By the time my shift clicks past eleven hours, my feet hurt, my back aches, and my brain has settled into that weird, floaty place where everything is both too loud and too far away.
I'm double-checking charting at the nurses' station when my phone buzzes.
Knox: Shift almost over?
I glance at the wall clock. Fifteen minutes until I can theoretically clock out, assuming no one codes.
Me: Don't jinx it. Why?
Knox: Candace is hurt. Malachi wants you to take a look. Can you come by?
Candace. Hurt.
I saw her yesterday. Short shorts, forced smile, that brittle edge around her eyes. I walked her into the clubhouse. Handed her to Maggie.
Me: What happened?
A longer pause.
Knox: We'll talk when I get you. You off in 15?
Me: Yeah. I'll clear it with Lisa.
Knox: I'm on my way.
Lisa takes one look at my face and nods without asking.
"Go. Text me if you get pulled into something major. I'll adjust assignments."
I strip off my gloves, wash my hands until the skin feels too tight, and clock out. I grab my work bag from my locker; stethoscope, penlight, the basics I carry every shift. By the time I push through the sliding doors into evening air, Knox is already there.
Leaning against his bike near the curb, cut on, boots planted, helmet dangling from two fingers. In worn jeans and a faded black T-shirt, tattoos a collage of ink and intent down his forearms. The kind of trouble I'd walk back into with both eyes open.
He doesn't do the usual slow sweep of my scrubs. He straightens as I approach, eyes a shade darker than usual. His attention scans the lot once before settling on me.
"Prospect's moving your car," he says. "Get on." Clipped. Efficient. Vice president mode. His gaze softens a fraction. He hands me the helmet. "We'll talk on the way," he says. "You're not driving."
"Bossy," I mutter.
"Correct." He presses a quick, hard kiss to the corner of my mouth. I swing a leg over and settle in behind him, hands finding his waist on instinct.
We don't talk on the ride. Whatever "we'll talk on the way" meant, he shelves it, focus locked on the road. His shoulders are tense under my hands.
The clubhouse lot is different from yesterday. Fewer kids. More bikes pulled in close.
Knox kills the engine. He reaches back and unclips my helmet, lifting it off the way he always does, but his jaw is tight and the usual softness isn't there.
"Malachi's posted upstairs," he says. "Ruby and Frankie are floating. Maggie's on food and 'pretend everything is fine' mode."
"What happened?"
His hand finds my hip, grip tightening.
"Chuck stole her savings," he says finally. "Every cent. Then he tried to sell her."
Tried to sell her. My vision narrows, edges going fuzzy. Blood pounds in my ears.
His hand stalls on my hip, knuckles going white. His jaw locks, every line of his body drawn taut like he's one breath from putting his fist through something.
