Chapter 13 Emily #2
I wanted to argue, to say something about choices and cycles and the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day. But I remembered the way he’d bled on my tile, the way he’d let me patch him up without a word, the way he’d come to me instead of anyone else.
So I said, “You’re not soft. But you’re not a monster, either.”
He relaxed, just a little. I saw his shoulders drop, the blue in his eyes fading back to something human.
He finished his coffee, then rinsed the mug in my chipped sink. He moved through my kitchen like he lived there, putting the mug upside-down on the drying rack, wiping his hands on the same towel I’d used to mop up his blood.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “So what happens now?”
He checked his phone—screen cracked, case taped together with electrical tape. “Now? Damron’s got a plan. Meeting tonight.”
I waited, letting him decide if he wanted to fill in the blanks.
He hesitated, then said, “They’re not going to stop. Not unless someone puts them down for good.”
There was a weird tenderness in the way he said it. Like he wasn’t just talking about violence, but about what he owed his people, his dead mother, the hole in his life he kept trying to fill with loyalty and pain.
I put a hand on his wrist, thumb tracing the rough patch of skin above the pulse. “Just come back in one piece,” I said.
He didn’t smile, but his whole body eased, like someone had taken off a heavy pack. “That’s the plan,” he said.
I squeezed his hand, then let go. “I’ll be here.”
He slung his cut over his shoulder, the leather stiff with dried sweat. He paused at the door, then turned back.
“Don’t watch the news,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll let you know myself.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He left, boots heavy on the stairs. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft, wet breathing of the dog at my feet.
I looked at the blank TV, then at the old photos on my fridge—rescued mutts, kittens with torn ears, my own face at age twelve, bruised but smiling.
I understood rules, and I understood revenge. I just didn’t know where I fit in between the two.
I poured another mug of coffee and sat at the table, watching the sunlight crawl across the linoleum, and waited for the day to start.
***
The morning at the shelter started like any other—bleach stinging the air, a chorus of barking rising in sync with the sun, a parade of half-mad volunteers jostling for coffee before facing the first round of animal disasters.
I’d only slept an hour, but the exhaustion ran deeper, a bone-sick fatigue I couldn’t bleach out of my head.
I went kennel by kennel, scraping up last night’s shit and refilling water bowls.
The dogs were amped from the overnight storm, every shadow sending the anxious ones into a panic spiral.
Sergeant, the blocky brown pit bull Dean had saved from euthanasia, followed me with a slow, loping limp, nosing my thigh every time I stopped moving.
I paused now and then to scratch the velvety space behind her ear—the spot where she still bore a line of puncture scars—and let her calm my nerves for a minute before moving on.
I’d finished half the runs and was scrubbing at a stubborn bloodstain on the cinderblock when I heard the lobby door buzz. A voice filtered through the PA, low and bored, “Emily Ray to the front, please. Visitor for you.”
I rinsed my hands, then headed for the desk, bracing for whatever fresh disaster had shuffled through the door.
Officer Reyes waited at the reception, leaning over the donation jar like he might slip a five into it if no one was watching.
He wore the uniform loose, sleeves rolled, a day’s stubble shadowing his jaw.
I’d seen him a dozen times—sometimes here, sometimes at the bar down the street, once at a feral cat call where he’d trapped the animal in his own bomber jacket rather than wait for animal control.
He smiled, but not with his eyes. “Morning, Em. Hell of a night.”
I nodded, feeling the salt and bleach still caked under my nails. “Always is. What’s up?”
He tapped the rim of the jar. “You got a minute?”
I glanced at the logbook, then at the clock. “Sure.”
He looked past me, scanning the chaos—volunteers corralling puppies, an old lady arguing about vaccination records. “You hear about the fight last night? Three in the hospital.”
I played dumb. “Heard the ambulance sirens. Didn’t think it was a big deal.”
He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “It’s a big deal if it happens in your backyard.” He paused, waiting for a response. When I didn’t give one, he continued. “Word is, it was the Sultans. You know anyone caught up in that mess?”
I kept my face neutral, something I’d practiced after a hundred bad home visits. “Nobody I’d call a friend.”
He raised an eyebrow, just a little. “No? Thought you might, given your… associations.” He let the word dangle, then softened. “Look, I’m not here to hassle you. Just doing a little follow-up.”
I braced one hand on the counter, felt the stickiness of spilled coffee. “I’m not involved. And I don’t know who was.”
He studied me, weighing the lie. “The biker crowd can be rough,” he said, as if we were talking about pit bulls and not actual people. “You ever worry about getting dragged into something?”
My heart was a jackrabbit in my ribs, but my voice stayed steady. “I worry more about what’s coming through that door every day. The rest of it’s background noise.”
He laughed, maybe genuinely. “Fair enough.” He looked down at his notepad, then back up. “If you see Dean Medina, tell him we have a few questions. Routine stuff. But it would be easier if he just called in.”
“Sure,” I said, not missing a beat. “But he was with me all night. Left just before sunrise.”
Reyes scribbled something, then looked up, face slack with disbelief. “The whole night?”
I nodded, adding a little smile for effect. “The whole night. We watched TV, made pasta. It was boring.”
He watched me for a beat, then shrugged. “Guess that rules him out.” He started for the door, then stopped. “Take care, Em. You ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
I watched him go, the relief washing through me in a wave of sweat. For a second, I just stood there, the lie still burning in my mouth. I’d never lied to a cop before. I hadn’t thought I could.
