Page 69 of Cruz

I press my fingers into Prissy’s soft fur. She purrs harder, like she’s trying to vibrate the bad thoughts out of me. “I know,” I whisper. “You’re right. Panic is not useful.”

She blinks at me slowly.

That might be agreement. It might be judgment. With cats, it’s probably both.

My hand keeps moving over her head, down her back, back up to her ears. She arches into the touch, totally trusting. I try to imagine feeling that relaxed. Just accepting that we’re here, that Cruz and Liam are here, that the clubhouse is full of men who know what they’re doing.

I can’t quite get there.

I can almost hear my parents’ voices from years ago, all their disapproval dressed up as wisdom. Bad choices have consequences. Lie down with dogs, and you wake up with fleas. They would have had a lot to say about bikers, about gangs, about my son and Cruz and the mess that my life has become. Except my life doesn’t feel like a mess when I think about Cruz.

That’s the problem.

My life feels bigger with him in it. Scarier, yes. More complicated, definitely. But also warmer. Richer. Like some part of me that had been sleeping for twenty years stretched and decided to come alive all at once.

What if that part is stupid?

What if wanting Cruz makes me reckless?

What if I’m so dazzled by the way he looks at me, by the way he listens, by the way he touches me like I’m something precious, that I’m ignoring all the flashing red warning signs?

Someone knocks at the door, and I jolt so hard that Prissy lifts her head and gives me a deeply offended look.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

The knock comes again. It’s gentle.

I stand, smoothing my hands down my sweater even though there’s no reason to. I’m in Cruz’s room, in the clubhouse, after a shooting. I don’t think anyone expects me to look put together.

I open the door to see three women standing in the hallway.

The first has long brown hair that falls in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing a flowing floral skirt, boots, and a loose cardigan that looks handwoven or expensive or maybe both. There’s something kind about her face, but not soft. She has the sort of calm that makes the air around her feel less sharp.

“Hi,” she says softly. “I’m Lark. Tyrant’s old lady.”

I’d heard Liam and Cruz mentioning her. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, maybe some leather and fishnet clad biker babe. Not a boho princess.

The woman beside her is tall and blonde and so stunning that I have to make a conscious effort not to stare. She looks like a fifties pinup brought to life, all red lips, platinum waves, winged eyeliner, and curves that would make vintage dresses weep with gratitude. Somehow, she makes jeans and a fitted sweater look like a magazine shoot.

“I’m Ella,” she says, offering me a warm smile. “Raiden’s old lady.”

The college professor. Again I feel chastened by how my mental image pairs up with reality.

The third woman steps forward with a small wave. She’s much younger than them, and she looks like she dressed in a hurry. A long, knitted cardigan pulled over what looks like a vintage Victorian nightgown. Her feet are incongruously stuffed into a pair of work boots that look like they’ve seen a lot of work. She has a friendly face, but there’s a tightness around her mouth that tells me she’s holding herself together through force of will.

“And I’m Willa. Atlas’ old lady. I run the antique store.”

“The blanket,” I blurt.

Willa smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “The crochet one?”

“Cruz said you found it for him.”

“I did. He was very specific for a man who mostly communicated in grunts.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It wobbles a little, but it’s real.

Lark’s expression softens. “Can we come in for a few minutes? We wanted to check on you.”