"I'm not quite sure what you're sayin' here, Diesel. You're gonna take care of me? Or you're gonna take care of him?"
His response is to place a burner phone on the bedside table next to my wallet. "It's charged, you've got two-hundred minutes and no data. No numbers, either. Brick said?—"
But he stops.
Brick said. Brick said, what? Let's brand Legion, give him a false sense of family and security, then cut him out when his life spirals? Fuck Brick."
"Right." Diesel moves toward the door and all I can do is watch him leave. He pauses at the threshold, lookin' back at me. Then he points. "Your head's not in the game. You're my best friend, that's never gonna change. But your head's not in the game. It's always been us or them for you, Demon. Always." He narrows his eyes at me. "And you always chose them.”
“Funny,” I scoff. “That’s not how I see it. I never did time for them.”
He scoffs back at me, louder. “I never said nothin’ before. Mostly because I didn’t care. I believed in you. I trusted you. And fuck it, it just wasn’t my secret to share. But I need you to know Legion, that I know why it took you so long to patch in."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
But he just glares back at me. "I know why, Legion. Why you used to disappear when you were a prospect. I know where you went. And I know who you were with. Because I followed you once."
“What—” But I choke the words off when I realize what he’s saying.
I followed you once. His chin tips up. Daring me to contradict him.
He doesn't say anything else.
Doesn't have to.
He made his point.
I followed you once.
The door closing softly behind him feels more final than any slam.
I know three phone numbers by heart.
My landline to the new trailer because it's the same number as the old one.
The clubhouse. Been calling it for over a decade now from sketchy places doing even sketchier things. Burned into my brain from nights when I needed backup, mornings when I needed alibis, afternoons when I just needed someone who understood what the world looks like when you live outside its rules.
And the Ashby residence. Not because I ever called Savannah over there, but because I used to want to, so bad as a teenager, I'd dial the number and hang up before the first ring. Used to practice what I'd say if Eleanor or Cash answered. Used to wonder if Savannah would be allowed to talk to me if I actually let it ring.
Never found out.
These are my choices.
I stare at the ceiling of the hospital room, counting tiles while my chest throbs beneath the bandages. The pain medication makes everything feel underwater, but not deep enough to drown the choice in front of me.
My fingers move before my mind settles, punching in the numbers. Each button press feels like breaking something I can't put back together.
Someone with a Spanish accent picks up the Ashby landline on the fifth ring. Like that phone hasn't rung in so many years, they don't even have it hooked up to an answering service.
"Ashby residence," she says, formal but tired, like she's been working there long enough to know better than to sound excited about anything.
"I need to speak to Savannah," I say, my voice rougher than I expected. This is when I realize my throat is killing me.
There's a pause, a muffled conversation I can't make out. Then rustling, like the phone's being passed around.
"Who is this?" The voice is male, cautious. A butler? A gardener? A ranch hand? Who the fuck knows.
"Put Savannah on the phone," I repeat. Practically growling. "It's Legion."
