The corners of the sheriff’s lips soften ever so slightly. “Yes. Rome told me what’s been going on. With that in mind, I’ll let you off with a warning and your promise of a sworn statement over what occurred here today. I’ll do everything in my power to track down the man responsible, but we all know how OMGs work.”
Outlaw motorcycle gangs. The White Tigers had a nice agreement with the former sheriff, but once Sheriff Miles took over, that contract was severed. As a result, the gang has becomemore trouble within town and less agreeable to cleaning up their messes.
“We’ll stay behind and help clean up,” I say, picking up Maisy’s discarded broom. “We won’t leave until it’s done. Right, Stone?”
Stone picks up the spray bottle of cleaning solution. “Least I can do.”
“Uh-huh,” Sheriff Miles repeats. “You’ll have to do a bit more convincing than that. Mr. Branson over there told me you threw the first punch. Don’t think I’m so small town I’m not aware of what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into in California. I won’t be having the same shenanigans in my town, do you understand? If you have beef with the White Tigers, piss them off on their turf and stay out of ours.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone says. His muscles are tense with contained frustration, but he says nothing more, instead unleashing his irritation on cleaning up the broken jars and overturned display cases.
Sheriff talks to both of us separately along with the other witnesses, but I don’t hold out a lot of hope that anyone will meet swift punishment. My worry centers on Stone as I watch his jerky movements and locked jaw throughout the cleanup process. Soon, Maisy joins in as well as other regulars and within a few hours, we have the Merc back to how it should be.
Maisy dismisses us with a wave of her hand, her expression more annoyed than forgiving as she watches Stone leave the store.
It’s not lost on me that Stone has taken shit from almost everybody he knows since coming home. I’m half convinced he’ll declare afuck thismoment and fly back to the sunny California hills he came from, but he takes each insult with a clip to the chin and forges on.
If I wasn’t battling my own bitterness against him, I’d almost respect it.
I’m torn from my thoughts when he comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I arrived here with Devon. I sure as hell don’t know where he fucked off to when all this went down, and it looks like he escaped with the truck.”
I dig my keys out of my purse. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Stone regards me. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I snap, but one look at his red-stained chest and I’m back to when I thought he was covered in his own blood. I say in a gentler tone, “We’re going the same way now, remember?”
His gaze softens for a moment, too, as if he’s recalling the same terrifying seconds after the gun went off. “But you have clients—or patients—to attend to, right?”
I shake my head. “I called my supervisor and explained the situation. I’ve got another nurse covering my afternoon appointments for me.”
Stone’s eyes give an infinitesimal flare. “I should call my people and tell them what happened. No doubt something will hit social media if it hasn’t already.”
The chasm between us is wide, but his statement makes it so much deeper. I have a boss to contend with. He has a world full of ‘people’.
“I’m supposed to be here on the down-low,” he says as we walk to my car. “Aaron won’t be happy I’m involved in a minor felony.”
I snort. “Forget what your Aaron wants to do,” I say as I press my key fob and the car beeps. “Mrs. Stalinski’s going to kill us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Noa
Few people can make me feel like a teenager who just disappointed her parents for the last time, but Mrs. Stalinski can.
Standing in her foyer as she lectures us on public decency and getting red sauce on her carpets, I’m transported to the times the adults in our lives caught Stone and me. It wasn’t often—Stone is as wily as I am afraid of authority—but when wewerenabbed by someone paying attention; it was serious, and we became the discussion of many weekly cribbage games.
This is one of those times.
“Thank God you two weren’t injured,” she says as she faces us down. Mrs. Stalinski is a head shorter than me, her spine bowed with fatigue and illness, but today is a good day, since she has the energy to stand before us and lecture us as efficiently as she did when we were kids. She turns to Stone. “But you should know better than to approach those boys. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Stone says, head down.
He means it, but by being around him so often, the words probably have no meaning to him anymore. I’m not sure how I feel about the battering he’s receiving from the world. My heart is in constant argument with my brain over what should be more important—Stone’s pain or his repentance.
