Chapter 11 Cash
CASH
Idon’t sleep.
Can’t, not with Mercy in my bed. Not with the memory of how she shook in my arms after that fucker of an ex showed up, how that bastard made her small with just his presence. And I certainly can’t sleep with the knowledge that somewhere out there, Gabriel Rogers is planning his next move.
So instead of sleep, I sit on the couch, laptop open, digging.
Because if I can’t control what Gabriel does next, at least I can know everything there is to know about him.
Information is power. Safety. It’s what kept me alive on the streets when I had nothing else—knowing which corners the dirty cops worked, which shelters the predators watched, which alleys had exits.
Old habits. But right now, those habits might be the only thing standing between Mercy and whatever Gabriel’s planning.
Gabriel Rogers. Ailington PD for fifteen years. Two commendations for ‘community service,’ which probably means he knew whose ass to kiss. One complaint for excessive force that mysteriously disappeared. Married nine years ago to—
I pause. Even in the official records, she’s just an extension of him. Mrs. Gabriel Rogers. No first name. No maiden name. Just this cop’s wife and nothing more.
The woman in those photos isn’t the one I know.
The Mercy I first saw at Devil’s Bar wasn’t smiling for a camera—she was elbow-deep in a keg cooler, neon lights catching in her hair, telling some drunk frat boy to go fuck himself with a lime wedge. She was alive. Sharp. Full of her own heat.
The woman in these photos looks embalmed.
By six a.m., I’ve built a decent profile.
Model cop on paper, ruthless control freak in practice.
His father was a captain before him, and his mother was the DA’s office clerk, which means the entire courtroom-and-blue brotherhood in Ailington would close ranks without blinking.
I run the usual cross-checks for criminal contacts, under-the-table deals, known associates.
Most of what I find is boring — fantasy football leagues, precinct softball photos, and those annual ‘Brothers of the Badge’ pancake breakfasts.
The kind of PR shit abusive cops use to look like pillars instead of predators.
His social media? Squeaky, almost aggressively so.
Every post is Mercy and Gabriel at black-tie fundraisers, Mercy and Gabriel running 10Ks, Mercy clutching some dumb trophy for ‘Community Pillar of the Month’ at some church charity banquet, again with Gabriel’s hand clamped tight around her waist, always like he’s holding her in place.
I know that grip. Different context, same control. Hands that lingered too long and smiles that promised things I didn’t want to give.
Gabriel’s not that different. He just has a badge and a wedding ring to make it look legitimate.
I close the laptop and rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. Mercy’s never talked about what happened before she came to Stoneheart. But the longer I look, the easier it is to see the bars of the cage she used to live in. The perfection of her past life is suffocating, pristine as a tomb.
At seven o’clock, I move to the kitchen to make coffee, partly out of habit, partly because my hands need something to do.
I’m trying to be quiet, but the clubhouse’s ancient machine gurgles like it’s dying.
I hear movement in the hall, then Mercy appears in the doorway, still wearing my T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, looking soft and rumpled and perfect.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to stare at her legs. Failing. “Coffee?”
“Please.” Her voice is husky with sleep. She settles at the kitchen table, curling her knees up to her chest. She looks like someone’s kid sister and my favorite sin all at once. I pour her a cup and slide it across to her.
She cradles the mug in both hands. “You always up this early?”
“I was never asleep.”
She gives me a long look over the rim. “You an insomniac?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
About you.
About Gabriel.
About the fact I let you crawl under my guard before I even realized it was happening.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s gentle — like she needs to pretend irritation because the alternative is panic. “I’m fine, Cash.”
“You’re not. But it’s OK.” I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and offer it over. She gives me this tiny smile like she doesn’t want to draw attention to accepting care, but can’t refuse it either. “How are you feeling?”
“Like my ex-husband is in town with a badge and a grudge.” She attempts a smile. “So, you know, fantastic.”
I nod. There’s nothing useful left to say. Instead, I lean on the counter and sip my own coffee, watching her slowly peel the banana. For a minute, a weird kind of peace settles over the kitchen. I sense the gears behind her eyes, grinding, sparking as she replays everything from last night.
She’s the one to break the silence. “You ever wish you could just... disappear?”
“Used to,” I admit. “When I was younger. Living on the streets. Thought if I could just vanish, start over somewhere else, maybe I’d stop feeling hunted.”
“Did it work?”
“No. Running doesn’t fix what’s broken inside. Just gives it a new zip code.” I set down my mug, studying her. “But finding the right people, the right place? That can make all the difference.”
I’m telling her things I don’t tell people. The street kid stuff isn’t secret, but I don’t advertise it. People hear ‘homeless’ and start dissecting you—pity, curiosity, calculation. But Mercy doesn’t do that. She just listens without any big reaction.
“I didn’t know you lived on the streets.”
“I didn’t know you were still married,” I shoot back. “But here we are.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret them. Nothing like tit-for-tat trauma ping-pong over breakfast. “Shit,” I mutter, dropping my gaze. “Sorry. That was—”
“No, it’s OK,” she interrupts. “I was pushing for information, and I hate when people do that to me.” She tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. “It’s just… you don’t look like the type who—”
“Used to beg for food and sleep under bridges?” I try to make it a joke, but my voice is flat.
