Chapter Three
~ Bodean ~
There’s a particular shade of blue in the early morning—a smoggy, acid-washed color that always makes me think of hangovers and regret.
The strip of carpet between my motel bed and the door was lit up in that blue, vibrating with the pulse of the sign outside and the angry glow of a parking lot sodium lamp.
I heard the rumble of a truck engine cut out, then heavy footsteps, each one sending a fresh spike of adrenaline into my chest.
I sat up on the bed, wiped my palms down my jeans, and stared at the door. It was just a slab of painted metal, already dented near the bottom from a previous guest’s bad day, but I felt like it could open up into the void if I looked away too long.
Three knocks—sharp, like the back of a wrench on a fender.
I made myself stand. My knees weren’t having it, but I planted my boots and crossed to the door, checking the peephole first out of habit.
All I saw was darkness, then a sliver of movement as something massive leaned in.
The shape of it was enough to give me a shot of that old, stupid hope: broad shoulders, hair darker than the night, the suggestion of a jawline hard enough to break rocks.
The air in my lungs started fizzing like soda, and I actually caught myself smoothing my hair in the reflection of the peephole, as if I wasn’t about to look like a bloody raccoon in a police lineup.
I cracked the door just wide enough to catch a face-full of leather and motor oil. He stood there, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, booted feet braced like he expected a hurricane. Jo. And—fuck me—it hit like a stomach punch, how much I still wanted to see him.
I grinned without thinking, a smile that hurt the split in my lip, but made something else in me burn hot. “Hey.”
His eyes slid over my face, sharp and thorough.
Not one speck of warmth. Just a full-body scan, top to bottom, lingering on the tape job along my cheekbone, the bruises, the shiner that probably glowed in the black light.
He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, until his mouth curled into a frown that would have turned milk.
“Jesus, Bodean.”
Not Bo. Not even McKenzie, which is how most guys in the valley threw it at me. The full thing, first name like a roll call, like he was making sure it was really me and not a corpse in the doorway.
I felt the heat drain out of my chest, leaving behind a soggy, ice-cold lump. Jo wasn’t here for me. He was here because Knox sent him, because I was a problem to be collected and delivered, not a person worth the rescue.
I stepped back, cleared my throat, and tried for casual. “Come on in, man. Room’s five star.” I gave the handle a jerk and let the door bang against the wall.
He came in slow, eyes flicking once to the bloodstains on the t-shirt I’d slept in, then to the half-empty beer on the nightstand, then back to me. He stood in the middle of the room like a storm cloud, just radiating this static charge that made my skin crawl.
“Sit,” he said.
“Am I under arrest?”
He didn’t laugh. He waited until I perched myself on the edge of the bed, then crouched in front of me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was preparing to say a prayer or break my kneecaps.
His hair was still braided, a neat line along the nape of his neck, but the beard looked rougher, new growth mixed with dark stubble and one stubborn white patch on his chin. He smelled like road salt, gasoline, and the kind of soap you only buy at truck stops.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, but with an edge that could have sliced steel.
I forced a shrug, even though it sent a flash of pain through my ribs. “Got jumped. Wrong place, wrong time. They wanted my bike more than my charming company.”
His eyebrows twitched, just enough to show he didn’t buy it. “They take it?”
“More like they drove a truck through it.” I tried to make it a joke, but it landed with a splat. “Bike’s fucked. I’m pretty sure they scraped it up with a snowplow or something.”
He stared so hard I felt myself shrinking, like he could see the whole story scrolling across my face in subtitles. “And you just let them?”
“I didn’t exactly get a vote,” I said, picking at the edge of the gauze. “Couple guys, maybe three. They had bats.”
“Names?”
“Didn’t catch ‘em. They were busy rearranging my dental work.”
He let that hang there for a second, the only sound the distant wheeze of a semi on the highway. Then he unclasped his hands, rubbed them together once, and straightened up. “Tell me about the damage.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “It’s totaled, Jo. You can call the tow yard if you want, but it’s probably already in a hundred pieces.”
“I meant you, Bodean.” His tone had zero humor, zero room for argument.
Oh. That.
