Chapter Fifty
Breaker
In the blink of an eye, my hospital room is a war zone of chaos, but instead of blood and bullets, it’s color, noise, the stampede of Velcro sneakers and the shriek of laughter.
At least a dozen Girl Scouts pile in, all with beaming faces and hair ribbons, looking like some kind of Pee Wee commando unit.
Their sashes are festooned with badges, glitter, and, if I’m not mistaken, a few stray band-aids and gummy bear stickers.
They flood the tile floor like a riverburst.
“Mr. James!” they holler, their voices colliding in a sonic boom.
I’m so stunned that for a second I think I’m still concussed, and maybe I hallucinated the entire thing.
Until I look at Riley. She’s covering her mouth, failing to hide the laugh that’s bubbling up.
She’s radiant, even with her hair a mess and dark circles under her eyes.
I want to tell her that, but right now there’s an army of short humans climbing my hospital bed like they’re storming a castle.
The same ones who covered me in glitter, ribbons, makeup, and humiliation just days ago.
One of them, a curly-haired little brute with badge clusters so dense they look like armor, leads the charge.
“We heard you got HURT,” she announces, as if that’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
She’s clutching a massive construction paper card that, if I squint, is shaped like a motorcycle.
There’s a cartoon version of me on it, replete with fake beard, googly eyes, and a band-aid across my forehead.
The interior is a confetti bomb of signatures and crayon hearts and at least one illustrated kitten.
“In an accident!” another pipes up, eyes bright behind Coke-bottle glasses.
Thank God, I think, and fight down a wave of relief so sharp I almost laugh. All the adults must be lying to protect the girls, sparing them the actual horror show I just lived through.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. It was a big accident.”
“You look really ugly now,” a third girl says, with the brutal honesty of children and drill sergeants.
“Is your face always going to look like that?” Says the girl to her left.
Riley doubles over, nearly collapsing. I swear I see tears in her eyes, and not the traumatized kind, but honest-to-god joy.
The bravest of the girls steps forward and says, “We brought you something else, too. Because you did a good job helping us with our float and makeup and being our model and stuff.”
Another girl elbows her. “She means our beautiful model.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, running my good hand over my face.
My soul tries to crawl out of my body. I’m a grown-ass man who’s been in the Marines, who did three tours and ran rescue missions in shit-stained desert hellholes.
I’ve detonated IEDs and torn open enemy bunkers with my bare hands.
But nothing in my life, not even the sight of Killian’s dead eyes, prepared me for a room full of Girl Scouts treating me like I’m the prom queen.
The patch is a violent shade of green, embroidered in what looks like a cross between Comic Sans and a ransom note: HONORARY GIRL SCOUT — TROOP 347 — BEAUTY brIGADE
I just stare at the patch, then at the girls, then at Riley, who’s taken out her phone and is obviously taking pictures.
Riley wheezes. “Breaker… you got a beauty badge. You can put it on your cut.”
I want the hospital bed to swallow me whole.
But the kids are staring at me with the pure sincerity that the world doesn’t deserve. So I take the patch.
I try to find my voice. “Thank you, Troop 347. It’s the greatest honor of my life.”
And then they all — ALL of them — rush forward and hug me.
Little arms that squeeze me all over my ribs.
Over my arms. Over my dignity. I hiss in pain, but bite it back and hug them back anyway.
Riley lifts her phone, snapping shots rapid-fire, cackling behind her hand.
After what feels like a lifetime, they pull away, chattering, climbing over each other like squirrels, and that’s when Officer Maya Alvarado appears in the doorway.
“Okay, troops. Give Mr. James and Miss Riley a minute.”
The Girl Scouts shuffle out reluctantly. “Don’t die!” one of them calls back. “We need you for next year’s float and makeup!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
When the door closes, Officer Alvarado turns back to us, all business and sharp eyes.
“I’m sorry to be brief like this, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay out there. I need more details for my report before I can close out the case,” she says. “What happened in that house?”
Riley’s hand finds mine and squeezes. Her grip is fierce, grounding.