She doesn’t laugh. She just watches me, her eyes soft. It’s not pity, though. It’s more like she’s trying to imagine fifteen-year-old me shivering under an overpass instead of the man leaning against the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t apologize,” I cut in, softer this time. “It’s ancient history now.” Needing to move, I push away from the counter and glance at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. Church in an hour and a half.
“You should get dressed,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Can’t have you wandering the clubhouse in just a T-shirt when you don’t wear a property patch.”
Her brow furrows. “Property patch?”
“Shows you belong to someone in the club. That you’re protected, off-limits.” I shrug. “Old school tradition. Not everyone follows it anymore, but enough do that it matters.”
“And without one?”
“Without one, you’re fair game. Not that anyone here would disrespect you, but visiting members or prospects might not know you’re under club protection.
Might not know you’re...” I close my mouth.
Something about telling a woman who fled a controlling relationship that I claimed her under club rules doesn’t sit right.
Mine.
Her gaze flicks up and her brow creases slightly, and I know she heard the word I didn’t say. “You went to Stone and claimed me, didn’t you? As far as the club is concerned, I’m yours,” she says, and it’s not a question. It’s a translation.
“It’s not about ownership, Mercy,” I say, my voice rough. “It’s about protection. It’s a line in the sand. It tells every motherfucker out there that if they touch you, they start a war.”
She just looks at me, those big, wounded eyes searching my face for the lie, for the trap. For the first time, I see the full weight of what I’m asking her to trust. Not just me, but the promise that this kind of claim won’t become another cage.
“I can’t expect you to get it,” I finally say, breaking the silence.
“Not after him.” The name Gabriel sits in the space between us, unspoken but heavy as a boulder.
I see the flicker of a hundred bad memories in her eyes, a lifetime of being owned and controlled.
And here I am, using the language of property and claims. Fucking brilliant.
“But I promise you it’s different here, Mercy. This isn’t a cage. It’s a shield.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring into her coffee like it holds all the answers I don’t have.
I can see the argument playing out behind her eyes, the debate between the safety I’m offering and the price it might cost her.
My words are supposed to give comfort. But they probably sound like the same bullshit he fed her.
Promises are cheap. I learned that young.
Social workers swore they’d help. Cops swore they’d protect me.
Men swore they just wanted to give me a place to crash.
Every single one wanted something. Everyone had conditions.
So why the fuck should Mercy believe me when I say it’s different? When I’m using the same language Gabriel probably used—’protection,’ ‘safety,’ ‘mine.’ The only difference is I mean it. But how does she know that? How does anyone know until it’s too late?
“Look,” I say, breaking the tension, pushing past my own spiral. “How about we go get your things from your apartment? Together. You’re not setting foot in that place alone.”
Her head snaps up. “My things? Why would I—”
“Mercy.”
“No.” She sets down her mug hard enough to slosh coffee. “I have a life, Cash, a job, an apartment—”
“You have an ex with a badge and a hard-on for control,” I interrupt. “Who knows where you live. Who’s probably watching your place right now.”
“So what—I just hide here forever?”
“Not forever. Just until we figure out his game.” I move closer, crouching so we’re eye level. “Look, you’ve got two options. Either you stay here where there’s always someone around to watch your back, or I stay with you. Your choice.”
“That’s not a choice, that’s—”
“The best I can offer.” I soften my tone. “I’d prefer you stay here. Not because I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, but because this place is a fortress. Steel doors, security cameras, and twenty brothers who’d gladly rearrange Gabriel’s face if he shows up uninvited.”
She chews her bottom lip, a habit I’m learning means she’s weighing her options. “How long?”
“Until he’s not a threat anymore.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t wanna lie to you, angel—I don’t know.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll be your shadow. Where you go, I go. Where you sleep, I sleep.” I let a hint of heat creep into my voice.
Her cheeks flush, but she holds my gaze. “Jesus. You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Only when it comes to protecting you, angel. I’m not letting him get near you again.”
“Fine.” She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor before she dumps her banana peel in the trash. “But I need more than a few days’ worth of clothes. And my laptop. And—”
“Whatever you need. We’ll get it all.”
She studies me, my T-shirt riding up dangerously high on her thighs. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Then we’ll go.”
As she heads back to the bedroom, she pauses at the door. “Cash? That property patch thing....do I have to wear one?”
“I’d like you to,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
“But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want, Mercy.
Ever.” I take a step closer, keeping my hands open and visible.
“The patch is tradition. A symbol. It just lets everyone know you’re with me.
That you’re family.” The word feels both too big and exactly right.
“Gabriel branded you with his name and a gold band. This isn’t that.
This is about protection, honor and respect.
And it’s your choice, always, whether or not you ever want to pick it up. ”
She studies my face, searching for the catch. I know what she sees. A man built for violence, talking about protection like it’s just another word for control. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. For her to tell me to go to hell. Instead, she just nods once, a quick, sharp dip of her chin.
“Give me five minutes,” she says, then vanishes back upstairs to my bedroom. I let out a whoosh of air, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. One step. At least it’s not a step back.