Dean nodded, kneeling to secure the leash. Sergeant wagged once, then went rigid, the lines of his body alert but not anxious. Dean straightened and looked at me, serious again. “Seven?”
“Seven,” I echoed.
He and Sergeant climbed back into the car. I watched them pull out of the lot, the day swallowing both man anddog as they merged into the fading gold of Trinity Drive. I stood there a while, the scent of leather and dog fur filling the hollow in my chest.
I should have felt victorious, or at least validated. Instead, I felt stripped raw, like someone had flayed the usual layers of caution, leaving the nerves exposed. I wanted to call Taryn and tell her about the ride, about the invitation, about the way Dean watched me like he was mapping my coordinates for the first and last time.
But I didn’t call. I stood in the parking lot, letting the heat bake the doubts out of me, and watched the sun slide down behind the ridge. For the first time in a long time, the world felt bigger than the box I’d built for myself. Maybe girls like me did deserve to be happy. And maybe outlaw bikers were just the right men to make that happen.
5
Dean
The world outside the car was all honey-glaze and asphalt shimmer, the Los Alamos late afternoon pressed flat and hard against the windshield. I lowered the window for Sergeant, but she barely noticed, curled into herself in the passenger footwell with the dignity of someone resigned to travel. I wondered if dogs got headaches from the glare, or if they just processed the sting of it in a way we couldn't. The air smelled like juniper and baking roadkill, faint electricity on the breeze. I kept my eyes straight ahead, letting the low drone of public radio fill the space.
It was almost peaceful. The kind of peace that comes from knowing the next twelve hours, the next seven steps,the next cigarette to be rolled and smoked to the butt on my back porch while the dog learned her new perimeter. Even the club felt far away, the threats and debts and old grudges all dulled by the aftertaste of Emily's voice and the sight of her, half-laughing in the sun. I touched the dog tags at my throat and let my mind drift to how I’d tell Ma about the adoption, about the chance she had now to maybe give a shit about something again.
The phone rang, vibrating against the center console with a rattle that set my nerves on edge. The screen lit up with Damron’s number. I let it ring twice, like I hadn’t been waiting for the call all day.
“Yeah?” I answered, thumb pressed into the tags so hard I left a dent.
On the other end, silence—then Damron’s voice, a little too careful. “Medina. Where you at right now?”
“Heading east on Trinity. Picked up the dog.” I glanced down at Sergeant, whose ears swiveled in sync with my voice.
“You got anyone with you?”
“Just the mutt. What’s up?”
He let out a breath, a sound like he was about to give a command he knew I wouldn’t like. “Pull over. Now.”
I did. Parked at the edge of a lot behind an abandoned auto parts place, where the heat pressed up from theblacktop and made everything slow and surreal. Sergeant whined in the sudden stillness, then started pacing in the footwell, her nails clicking a nervous Morse code.
I waited, trying to read the script in Damron’s silence. “I’m parked. Spit it out.”
There was no preamble, just, “There was a hit at the bank on Trinity this morning. Two shooters, masks, in and out in less than two minutes.”
“Yeah?” I said, not following the thread yet. “Robbery or message?”
“It’s worse.” His voice stayed flat, no tremor. “They had a customer on the floor. Woman. She tried to play hero with the silent alarm. They shot her in the chest. Died on scene.”
My lungs stopped working for a second, like the air had turned to wax. I felt every hair on my arms stand up, and cold sweat on my back. “Who?” I asked, even though I knew the shape of the answer already.
Damron said it. “Your mother, Dean. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The heat, the blinding sun, the reek of hot vinyl, all telescoped into one sharp point behind my eyes. Sergeant pawed at my knee, whining louder now, a high keening like she was trying to crawl inside my ribs and push out the sickness there.
“There were witnesses,” Damron went on, voice pinched. “They heard one of the shooters shout in a language nobody recognized—Middle Eastern, maybe. Someone said they saw tattoos. Sultan shit. You get what I’m saying?”
I nodded, the motion mechanical, not sure if he could even hear the movement. My throat was raw. “You think it was for me. For the club.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. “I’m sending Dunn and Rico to clean the scene, keep the pigs off your tail. But you need to get your head straight before you do anything. I mean it, Dean.”
I tried to inhale, but the air was all broken glass. My hands shook, the tremor moving from fingertips to elbows to somewhere deeper, where I couldn’t brace against it. I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, the dog tags catching on the vinyl seam.
Sergeant tried to lick my ear, maybe to check if I was still alive. I pushed her away, not hard, but she whimpered and retreated, curling tight in the corner, eyes wide.
I tried to focus, grab the facts, do what my father had taught me—catalogue, compartmentalize, control. “What now?” I said, voice shredded.