I flinched and looked down at my hands, which were a roadmap of dried blood, ink, and cigarette ash. “Hospital said no concussion. Just stitches. Some bruised ribs. I can still walk, I guess.”
He reached out and tilted my chin up with two fingers, slow and careful, like he was handling a busted watch.
His touch was dry and hot, calluses scraping the skin just below my jaw.
I made myself look him in the eye, and for the briefest second, I thought I saw something—something softer—but it was gone before I could grab it.
“Could’ve been worse,” he said.
“Always is.” I tried to laugh.
He didn’t.
He let go, then paced the width of the room like a caged animal, every step a silent accusation. “You call the cops?” he asked.
I snorted. “You think I want to fill out a report? Last time I talked to a deputy, they tried to book me for my own DWI.”
He shook his head, lips set in a hard line. “You don’t ever make it easy, do you?”
I looked away, letting my gaze wander to the window. The light outside had gone from blue to a pale, sickly white, like the world was being scrubbed raw and all the old stains were coming to the surface. “That’s kind of the point,” I said. “If it was easy, it wouldn’t be my life.”
He stopped, standing with his back to the mirror, and crossed his arms over his chest. The jacket pulled tight across his shoulders, and I could see the faint outline of a tattoo on his left wrist, something geometric and clean, the kind of thing I used to doodle in the margins of my notebooks when I was trying not to think about him.
“You want to tell me the truth now?” he said, voice gone low and dangerous.
I shrugged again, even though it felt like my whole ribcage was made of ground glass. “It was just a couple of biker wannabes. They wanted to make a point. I let them.”
He barked a laugh, and this time it was a sound I’d never heard from him before—sharp, almost bitter. “No, Bodean. You don’t let anyone do shit to you unless you want it.”
I stared at him, mind blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer. Just moved to the window, yanked the curtain open, then shut it again like he was wrestling with a ghost. “You’re not gonna tell me who did it?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if I’m gonna kill them,” he said, and for a split second I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.
I licked my lips, tasted copper, and tried to get my bearings. The room felt too small, the walls closing in around us. I wanted to get up, but the idea of standing while he was still staring at me felt like a challenge I couldn’t win.
“Why do you care?” I blurted, more accusation than question.
That got his attention. He turned, looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was a puzzle or a problem to fix.
“I just do,” he said, but there was something in his voice—something heavy.
I dropped my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.
I’d always been good at being invisible, at letting people see the mess on the outside and never what was rotting underneath.
But with Jo, it was like every defense I’d built just evaporated.
He made me want to talk, even when I hated what I had to say.
I risked a glance up. “You can go, you know. I’m not a hostage.”
He was already shaking his head. “Not happening. You’re coming with me.”
I should have protested. Should have told him to fuck off, that I was a grown-ass man who could handle his own problems. But the idea of leaving with Jo, of not spending another minute in this room, was so appealing it scared me.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded once, then went to the bathroom to grab a towel. When he came back, he pressed it to my cheek, way more gentle than he had any right to be.
“Lean back,” he said, voice softer now.
I did.
For the next few minutes, neither of us said a word.
He cleaned the blood off my face, hands steady and sure.
I kept my eyes closed, just listening to the sound of his breath and the way he muttered under his breath when he found a fresh bruise or cut.
When he was done, he stepped back and looked at me like he was measuring for a coffin.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’ll live.”
He glanced around the room, then back at me. “Anything else you need to tell me?”
I hesitated. “There was art in the saddlebags. Portfolio, sketches. Probably got tossed with the rest.”
He frowned, and I expected him to make a crack about my “pretty pictures.” Instead, he just nodded. “We’ll see if we can get it back.”
I bit down on the urge to say thanks. It would have sounded pathetic. “Knox put you up to this?” I said.
He snorted. “What do you think?”
“I think you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
He held my gaze, and this time there was no anger, just this sad, exhausted kind of resignation. “Not true,” he said. “But I’d like to get you home in one piece, if it’s all the same.”
I looked away, blinking fast. “Yeah. Me too.”
He went to the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “You ready?”
I grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and gave him a crooked smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”