Chapter Fourteen
I BLINK AWAKE, groggy, and stare at the way the light bounces over the back of the driver’s seat. Dust motes float in the air, turning slow cartwheels every time we hit a bump. The radio’s on very low, just a murmur of voices under the steady rumble of the car. Wyatt shifts in his seat and sighs.
Damian’s hoodie is stuffed under my head as a pillow.
Even though I’ve been sleeping on it since we got in the car, I still notice his smell and draw a slow breath in through my nose.
Soap and fresh air and the specific edge that’s just him, with a ghost of something sharper—whatever cologne he’s been dragging from shirt to shirt.
I push up on my elbows. Damian’s hands are loose on the steering wheel, long fingers relaxed. I remember those same fingers on my throat, my hips, my ass, and a rush of warmth goes through me.
Wyatt is in the passenger seat, profile turned toward the windshield.
The long slope of his neck disappears into the collar of his t-shirt, the muscle in his forearm flexing when he reaches for his coffee cup.
Even the way he lifts it, the way his strong hands curl around the cup, pulls at something in my chest.
Out my side window, the world blurs by in scrub and trees.
When I turn my head, I catch the truck in the lane ahead of us, a familiar block of dark metal against the pale sky.
The passenger’s-side window is down a crack, and I can make out the line of Ryder’s shoulder and how his long hair is pulled back—even a flash of tattoo at the nape of his neck.
My head feels clearer than it did this morning. I crack my neck and reach for my water bottle. I’m still thirsty, but the nap has done me good, lifted the worst of the whiskey fog.
When we woke up in a pile this morning, only Wyatt and Damian were anywhere near fresh.
Damian, who doesn’t drink, had gone out for a run like a psychopath.
Wyatt, who didn’t drink much because of the painkillers he’s on, took a shower and went to pick up breakfast. Ryder and Jake and I stayed collapsed on the bed, me sandwiched between them, all of us naked, all of us holding our suffering heads.
I was almost grateful for the hangover. The shared misery, the groaning and bitching about whose fault the extra drinks were.
It blurred the line between the night and the morning, and kept us in that same melted place.
Ryder had pulled me in against him, pressing his chest against my back, his arm heavy over my waist. I’d buried my face in Jake’s shoulder and we’d laughed about how wild things got, like it was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world—that I’d had them all.
Now my body is pleasantly wrecked. I’m sore between the legs and even my mouth feels bruised, but under the ache I’m still floating, still buoyed on the impossible freedom of loving them all and being loved back.
Out the window a green highway sign flashes by: REDWATER 56 MILES.
The rush of excitement makes my heart skip.
Almost home.
By the time we turn off the main road, the sun’s slanting low. We take a narrow service road that runs about a mile west of Leathernecks, gravel crunching under the tires as we leave the last of the asphalt behind. Trees crowd closer on either side, dense enough that the road feels tunneled.
The forest itself feels familiar. I remember the first time Jake and Damian brought me up here, when the house was barely more than framing and piles of lumber.
I remember their pride as they gave me a tour, the way they wanted me to envision everything, already seeing a future I didn’t think I’d get to be a part of.
We crest the rise and the trees fall back, and the two-story house rises into sight. It sits in a clearing, white-paneled, with a wide porch that runs the length of the front. Last time I saw it, that porch didn’t have railings.
Ryder pulls the truck up close and Damian noses in beside him. We spill out in a series of groans and stretches and door slams. The cold air feels good after being in the car for so long. It smells like old leaves and, somehow, like home.
Ryder climbs up the porch step, keys in hand. I notice how familiar it seems to him, how at home he is. This is Jake and Damian’s place, but Ryder lived here while he healed—while I was gone. I can see the ease in the way he moves up the steps, like the house is his, too.
When the front door opens with a solid click of the deadbolt, he steps back to let us in. “Welcome home.”
The words hit me even harder than the Redwater road sign did.
Inside, it’s cool and dim. Even though the house was completed months ago, it still smells like new lumber.
The living room opens up in front of us.