Sergeant trotted in from the back, tail wagging, and pressed her head into my hip. I sank a hand into her fur and let her weight ground me.
The rest of the day went in a blur. I moved through my rounds on autopilot, scrubbing cages, popping open cans of wet food, scanning the endless emails about lost pets and adoption fairs.
Every time I let my mind drift, I found myself replaying the conversation—Reyes’s probing questions, the way my voice didn’t even tremble when I covered for Dean.
I tried to tell myself it was nothing. That the Sultans had it coming, that Dean was only protecting his crew, that what I’d done was just loyalty, not some sick Stockholm thing. But the more I turned it over, the less sense it made.
At lunch, I ate a peanut butter sandwich at my desk, staring at the screen saver cycling through animal rescue photos.
Most were dogs, some cats, the occasional goat or chicken.
I tried to picture myself from the outside: a woman with no family, living alone, spending her nights patching up a biker she barely knew. The self-portrait wasn’t pretty.
I reached up, fingers brushing the paw print tattoo behind my ear. The habit always came back when I was lost.
Around three, the shelter quieted. I found a spot in the sun outside, Sergeant at my feet, and tried to breathe.
The truth was, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know if I was protecting Dean, or just protecting myself from whatever loneliness had burrowed into my bones.
But I’d made my choice. And for now, that would have to be enough.
I scratched Sergeant behind the ears, then looked up at the high, empty blue of the sky. The world kept moving, indifferent and wide. I wondered what kind of animal that made me.
***
Dean showed up just after dusk, the sun already gone from the courtyard but the sky clinging to its last streaks of orange.
He knocked, not with his usual two-finger tap but with the flat of his hand, just once.
When I opened the door, he stood with a paper sack in one arm and a six-pack of cheap beer in the other, shoulders hunched like he expected a beating.
Sergeant trotted forward and got the loving she needed, took a treat from Dean, and then padded back to her favorite spot.
Dean smelled like the road and cigarette ash and, beneath that, the sharp tang of worry. The bruises on his face had blossomed into deep violets, and the cut above his eyebrow was stitched with a line of medical tape that made his scowl look permanent.
“Dinner,” he said, holding up the bag as if it was a peace offering.
I stepped aside and let him in. Sergeant padded over again, sniffed at his boots, then settled by the couch, satisfied that nothing worse was coming.
We ate at the kitchen table, both of us hunched over burritos that leaked salsa down our wrists. He drank his first beer in two gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then watched me as I picked at my food.
I waited. Whatever he’d come to say was wedged in his chest, just waiting for the right angle.
He finished the burrito, crumpled the foil, and started on the second beer. “Damron wants me to lead the next run,” he said. Voice flat, careful. “It’s happening tomorrow night.”
I set my fork down. “The Sultans?”
He nodded. “All of them. Word is, they’re regrouping at the motel out on 285. Damron thinks we can end it if we hit hard enough.”
He didn’t look at me. He studied the condensation on his beer, tracing a line through the water beads.
I thought about the story he’d told this morning. About lines and rules and what came after you broke them.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He shrugged, then looked up. The blue in his eyes was washed out, all fatigue. “Damron doesn’t ask. He tells.”
A long silence. I watched the way he flexed his hands, the old habit of rolling his thumb against the scar by his knuckle.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he spoke. “They think the Sultans were behind my dad’s death, too. Not just Ma. That it was all connected. Like you said.”
He waited for me to say something—maybe to absolve him, maybe to promise I’d still be here on the other side of whatever bloodbath tomorrow would bring.
I couldn’t. I just reached across the table and took his hand, careful not to touch the worst of the bruises.
His fingers curled around mine, strong but shaking. For a while, neither of us moved. The air between us hummed with things we’d never dared to say.
“After this,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “What happens to us?”
He stared at our hands, the way my thumb rested over the back of his. “I don’t know,” he said. Honest, at least. “If I walk away, I’m dead. If I stay, I’m probably still dead. But maybe I can do this one thing and then be done.”
I squeezed his hand. “You think it’ll bring peace?”
He shrugged, not quite a laugh. “I think it’s the only shot I’ve got.”
His phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with DAMRON in angry all-caps.
He silenced it, then looked at me, eyes raw. “You don’t have to wait,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I just reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and kissed his battered mouth.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss you gave at a prison visitation, or a funeral, or the night before you went to war. It tasted like salt and beer and old fear, but it was real.
When we broke apart, I pulled his hand to my cheek, holding it there.
“You’re not dead yet,” I said. “So don’t act like it.”
He smiled, for the first time all night, small and lopsided. “Yes, ma’am.”
We finished dinner in silence, passing the beer back and forth. Sergeant circled our feet, then lay down with her head across both our boots, as if she could pin us together by sheer will.
When Dean left, it was with a promise to come back if he could.
After the door shut, I sat alone at the table, cold burrito in front of me, and tried to imagine the morning after. Whether he’d be here to drink burnt coffee and tell me another lie, or if I’d be reading about him in the news.
I pressed my fingers to the paw print behind my ear, felt the memory of his hand on my skin.
Tomorrow, everything would change. But tonight, for a few more hours, I’d let myself believe there was still a future for both of us.