Chapter 6
JOSIE
Iwake to the smell of bacon and the sound of absolute chaos.
For a disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am. The bed is wrong—too soft, too wide—and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar. Then my ribs scream in protest as I try to sit up, and everything comes flooding back.
Hospital. Attack. Stone carrying me out like some kind of leather-clad knight. The clubhouse.
Right. A murder attempt . Sorry, a second murder attempt. How well my life is going.
I lie still for a moment, taking stock. My head still throbs, but the pain is duller now—the concussion settling into a persistent ache rather than the sharp stabbing I’ve battled for a week. My ribs are another story. Every breath feels like someone is pressing a hot iron between my bones.
The chaos, I realize, is coming from somewhere deeper in the clubhouse. Voices—multiple, are overlapping, punctuated by bursts of laughter and what sounds like someone banging pots together.
I check my phone. 9:47 AM. I’ve slept almost eight hours straight, which is either a miracle or a testament to how good Duck’s ill-gotten pain meds are.
Getting out of bed is a project. I move in stages—sitting up, swinging my legs over the edge, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then slowly leveraging myself upright. My left arm is still in a cast, which makes everything twice as hard.
Someone—Maggie, probably—left clothes folded on the dresser. A soft flannel shirt and leggings, along with a note that says “These should fit.” I manage to wrestle myself into them one-handed, which takes longer than I’d like to admit.
My reflection in the mirror across the room is not encouraging. Bruised, pale, hair a disaster, wearing a borrowed t-shirt that’s three sizes too big.
Gorgeous, Bright. Truly stunning.
I find a bathroom, do what I can with cold water and determination, and shuffle down the stairs toward the noise.
I reach the bottom wincing and squinting against the bright light that floods in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. My head throbs in protest, a reminder that my concussion is hanging around like a bad hangover. I raise my good hand to shield my eyes and give myself a moment to adjust.
The clubhouse kitchen is a war zone.
Ginger stands at the stove, wielding a spatula like a weapon while simultaneously directing traffic.
Maggie is at the counter chopping vegetables with terrifying efficiency.
Kya has commandeered the coffee maker and appears to be brewing enough caffeine to fuel a small army.
Emma sits at the massive wooden table with Poppy, baby Rose balanced on her lap, both of them laughing at something on Poppy’s phone.
The smell of bacon and fresh coffee hits me, and underneath it, the sweeter scent of pancakes, maybe, or cinnamon rolls. The warmth of the kitchen wraps around me, voices and laughter layering over each other in a way that should be overwhelming but somehow isn’t.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, just taking it in.
This is what family looks like, I realize. Not the quiet, sterile dinners of my childhood, where conversation was polite and measured. This is noise and mess and people who want to be around each other, and enjoy each others company.
And in the middle of all the chaos, looking profoundly uncomfortable, is Isabel.
She’s been cornered by Mercy near the refrigerator, clearly being subjected to some kind of interrogation disguised as friendly conversation. Her answers are monosyllabic, her body language screaming get me out of here, but Mercy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“—and then I told Cash, if you think I’m cleaning up after that dog one more time, you’ve got another thing coming—oh, Josie!” Mercy spots me in the doorway and her face lights up. “You’re awake! How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Sit down, sit down, you shouldn’t be standing—”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine, you’re concussed. Ginger, she’s concussed and she’s standing.”
“I can see that.” Ginger abandons her post at the stove and descends on me like a sequined tornado.
She’s a fiery redhead with freckles and curves.
The kind of redhead who probably terrorized her teachers and charmed her way out of every detention.
Silver threads liberally through her wild hair but she isn’t about to apologize for it by dying them.
Her lipstick is the same shade as a fire engine, and her hoop earrings are long enough they could pick up radio signals.
Today she’s wearing a leopard print blouse, skinny jeans, sparkles, from the glitter on her eyeshadow to the rhinestones on her belt.
She’s loud, proud, and outrageously kind.
“Honey, what are you doing up? You should be in bed. Maggie, tell her she should be in bed.”
“She should be in bed,” Maggie says without looking up from her vegetables.
“I’ve been in bed for—” I try to do the math and give up. “Too long. I needed to move.”
“Moving is overrated. Sitting is recommended by five out of six doctors.” Ginger steers me toward the table with surprising strength for someone her size. “Park it. I’ll bring you coffee and breakfast and you’ll sit there and let us fuss over you.”
