“Ohmija, look at you, you poor thing,” Maria said, as Holly added, “Damn girl, you look like shit.”
I must have given them a pitiful look because, in a flurry of movement, theyboth rushed in and guided me to the couch. Maria sat down with me while Holly went towards the kitchen.
“We heard what happened between you, Dalton, and Mac.”
“And we’ve heard that you haven’t been answering their calls. Mac is going insane—he’s been biting everyone’s heads off. Dalton looks like… well, he looks even worse than you.”
This morsel of information came from Holly, who had come back from the kitchen with a couple of wine glasses.
Maria shook her head. “Jackson and Diego somehow convinced them to stay put and let us come to you. So, here we are. We should’ve come sooner. What is going on? Those two… they have walls. I should know. They don’t let just anyone in. After everything they’ve been through… this is killing them.”
I looked between these two women, both of whom cared for me deeply in their own way. I felt the moment my own walls crumbled, and I started sobbing. Without a word, they enveloped me in a hug, one on each side of me. They didn’t push me to talk. Didn’t do anything other than hold me as I cried like a baby. Every doubt. Every fear. Every uncertainty since I had started this assignment was finally let loose—like a dam bursting open, giving in to the pressure at its cracks.
I couldn’t tell them what was going on in my head. I couldn’t ask if they thought I was failing those little girls. I couldn’t ask them if I was betraying who I was. I couldn’t tell them the turmoil my heart was in, and why. But I could cry. I could let myself feel. So, I did.
For the next several hours, we sat on that couch until the pain started to fade. They told me stories between bites of pizza that had been delivered shortly after their arrival, and spoons of half-melted ice cream. Holly told me about her messed-up childhood, how Jackson healed a part of her that had been broken for so long, she had forgotten what it felt like to be whole. Maria reminisced aboutgrowing up with Diego, and how long it took both of them to finally admit their feelings for each other.
We laughed, cried, and drank more wine until the sun set in the sky.
When they finally said goodbye, I felt about ten pounds lighter. After one last group hug by the door, they headed towards the elevator as I stood in the doorway watching them leave.
Maria turned to me before they got on. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. We’re here for you,chica.”
I smiled at her and hoped she was right.
As I was getting ready for bed, I texted Mac and Dalton: “I’m okay, it’s okay. I just needed time. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then I silenced my phone and went to sleep.
The next day, I pulled into the clubhouse parking lot around 7:30. I was determined to make a big breakfast, having missed the last four days of work. But when I walked into the kitchen, Dalton was waiting for me. Before I could speak, he covered the ground between us and wrapped his arms around me.
“Baby girl, don’t ever ghost me like that again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you or upset you—whatever I did, tell me, and I’ll never do it again.”
I stepped back and gently grabbed his face between my hands. “Dalton,” I said, trying to calm him. “Dalton, stop. You didn’t do anything.” His blue eyes were damn near frantic. This wasn’t the kind of fear that came from a bruised ego or romantic fallout—this was something deeper. More painful. Darker.
I had been told his dad had died of a heart attack. Or a broken heart, right after their mother died. After doing a little digging on my part, I learned that it had been Dalton who found his father in the garage, his body cold. It had been Dalton who had tried to support his brother through the abrupt change in leadership and, months later, after a supply run had gone bad, it had been Dalton who had woken up from injuries of his own to find his brotherin a coma.
In one way or another, people kept leaving him. It had broken a part of him. The sudden understand came crashing down on me and, in a second, I understood. I had been a cop long enough to recognize a trauma response.
He shook his head, dismissing my words and dislodging my hands. His breath came rapidly, and I realized he was about two seconds away from a panic attack. I stepped towards him and wrapped my arms around him. Holding him like he held me. I stood on my tiptoes and tucked my head into his neck, wishing he wasn’t so damn tall.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.We’refine. Just breathe. I’m here now.”
Slowly but surely, I felt the tension leave his body, and he embraced me again. We stood there for a minute, and he rested his chin on the top of my head.
Finally, he took a step back, and I looked up at him. He pressed a kiss to my forehead and gave me a sad smile. “I’ll let you get to work, Vixen. I need to talk to Mac.”
With that, he headed towards the motel rooms. I also knew a retreat when I saw one. I wanted to stop him, realizing I wasn’t the only fucked-up one reeling from this mess.
After the door closed behind him, I got to work making breakfast. I settled on one of my favorites—homemade quiche. Shelly used to make it for me whenever we had camped out at each other’s places, working a case or celebrating a closed one. She made one with bacon, ham, spinach, tomatoes, cheese, and onion. I swear I could eat the whole thing. And I could use a little piece of home right now. With three of those in the oven, I added eggs to the growing list of groceries. I went to the store twice a month, and it was getting close to time. A few of the guys had been adding things they wanted on there, too, in my absence.
I sipped at my coffee and went through the cabinets. I wondered if I could ask Mac for a chest freezer. A local butcher sold whole cows, and while I didn’tmind grocery-store meat, it had nothing on something straight from the source.
Maria and Holly had helped me create a text group with almost all of the guys on it, so I checked on the quiche and sent out, “Breakfast will be done in about ten. If you want anything else from the store, get it on the list by the end of the day.”
My text was met with a flurry of smiley faces and thumbs-up emojis.
They started pouring into the dining room as I was pulling the quiches out of the oven to cool. Two of the guys, Rodney and Clint, came up behind me, and I turned to them. Rodney surprised me with a hug, and Clint, one of the older bikers, pressed a kiss on my cheek. Clint was kind of like the grandpa of the group; a lot of the guys called him Pops.
“What was that for?” I asked with a smile.
