What if they do, though?
I bite down harder on my thumbnail.
The diner empties out gradually, the brothers filtering away without much noise, and my eyes drift to the back booth.
Tomcat's gone.
The booth sits empty, a cold, abandoned coffee mug the only trace left behind. Panic stabs through the ice I’ve built around my heart. For the first time in two days, numbness fails me. I hate it. I hate not having eyes on him.
Thought vanishes and instinct takes over. Three strides and I’m in the office, lungs gulping stale air as I grab my phone. My fingers fly across the screen, heart pounding a wild rhythm as I pull up the tracker.
He’s a pulsing red dot on a digital map. Just riding. The route is aimless, a jagged line through the streets of Coral Cay that says he’s got too much on his mind to go home.
“Hey, Becca,” I call out, my voice sounding tight and unfamiliar even to me. “I need you and Pierre to close down tonight. Can you handle it?”
“Sure thing, boss.” Becca pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”
My brows pull together. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
Her expression flickers through emotions I cannot name before settling. Maybe sadness. Maybe something close to pity. I have no idea how to handle either, so I just stare back.
Her smile returns, gentler than before. "Go on. We've got it." When her hand finds my arm, its warmth feels almost unfamiliar. "Be safe, okay?"
What a strange day.
"Thank you," I manage, and then I'm out the door.
Anticipation sparks inside me on the walk home. It is sharp and electric, burning away the dull static that has haunted me all day. Amazing, really, how the thought of watching over him jolts my nerves. Two days of emptiness, and now this.
I change fast. Helmet on. Fireblade between my legs and the engine alive underneath me, and I'm cutting through the dark after that little dot on my screen before I've thought too hard about any of it.
I close the gap slowly. He drifts without purpose, restless, and I slip into the familiar rhythm of trailing him. It feels effortless, as if this was always meant to be my role.
He turns toward the clubhouse eventually, and I hang back, keeping my distance, watching the dot settle.
But when the Saint’s Outlaws clubhouse looms from the shadows, icy dread floods my veins.
I’m not the only shadow Tomcat has.
Another shape lurks in the darkness. Another pair of eyes tracks him from the trees. The realization is not just a sting. It is a gut-deep violation of everything I am.
Someone else is inmyterritory.
Someone else is watchingmyman.
Chapter Twelve
Thebackofmyneck prickles.
I shift my weight against the bike, elbows on the tank, eyes moving slow and deliberate across the grounds. We've been waiting on Ghost for ten minutes now. Pope hasn't said anything about it. He doesn't need to. His jaw is tight enough to crack, and his finger is tracing the blade of Precious, his axe, in long, patient strokes. The kind of patient that actually isn't patient at all.
The metal of the axe glints, a silver promise of what happens to people who waste our time.
Disrespect this blatant usually ends in a shallow grave. But we’re backed into a corner. Ghost is the only bridge left to the product we need to fill our ports. We have to eat the insult, but it tastes like copper in my mouth.
When he finally strolls into the light, he’s alone.
Can't decide if it's brave or stupid. Probably both, braided together into something that functions like neither.
