NINE
THE LINES WE CROSS
STEEL
The last thing I text her isGood.The safest lie I’ve ever told. The moment I set my phone down, the quiet hits like a punch to the gut. My brothers are loud on the other side of my bedroom walls, shouting about heating coils, patch rotations, some bullshit about supply runs, but in here, it’s just me and the truth I won’t say out loud.
I’m not good. I’m not even close.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, phone cooling in my palm like a dead bird. Aria’s name glows at the top of the thread. Two words she didn’t send stare back at me in the empty space:
Miss you.
I know that’s what she would say, even if she can’t say it. I feel it like a bruise that never healed right.
I drop the phone on my nightstand hard enough to rattle the lamp. The ache under my ribs spreads, tightening, carving room for a kind of regret I don’t have language for. I stand, pace, curse, run a hand over my face until the skin stings. None of it helps.
So, I do what I always do when I need to shut my brain off. I drink.
There’s a bottle of Jack in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Second one this month. I twist the cap off, take a long pull, and feel the burn claw down my throat. The fire doesn’t numb shit, it just slows the storm in my head long enough to breathe.
I take another drink. And another.
By the time the bottle’s a third gone, I’m stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan blades spinning shadows across the room.
I try not to imagine her sitting alone in her house, flinching at every noise, sliding Tama’s ring along a chain like it’s a promise and a curse at once.
I try not to imagine her crawling out of my bed this morning, pulling my flannel around her shoulders like armor. I try not to imagine her leaving again.
I fail.
Sleep comes slow, the bad kind, jagged around the edges. I dream in flashes of her breath fogging against my throat, the press of her knees bracketing my hips, the sound she makes when she breaks apart under my hands.
Then the dream shifts.
Snow. A shape in the trees. A shadow moving toward the garage. A camera flashing too close. Aria’s crying my name.
I jerk awake with my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it aches.
The window is bruised in early morning light when I drag myself upright. My head throbs. My mouth is dry. I stumble into the bathroom attached to my room and splash cold water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror until I don’t look human anymore.
Then I pull on my jeans, my boots, and my cut, lock the door behind me, and move through the clubhouse on autopilot, heading for Church.
The brothers are already gathered around the long table. Coffee cups steam on the scarred wood. Maps of the county are spread across the surface. Rock is arguing about route expansions, City is rattling off supply shortages, and Draft is talking about propane deliveries like the world isn’t three seconds from burning down, but Aria keeps bleeding into every thought.
I step into the room, and everything stutters for half a beat. Honor gives me a once-over as I enter with his head tilted, brow tight, reading the tension under my skin like scripture. Throttle mutters “Jesus” under his breath when he sees my face. Draft stops mid-sentence, the pen in his hand stalling. City’s worry is subtle, eyes flicking to his phone, then back to me, as if waiting for me to snap.
“Morning, boss,” City says, flipping pages on his tablet. “Got updates on suppliers.”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because right in front of me is a map of Route 46. The same route Aria has to take home. The same stretch of road that hides a dozen blind corners and twice as many places for a body to disappear.
“Steel?” Rock says slowly. “You tracking any of this?”
“Yeah,” I grit out. “Just thinking.”
Crusher snorts from the end of the table. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
