke,” I said.
He actually smiled. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said, and clapped me on the back.
The ride back was a blur—sirens growing louder as we peeled away, Augustine waving the rest of the crew onto the highway, Nitro whooping like a madman. The sun was up now, full and merciless, bleaching the world to bone.
We hit the city limits before the cops even found the bodies. Nobody said a word. There was nothing left to say.
I kept my hand pressed to the wound in my side, feeling the pulse of my own heart, slow and steady. I thought about Ma, about the life she’d wanted for me, about the future I’d thrown away the second I put on the cut.
I thought about Emily, about the way her hand had felt in mine, about the promise I’d made and whether I was man enough to keep it.
When we finally pulled in, the prospects were waiting. Emily stood between them, arms crossed, face hard as flint. She saw me, saw the blood, and for a second, the mask slipped. I saw the fear, the relief, the anger, all tangled together. She ran to me, grabbed my wrist, and held on like she was afraid I’d disappear.
“I did it,” I said. My voice was barely more than a rasp.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t kiss me. She just nodded, then led me inside, Sergeant at our heels.
I stripped off the bloody shirt and let her clean the wound. She patched me up in silence, hands steady even as the rest of her shook.
When she finished, she looked at me, eyes green and unblinking. “Is it over?” she asked.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t think there was one.
But I felt the weight lift, just a little. The world was still broken, but maybe, just maybe, there was something left worth rebuilding. I pulled her in, held her tight, and let the morning light find us in the quiet ruin of what came next.
18
Emily
Six months to the day since I watched the old shelter burn, and here I was, same patch of land, different world. If you squinted against the morning sun, you could see the ghosts of the old cinderblock, the scorched pawprint mural, and the ashes that once passed for hope. But on this morning, the new Los Alamos Humane Society looked like something out of a brochure—two stories of plate glass, metal beams that shone like fresh bone, and landscaping so aggressive it dared you to remember what came before.
The crowd in the parking lot was everything I’d expected and nothing I’d wanted. Mayors in their candidate suits, city councilwomen and their duckling kids, donors withcomplexions that had never known a day’s manual labor. There were dogs, too, lots of them—collars tight, tongues lolling, noses crammed deep into grass still sticky with last night’s fertilizer. Local news camera on a battered tripod. At least two people live-streaming on their phones. For a second, I thought I saw Marsha in the press of bodies, clipboard at the ready, face set in her usual withering grimace, but of course that was impossible.
Front and center, impossible to miss, were the Bloody Scythes: thirty men in matching cuts and dusty boots, hair cropped or wild, all of them exuding the quiet, predatory tension of men unused to standing still. Dean stood dead center, arms folded, Sergeant leaning against his shin with the patience of a dog who’d seen too much. The rest of the Scythes watched the crowd, eyes hungry for the next threat, but Dean only watched me.
The sun was a beast at my back, baking through the black of my borrowed dress suit. I could feel sweat pooling under my bra, but I kept my hands tight on the edge of the podium, channeling the pain into something that looked like poise.
I cleared my throat, glanced at my speech (half memorized, half bullshit), and forced a smile. The crowd hushed.
“I want to thank you all for coming out this morning,” I began. My voice carried better than I’d expected, echoingoff the glass and the glossy hoods of parked cars. “I never thought I’d see this day, to be honest. Six months ago, we lost more than just a building—we lost a safe place for the animals, and for the people who cared about them.”
A flash of movement caught my attention. Sergeant’s ears pricked and were attentive, as if she understood every word.
“We never would have made it here if it weren’t for the support of this community,” I continued, letting my gaze slide from the crowd to the line of bikers and back. “Especially the Bloody Scythes Motorcycle Club, whose generous donation—” here I paused, as the Scythes rumbled their approval, a subtle thumping of boots on tarmac “—made this new shelter possible. They didn’t ask for credit, but they deserve it.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. I couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment, but I’d take either.
I took a slow breath. My heart was racing like I’d mainlined espresso, but the words were coming easier now. “Our new facility will double the number of animals we can care for. The veterinary suite is fully equipped for both routine and emergency care. We have indoor and outdoor runs, heated floors, and—” here, I smiled for real, thinking of Marsha “—the best damn kitten room in the stateof New Mexico.”
A polite ripple of laughter, then genuine applause. I let the sound wash over me, fighting the urge to drop the script and just say, look at us, we survived, you bastards, we survived.
I looked out at the sea of faces—Taryn in her best blazer, hair pulled back, eyes red from lack of sleep but shining with pride. The mayor, standing with his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, the kid already bored and poking at her phone. A stray Scythe prospect holding a puppy with one tattooed hand, as if he wasn’t sure which of them was supposed to be more dangerous.
