I stretched and yawned. Snarky teens were the best thing to wake up to.
I eyed her pink hair and hard frown before saying, “Sorry, kid, you should’ve woken me up.”
I stood up, turning to grab my bag as she said, “Trust me, I tried. I thought maybe you were dead.”
I didn’t bother answering her, just joined the throng of people filing out of the aircraft.
My stomach growled loudly, and the sound must have woken up my brain, which simultaneously said, “Food!” and “Oh shit!” as I realized that I was back in Georgia. I still had no idea what I was going to say.
I turned my phone back on, and was surprised to see a message from Shelly. Damn, the girl worked fast. My house was still on the market. And now it was in my name. My real name. I sent her a heartfelt thank you, and followed my nose towards the smell of food. I sat at the first restaurant I saw and practically salivated at the thought of a big, juicy burger. A waiter quickly came and took my order. Not even fifteen minutes later, he was back with my food, and I burned my tongue in my hurry to scarf it down.
I left money on the table and headed for the luggagecarousel. After a minute, I finally located a bored-looking security guard who pointed me in the direction of the baggage services area. I signed for my gun, presented my ID, and then stepped outside to hunt down a cab. Just as I raised my hand to flag one of the waiting ones down, I stopped. I really was just flying along with no plan. Which, cop or no cop, was a stupid decision. I should at least have some idea of what I was doing. Another text to Shelly confirmed that the spare key I had left in the fake rock behind the bushes should still be there.
So, that’s where I went first.
The key felt heavier than I remembered. Or maybe that was just my guilty conscience talking. I stood on the porch, just staring at the door, for what felt like hours. Behind that door was a cocktail of memories, and my chest tightened with the overwhelming swirl of emotions—fear, hope, regret, love. I had walked away—I was no longer Nicole Moore. But all those memories were still mine. Still something I cherished. Sighing, I bit the bullet and opened the door which creaked open with an all-too-familiar groan. I stepped inside, and it felt like coming home.
I inhaled the smells deeply. Coffee, cedar cleaning product, the lavender wall plug-in that glowed in the dim light. I flipped the switch, and my smile fell when I saw the mess. My Vans sat by the door, but that was the only thing in place. My footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood as I walked through my home. The overstuffed armchair Dalton liked to read in was on its side; the books he gave me covered the floor. The coffee table in the living room was upside down. My footsteps faltered when I caught sight of the mics mixed into the wreckage. Dalton wouldn’t have made this mess. It was all Mac. What were the chances he would forgive me? I steeled myself before making my way to the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
My fox was on the floor, and my cellphone was gone. My mattress leaned up against a wall. The boardsin the back of the closet were still loose. I sat on the box springs, reaching for Molly, pulling her close to my chest. If I closed my eyes, I could still see it—the look in Mac’s eyes when he let his guard down, Dalton’s hand on my bare hip, and that crooked smile. The laughter in the mornings, the gentle sounds of their breathing at night. My heart clenched painfully. The house felt a bit like a tomb, a place full of ghosts. But the ghosts weren’t dead. They were just somewhere out there, hurting.
Because of me.
I looked over at my dresser, and at the picture there. One of the many I had been tempted to take with me. We had spent Holly’s birthday at the lake house. Maria was on Diego’s back, legs wrapped around his waist, and chin resting on his head. Her grin was as bright as the sun shining behind us. Jackson had been tickling Holly, trying to force a laugh out of her, and the camera had caught them mid-tussle. I stood between Mac and Dalton, my arm wrapped around Mac’s bicep and Dalton pressing a kiss to my cheek. I loved that picture. I half-expected to see a crack in the glass, a symbolic fracture. But the frame was whole and, perhaps irrationally, that gave me hope.
It was time to face the music. For better or for worse.
Chapter 25
When I got to the clubhouse, I just stood and stared. I knew that place like the back of my hand. The smell of oil, grease, and a faint trace of cigar smoke. The kitchen I had loved from the second I first saw it. The rooms in the back that I was sure were now empty, and waiting for more survivors. The bay door was half-open, letting in a shaft of morning light that stretched across the concrete floor like a spotlight I couldn’t avoid. So, I stepped into the garage with my shoulders back and chin high, every instinct in me screaming to turn around and run. Much to my surprise, my Triumph sat in the corner—half-covered by a tarp, the front peeking out like a secret that wouldn’t be hidden.
People started noticing me as I made my way through, and silence fell. My hair was a different color, my eyes no longer green. But they knew who I was. Half a dozen heads turned my way—mid-conversation, mid-wrench-turn, mid-laugh. All of it stopped. The scrape of metal on metal echoed too loud in the sudden quiet. You could’ve cut the tension in the air with a dull butter knife. I met their stares one by one. There was hostility in their eyes but, at least in some of them, there was a sadness too.
Kaycen’s jaw tensed as he stood straighter beside his bike. Henrick crossed his arms. Even quiet Benny, who I once taught how to make scrambled eggs that didn’t taste like rubber, wouldn’t meet my eyes. Nobody said a word. My hands were shaking, and the garage felt like it had suddenly become the length of two football fields. Shoving my hands in my pocket, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other. If looks could kill, I would’ve been a puddle on the floor. I tried to remind myself that Ihad betrayed their trust, and tried to put myself in their shoes. That didn’t really make it much easier.
At the far workbench, Cliff stood cleaning a valve cover, pretending to focus on the task in front of him. The tension in his shoulders said otherwise.
“Cliff,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice steady even though my stomach twisted. “Where are they?”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. He just kept wiping, jaw tight, eyes shadowed under his graying brows. Scrubbing the part in front of him with more than a little aggression. I nodded, and turned to go inside. The man who had given me my beloved Molly was closed off to me.
Then, without looking at me, he said, “Upstairs.” One word. Gruff, quiet. Like I had dragged it from him. But it was communication, it was a start, and I would take it. He paused, then added, “They’ve been through hell. We all have been these last few days.”
“I know.”
Cliff finally looked at me. His eyes weren’t angry—just tired. Disappointed. “I don’t think you do, young lady. You got a lotta people here feeling like idiots. Me included.” He shook his head. “But… I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to see you. Place’s been too damn quiet. And no one’s cooked a decent chili since you left.”
I blinked, my throat tightening. “I’ll make you some, and I’ll chop up some extra onion for you, too. Maybe even make some cornbread.”
“You better…” He hesitated. “For everyone’s sake, I hope you didn’t fuck this up beyond fixing. This club is better with you in it.”
Before I could reply, another voice cut in. Rodney leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sad. He must have been watching the entire exchange. “They’ve been messes, both of ’em. Mac’s mean as hell, and Dalton is just quiet, which is worse somehow. Last time they were like this was when their daddy passed. Theyneed you, Ni—” He paused, cleared his throat, “Erm, what is your name?”
I turned toward him, surprised he had even spoken up. “It’s Kaitlyn, but my friends just call me Katie.”
He shrugged. “I think Nicky fits you better. Just sayin’. Anyways, whatever you’re here to do… good luck.”