Enormous sectional and two recliners in front of a giant TV mounted on the wall, a console under it holding a nest of cables and a game controller.
No art on the walls. A single cardboard box sits half-unpacked in the corner, a tangle of cords and an old speaker spilling out.
The kitchen is visible past that, separated by a half wall. I notice the knife block on the counter, a mug drying upside down in the dish rack.
They lived here.
Without me.
I swallow down the ache of all the missed time.
“We’ve got the two bedrooms upstairs,” Jake says, kicking off his shoes. “And two downstairs, plus the couch in the TV room.”
“Okay, let’s get settled,” Ryder says. “Then we’ll figure out dinner and plan tomorrow.”
We start moving. There are two bathrooms, one upstairs, one downstairs, so we shower, dress and unpack in turns. The house fills with the sounds of running water, doors shutting, the footsteps of five people walking around.
Jake’s bedroom is upstairs at the end of the hall, big but unadorned.
A large bed under the window, plus a gaming set-up on one side—three monitors, a space age-looking chair, and a tangle of cables everywhere.
I get assigned the guest room beside it—a slightly smaller bed and a dresser, with a big window that looks out over the trees.
This was Ryder’s room. A dark Henley is folded on top of the dresser, a blister pack of painkillers and a roll of athletic tape beside it on a tray.
By the door a pair of boots are neatly straightened.
And inside the dresser are Ryder’s clothes.
I know they are because of the unmistakable scent of them, all Ryder.
Damian’s bedroom is in the basement. A big low bed on a concrete floor, weights racked in the corner, a punching bag hanging from a exposed beam.
Wyatt takes the downstairs guest room beside him, where the bed is a little higher and the route to the bathroom is short and flat.
Ryder volunteers to take the couch in the basement TV room.
I’m slightly disappointed, as if some irrational part of me had hoped we’d all share one giant bed. Unrealistic.
Still, sleeping alone sounds lonely.
In the bathroom, I stand under hot water until my skin goes pink, scrubbing away the long drive and the last of my hangover. When I come back into my room, some clothing is folded on the bed: a pair of shorts and a familiar heather-gray t-shirt with faint cracking on the graphic. Jake’s.
I pull it over my head, inhaling his smell. It’s soft and worn and so comforting. It falls mid-thigh over the too-big shorts, and I complete the look by pulling up the long pair of white socks that were laid out too. It’s not the sexiest outfit, but it’s clean and better than nothing.
By the time I pad back downstairs, I smell pizza. Four boxes are sitting on the counters, steaming slightly in the cool air of the house. The sound of the furnace hums under the floorboards but there’s still a chill in the air.
“Grab a slice,” says Damian. He’s dressed in a black tank and joggers, hair damp and falling in his face, bare feet silent on the tile.
Jake is beside him at the counter, plating slices two at a time. He’s in a soft t-shirt and flannel pants, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. He’s trying to plate pizza and stare at his phone at the same time, distracted by the balancing act.
Ryder stands by the sink, sleeves shoved up on a dark long-sleeve shirt, forearms all tendon and ink, hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
He moves around the others easily, grabbing glasses from the cupboard, reaching past Jake for the stack of napkins, washing some cutlery and drying it on a towel.
Wyatt’s at the cupboards, in a loose t-shirt and sweats, moving a little carefully as he reaches for plates. He has to pivot sideways to squeeze past Ryder—there’s no way four men this size fit in this kitchen without bumping shoulders.
I take a slice and drop into a chair. A moment later they all follow with their own plates. Wyatt sits on my left, his knee bumping mine under the table as he gives me a wink. Jake sits down on my right, sliding a glass of water in front of me without looking up from the screen in his hand.
It feels domestic and ordinary. Like we’re a kind of family. Not like five people planning to break into an outlaw motorcycle club.
Not like five people who turned a motel room into a den of sin last night.
If I think about how much it all means to me too much, I’ll cry. So I eat.
By the time the dishes are rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, and the sky outside has gone from gray to black, the kitchen has morphed into a war room.