"Uh-huh." He chews, eyes on me. "Just remember, club motto is 'we pay interest on every debt.'"
I stab a piece of garlic bread. "Noted."
But I can't stop smiling. For the first time in a long time, I feel young, stupid, and reckless in a way that isn't lethal. And I'm not doing it alone.
The next morning, I'm in the kitchen again, hair twisted up, scrubs on, bare face still pillow-creased. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other as the girls blow up my notifications.
Ruby: How's Vice's clown phobia doing today?
Darla: Did he cry? Please tell me he cried.
Frankie: I will not enable bullying.…But also, yes, details please.
Candace: Odds on which one snaps first? Nash, Knox, East, James, or Malachi?
I type back, grinning.
Me: Knox did not cry. He did say "what the fuck" and like five different prayers though.
Ruby: My work here is done.
Frankie: It is very much not done. We haven't even gotten to the possum phase.
Darla: I get to help with the haunting, right? I have sage and unresolved trauma.
I snort into my coffee. Down the hall, bedsprings creak and a low, sleepy curse as Knox hauls himself upright. A drawer opens, slams. Hangers scrape. The bathroom fan kicks on, then the soft click of the door.
I know exactly what he's about to see. I'd waited for him to take the trash out last night, slipped the clown doll into the tub behind the closed curtain, its painted grin aimed right where he'd be standing when he pulled it back.
He hates clowns. I shouldn't know that. I'm not supposed to have dug under his armor that way. But I do. He mentioned it once, offhand, after some terrible horror movie. He'd stiffened a fraction too much when the clown came on screen.
I made a note. Not to use against him. Just to know. Now I'm absolutely using it against him. The coffee maker sputters behind me. I take another sip, listening.
Silence. One Mississippi. Two. Three.
"FUCK—" Less a shout and more a strangled, high-pitched sound I have never heard come out of my six-foot-something ex-military biker husband. Half shriek, half growl, all indignation.
My coffee almost comes out my nose. Floorboards rattle as he stomps down the hall. I school my features, wipe the smile off, and turn just as he appears in the doorway.
Completely naked.
Never made it into the shower. Hair sleep-ruffled, chest rising and falling, every vein in his forearms standing out in sharp relief.
"Sloane."
I press my lips together so hard they hurt. "Morning, husband."
He points a furious finger back toward the bathroom. "Why is there a clown in my shower?"
"Maybe he needed to freshen up?"
His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. He prowls into the room, and the air shifts. My back bumps the counter as he closes the distance, heat rolling off bare skin.
"You think this is funny?"
"Yes." The word slips out before I can stop it. My shoulders shake.
He plants his palms on either side of me, caging me in. Already thickening between us, brushing my hip as he crowds closer. Knox crowds out air, reason, and any lingering guilt.