“I don’t need fussing—”
“Everyone needs fussing. Especially stubborn lawyers who get hit by cars and then try to pretend they’re fine.” She pushes me into a chair with a firm hand. “Sit. Stay. Good girl.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’re right. Dogs are better at following instructions.”
Emma snorts. Rose gurgles in what might be agreement.
I give up and sit.
Breakfast is an event.
Plates appear in front of me—bacon, eggs, toast, fruit, pancakes. More food than I can eat in a week, let alone a single morning. Coffee materializes at my elbow, hot and strong, and I wrap my good hand around the mug like it’s a lifeline.
The women talk around me and over me and through me, a constant stream of chatter that’s oddly comforting. They aren’t treating me like an invalid or a victim. They’re treating me like family.
It’s been a long time since anyone has treated me like family. It’s strange, being surrounded by people who care whether I’ve eaten, whether I’ve slept, whether I’m hurting. I’ve spent so long taking care of myself that I’d forgotten what it feels like. Being looked after. Being wanted.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to look down at the scarred wooden table until the feeling passes.
“So,” Kya says, sliding into the seat beside me. “How’s it feel to be a damsel in distress?”
“Terrible. I’m filing a complaint.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know yet. Whoever’s in charge of clichés.”
She grins. “That’s the spirit. Eat your eggs.”
I eat my eggs.
Across the table, Isabel picks at a piece of toast, her eyes darting between the women like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’s clearly been cleaned up—fresh clothes, hair brushed, bandages changed—but there’s still a feralness to her. Like she’d coiled and ready to run, or strike.
I catch her eye. Try to offer a reassuring smile.
She looks away, frowning.
Le sigh. At least I tried.
The back door bangs open and the twins, Abby and Amy, barrel through, followed by Andi carrying Adam on her hip.
“Sorry we’re late—someone decided to have a meltdown about socks.” She spots me and her face softens. “Oh good, you’re up. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“SUV,” three people correct in unison.
I roll my eyes. “You?”
She gestures at the chaos around us. “Just another day in paradise.”
“So, Isabel.” Ginger’s voice is carefully casual as she settles into the seat across from the younger woman. “Where are you from? Originally?”
“Stoneheart.”
“Really? Born and raised?”
“Yep.”
“Huh. I thought I knew everyone in this town, but I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Do you work somewhere local?”
“Here and there.”
“Here and there like odd jobs, or here and there like something specific?”
“Just... around.”
Ginger’s smile doesn’t falter, but I see the sharpening of her gaze. She’s fishing, and Isabel isn’t biting.
“What about family?” Mercy jumps in. “You have people here?”
A look flickers across Isabel’s face—there and gone so fast I almost miss it.
“No,” she says flatly.
“Everyone’s got someone—”
“I said no.” Isabel’s voice is hard now, a wall slamming down.
Except, I know that’s not true. She said last night that her stepdad was picking her up.
Silence falls over the table. The women exchange looks—confused, concerned, a little suspicious.
“Nobody said you had to leave,” Emma offers carefully. “After what you did for Josie—”
“I didn’t do it for a reward.” Isabel shoves back from the table. “I didn’t do it for anything. It just happened, and now it’s over, and I need to go.”
Emma frowns. “Go where?”
“Anywhere. Away.” She’s already moving toward the hallway. “Thanks for the hospitality, but I can’t stay. I have to—I just have to go.”
“Isabel—” I start.
But she’s already gone, disappearing down the hallway like the hounds of hell are at her heels.
“Well,” Ginger says after a moment. “That was cryptic.”
“She’s hiding something,” Mercy says, frowning.
“Obviously. The question is what.”
“Maybe she’s shy?” Poppy offers, though she doesn’t sound convinced.
“That’s not shyness.” Emma shakes her head. “That’s fear. But fear of what? We’re not exactly threatening.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kya mutters.
I push my plate away, my appetite gone. “Well, whatever it is, it’s eating her alive. She can barely sit still.”
“You think she’s in some kind of trouble?” Maggie asks.
“I think she’s been in some kind of trouble for a long time.” I touch my face, reminding them silently of her bruises “And I think she’s used to handling it alone.”
“Well, she’s not alone anymore.” Ginger’s jaw sets stubbornly. “Whether she likes it or not. That girl saved your life, which means she’s ours now.”
“She doesn’t seem to want to be ours,” Emma mutters.