Chapter 12 Dean #2
I sat on the Harley a minute after the ignition died, letting the cold settle into my arms, and the burned-out adrenaline from the club leave its taste in my mouth.
The bag of takeout was a grease-soaked anchor in my left hand, and in the right, my thumb rubbed at the velvet pouch in my pocket like it might conjure luck from cheap felt.
Emily’s window glowed softly against the dusk.
No curtains, just the blue wash of TV light and the ghostly outlines of dog photos taped along the sill.
I looked up and saw her shadow cross the glass—quick, nervous, not the silhouette of someone expecting trouble but the kind of motion you make when you hope whoever’s outside is actually there for you.
She buzzed me up. The lobby was a purgatory of mildew and old coffee, the bulletin board by the mail slots crowded with flyers for lost cats and pay-by-the-week babysitters.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, feeling my knee threaten to give but refusing to let it.
By the time I hit her floor, my heart was hammering so loud I thought she’d hear it through the door.
Emily opened up before I even knocked. She wore faded jeans and a Humane Society shirt, hair down and wild from the heat, bare feet splayed on the thin welcome mat. She smiled, tight at the corners, but didn’t hide the relief in her eyes.
“Smells like cold French fries,” she said, letting me in.
I shrugged. “Better than the alternatives.”
Inside, the apartment was warmer than I remembered. The couch sagged under the weight of a thrifted blanket and a pile of old textbooks. The walls, plastered with animal photos and the occasional self-deprecating meme, made the whole place feel like a rescue bunker for lost things.
Emily cleared a stack of paperwork from the kitchen table and set out mismatched plates. She moved with the efficiency of someone used to rationing both time and hope.
“You want a drink?” she asked, already pulling beers from the fridge.
“Sure,” I said, dropping the takeout on the table.
She passed me a bottle, label half-peeled. “To what do I owe the honor, Mr. Medina? It’s not every night you bring dinner and a show.”
She didn’t mean it as a jab, but the undertone was there.
I let it slide. “Had a meeting at the clubhouse. Figured I’d stop by.”
She arched a brow but didn’t push. Instead, she unpacked the food—green chile cheeseburgers, fries, and two foil-wrapped sopapillas. She divided it with the precision of a surgeon, then sat across from me, folding her legs up under herself like a kid at a sleepover.
We ate in silence for a minute, the only sound the clink of bottle glass and the slow, deliberate chewing of two people trying not to let conversation get ahead of them.
She finished her first burger in four bites, then licked the grease from her thumb and looked at me, eyes green as glass. “You look like shit,” she said. “Long day?”
I smiled, a crack in the armor. “Long week.”
She gestured at my cut, which I’d slung over the back of the chair. “You go straight from the club?”
I nodded, not meeting her eyes. “They were voting on something.”
“Something important?”
I finished my beer, set it down. “Yeah.”
She waited, then said, “You don’t have to tell me.”
I wanted to. Or maybe I just wanted to know how much she already guessed.
“It’s about the Sultans,” I said. “They’re making a move. Damron wants us to shut it down.”
She winced, like I’d said something obscene. “Violence?”
“It’s all we have left,” I said, and hated how true it sounded.
Sergeant’s ears twitched at the edge in my voice, but Emily just watched me, calm and unsparing. “Are you in danger?”
I shrugged. “Not more than usual.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I chewed a fry, let the salt scrape a groove into my tongue. “If something happens, I’ll handle it.”
She leaned in, elbows on the Formica. “I know you will. But you’re not invincible, Dean.”
I looked at my hands, the lines of dirt under my nails, the way the callus on my thumb never quite healed. “Nobody is.”
We ate a little more. She kept glancing at the velvet pouch on the table, trying not to stare. I waited until she finished her second beer, then slid it across to her, the color of old bruises in the low light.
“What’s this?” she asked.
I shrugged, felt my cheeks heat. “Just open it.”
She untied the string, slow, like she was afraid it would explode.
When she tipped the contents into her palm, the necklace pooled there, a thread-thin chain with a silver paw print charm.
She turned it over, eyes wide, then brushed the fingers of her free hand to the spot behind her ear where her own tattoo lived.
“You remembered,” she said, voice soft.
I nodded, unable to speak. I watched her as she held it up to the light, then set her hair aside and tried to clasp it one-handed.
“Here,” I said, standing behind her. My hands were too big for the tiny clasp, but she held still, the back of her neck warm and tense under my fingers. When I finally got it latched, she let out a breath I didn’t know she’d been holding.
I let my hand rest on her shoulder for a second, then pulled away.
She turned, necklace glittering at her throat. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s perfect.”
I looked away, feeling more naked than I ever had with her. “I thought you might like it.”
She touched the charm, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “Is this what passes for romance, then? Takeout and a trinket?”
I tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I guess so. Never was any good at the fancy stuff.”
She stood, closed the distance, and pressed her lips to my jaw, just below the fresh nick where I’d cut myself shaving. She tasted like chili and beer and relief.
“Don’t die,” she said, words feather-soft against my skin.
I shook my head, voice failing me. “Not planning on it.”
She guided me to the couch, the blanket still warm from before. We sat, not touching but not apart, the space between us a shared secret. Sergeant circled once, then thumped down by our feet.
For a while, we just sat, listening to the radiator knock and the neighbors argue two floors down. The food settled in my gut, heavy but not unpleasant. I let myself relax, just a little.
Emily turned on the TV, muted, the flickering blue light making her look unreal. She leaned her head on my shoulder, the necklace’s charm cold against my bicep.
“Tell me something good,” she said.
I thought about it. “I like this,” I said, voice barely above the hum of the radiator. “Being here.”
She snorted, then softened. “I do, too.”
We watched the silent TV, some old sitcom rerun.
I listened to her breathing, to the way her hair tickled my arm every time she shifted.
I wanted to ask her what would happen if it all went sideways, if the club life ever crashed into the rest of my world and took me out for good.
But I didn’t. I just let her lean, and let myself lean back.
It was late by the time we moved. She yawned, a wide, lioness thing, then stood and stretched. “You staying over?” she asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say no.
She smiled, then padded to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look back. “Leave the dog tags on,” she said. “I like them.”
I followed, the weight of the tags and the necklace twin anchors at my throat.
In her room, she peeled off her shirt, then her jeans, folding them with the same care she gave to rescue paperwork. I stripped, leaving my cut and the dog tags on the dresser. She crawled into bed, sheets cool and soft, then held out a hand.
We fit together easy this time. No rush, no show of strength. Just skin on skin, her breath warm in my ear, her hands mapping every old wound and new scar. When we finally let go, we stayed tangled, the blankets a knot around our legs.
She fell asleep first, her head on my chest, one hand splayed over my heart.
I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. I tried not to think about the war waiting on the other side of dawn, or the way Damron’s words kept unspooling in my head, tight as a noose.
Instead, I thought about the necklace. About Ma, and the life she wanted for me. About the dog tags, and the promise I never made but always kept.
About the woman sleeping beside me, and the dog on the floor, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, I could have this one good thing without losing everything else.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in years, I slept easy, not knowing the following night she’d take care of me once again.