I give Officer Alvarado the stripped-down version — the kidnapping, the drugs, the basement, Pike, Viper, the fight, the shooting. Riley adds what she remembers, voice trembling but strong.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll probably have to follow up with both of you, but honestly? This is as open-and-shut as these get. Two men, multiple homicides, documented history of assault, criminal ties, planned kidnapping, murder, and attempted murder. You’re both safe now.”
Riley leans into me, her head heavy on my shoulder.
For the first time in forever, she looks lighter.
There’s a loud, impatient knock at the door, and through the smudged window I see four Girl Scout noses pressed against the glass, the rest of the troop lined up behind them like an anaconda of pastel and plastic beads.
“Alright,” Officer Alvarado says, turning toward the door. “I can’t keep the mob at bay any longer.” She stands, straightening her jacket. “I’ll be in touch. Take care of each other.” She gives me a look, the kind that says I see you, and then she’s gone.
The door swings open again, and this time, it’s like someone detonated a clown car made entirely of bikers, bartenders, and the extended Twisted Devils family.
The entire room population quadruples in seconds.
Reaper, Tank, Mayhem, Havoc, Bones, Hammer, and every man who wears a cut.
All the ol’ ladies, and all the staff of The Noble Fir.
There’s an avalanche of black leather, club patches, perfume, and the raw noise of thirty people talking at once.
Rabid enters last, slow and measured, flanked by two Girl Scout lieutenants who are holding his hands like he’s their long-lost grandpa.
The room is total chaos. Girls are climbing the window ledge, Reaper’s got an entire box of donuts jammed under his arm, and Mayhem is already taking bets on how long it’ll take for me to break out of my neck brace.
Bianca is fussing over Riley, dabbing her eyes and trying to tuck her hair behind her ears.
Cheering, laughter, a few of the Girl Scouts chanting “Mr. James! Mr. James!” like I’m Santa Claus.
I try to clear my throat for silence, but the attempt is pointless against the noise hurricane of Devil and Girl Scout voices.
The sound rattles the glass in the window; children climb over bikers’ knees; grown men holler at the top of their lungs.
I try again, louder, but I've got nothing on this crowd.
Finally, Rabid raises two fingers and whistles — a noise so sharp and authoritative that every last body in the room freezes mid-motion.
They all look to Rabid, who inclines his head in my direction, and all eyes turn to me.
And Riley.
I look at her, and she nods.
I swallow and clear my throat. “I… We have an announcement.”
As if rehearsed, the entire room leans forward in a perfect synchronized motion — the horde of children, the army of bikers, the wall of women. Even Tank, whose chief personality trait is disdaining everything, arches an interested eyebrow. Beside me, Riley bites her lower lip and smiles.
“I asked Riley to be my ol’ lady,” I say, and as I do so, my chest expands, proud, full. “And she said yes.” The room explodes into a chorus of cheers, shouts, whistles, and Molly claps her hands like a deranged seal.
One Girl Scout tugs on another’s sleeve and says above the cheers, “But she’s not old.”
Another girl replies, scandalized, “She’s totally old. She’s like… twenty-something.”
Riley snorts next to me, trying to hide her face in my shoulder.
When the chaos calms a little, Riley squeezes my hand.
“I, uh… have an announcement too.” Silence falls instantly. She looks radiant and terrified and beautiful and brave, and she laces her fingers with mine. “I’m pregnant.”
The world freezes for a heartbeat.
Then the room erupts again, and the explosion of noise is nuclear; girls shriek, fists pump, and Reaper yells, “Hell yes!” with a mouthful of sugar.
Havoc pops a can of beer that foams all over the foot of my bed, and immediately three Girl Scouts start chanting “Chug! Chug! Chug!” like they’ve been raised in a dive bar.
Molly lets out a whoop, high and sharp, and hugs the nearest person, which turns out to be Rabid.
The prez takes it with the stoicism of a man who’s seen it all, but even he cracks a tiny smile.
Riley turns to me through the noise, with her hand on her stomach, and I reach out so that my hand is covering hers. And in the middle of the chaos — the Girl Scout patch in my hand, my found family around us, the future in front of us — I kiss her. Slow. Deep. Certain.
My Sparrow. My home.
Our forever.