Chapter 18 Emily
Emily
Six months to the day since I watched the old shelter burn, and here I was, same patch of land, different world.
If you squinted against the morning sun, you could see the ghosts of the old cinderblock, the scorched pawprint mural, and the ashes that once passed for hope.
But on this morning, the new Los Alamos Humane Society looked like something out of a brochure—two stories of plate glass, metal beams that shone like fresh bone, and landscaping so aggressive it dared you to remember what came before.
The crowd in the parking lot was everything I’d expected and nothing I’d wanted.
Mayors in their candidate suits, city councilwomen and their duckling kids, donors with complexions that had never known a day’s manual labor.
There were dogs, too, lots of them—collars tight, tongues lolling, noses crammed deep into grass still sticky with last night’s fertilizer.
Local news camera on a battered tripod. At least two people live-streaming on their phones.
For a second, I thought I saw Marsha in the press of bodies, clipboard at the ready, face set in her usual withering grimace, but of course that was impossible.
Front and center, impossible to miss, were the Bloody Scythes: thirty men in matching cuts and dusty boots, hair cropped or wild, all of them exuding the quiet, predatory tension of men unused to standing still.
Dean stood dead center, arms folded, Sergeant leaning against his shin with the patience of a dog who’d seen too much.
The rest of the Scythes watched the crowd, eyes hungry for the next threat, but Dean only watched me.
The sun was a beast at my back, baking through the black of my borrowed dress suit. I could feel sweat pooling under my bra, but I kept my hands tight on the edge of the podium, channeling the pain into something that looked like poise.
I cleared my throat, glanced at my speech (half memorized, half bullshit), and forced a smile. The crowd hushed.
“I want to thank you all for coming out this morning,” I began.
My voice carried better than I’d expected, echoing off the glass and the glossy hoods of parked cars.
“I never thought I’d see this day, to be honest. Six months ago, we lost more than just a building—we lost a safe place for the animals, and for the people who cared about them. ”
A flash of movement caught my attention. Sergeant’s ears pricked and were attentive, as if she understood every word.
“We never would have made it here if it weren’t for the support of this community,” I continued, letting my gaze slide from the crowd to the line of bikers and back.
“Especially the Bloody Scythes Motorcycle Club, whose generous donation—” here I paused, as the Scythes rumbled their approval, a subtle thumping of boots on tarmac “—made this new shelter possible. They didn’t ask for credit, but they deserve it. ”
Dean’s mouth twitched. I couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment, but I’d take either.
I took a slow breath. My heart was racing like I’d mainlined espresso, but the words were coming easier now.
“Our new facility will double the number of animals we can care for. The veterinary suite is fully equipped for both routine and emergency care. We have indoor and outdoor runs, heated floors, and—” here, I smiled for real, thinking of Marsha “—the best damn kitten room in the state of New Mexico.”
A polite ripple of laughter, then genuine applause. I let the sound wash over me, fighting the urge to drop the script and just say, look at us, we survived, you bastards, we survived.
I looked out at the sea of faces—Taryn in her best blazer, hair pulled back, eyes red from lack of sleep but shining with pride.
The mayor, standing with his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, the kid already bored and poking at her phone.
A stray Scythe prospect holding a puppy with one tattooed hand, as if he wasn’t sure which of them was supposed to be more dangerous.
“I want to invite everyone inside,” I finished, “but first, let’s make it official.”
A hush, and then Taryn handed me the giant novelty scissors. The ribbon was bright red, fat as a garden hose. I centered the blades, trying not to shake.
“For Marsha,” I said, so quietly only those closest could hear. Then I closed the blades. The sound was a clean snick, so sharp it felt like the start of something holy.
The crowd cheered. It was loud and awkward and perfect.
Dean’s eyes never left mine, and in that moment, everything felt possible.
The doors swung open. I stepped back, letting the wave of people roll into the lobby—dogs barking, kids squealing, city officials shaking hands for the cameras. The new shelter smelled of fresh paint and citrus cleanser, and beneath it all, the familiar musk of fur and anxiety and hope.
I took the stairs two at a time, escaping the crush.
Through the window, I watched Dean and the Scythes linger at the edge of the lot, not quite joining the celebration but not leaving, either.
For the first time, I saw how the neighborhood looked at them—not as monsters, but as men who’d saved something worth saving.
It wasn’t trust, exactly, but it was a start.
I wiped sweat from my brow, then looked down at the line of people filing through the new glass doors—families, bikers, the odd city councilor with a yappy terrier in tow. No one was shouting. No one was fighting. For a few minutes, at least, it was peace.
A hand closed over mine, startling me. Taryn, face flushed, hair wild now.
“You killed it,” she said, grinning. “I almost believed you weren’t about to pass out.”
I laughed, the sound ragged but real. “It’s the suit. Makes me look invincible.”
She glanced down at the crowd, then back up. “You want a drink? I stashed some champagne in the staff fridge. For emergencies.”
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I need to come down first.”
She nodded and melted back into the chaos, her blazer already streaked with fur.
I watched the sun crest above the ridge, lighting the new parking lot in a pale, forgiving gold. I thought of Marsha, of the old shelter, of all the things I’d lost and all the things I still had to lose.
I thought of Dean, waiting outside, and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing worth surviving for.
The world wasn’t fixed. But it was moving.
***
The tour of the new shelter was already dissolving into chaos—kids in line for face painting, dogs losing their minds over the smell of a thousand strangers, someone’s Uncle Bobby sneaking a cigarette behind the dumpster—but I ducked out before anyone noticed.
Out back, the alley was blessedly empty except for the glint of Dean’s bike and the man himself, back braced against the brick, arms folded, eyes shielded from the sun by a pair of battered aviators.
He didn’t say a word as I approached. Just watched me the way he always did, like I was the only thing in the frame and the rest of the world was background noise.
I took a spot beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, but not so close that anyone passing by would get ideas. He smelled like leather, clean sweat, and something sharp that was just him.
“Surprised you stuck around,” I said, voice low. “Thought you’d want to skip the dog-and-pony show.”
He cracked a smile, white teeth at odds with the bruised landscape of his face. “Had to see if you’d make it through without flipping the podium.”
I laughed, and the tension bled out of me, leaving only a weird, jittery relief. “Tempting, but I’m working on my impulse control.”
He hooked a thumb toward the parking lot, where Sergeant lay in the shadow of the bike, head resting on her paws. “She only whined for you twice.”
I crouched, scratched Sergeant’s ears, then straightened and turned back to Dean. My hand went to the dog tags at his neck, the habit so ingrained I didn’t think about it anymore. I ran my thumb over the stamped letters, the edges softened from years of friction.
“Your dad would be proud,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He blinked, jaw flexing. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And your mom, too. Even if she’d pretend not to be.”
He dropped his head, and for a second I saw the boy he must have been, before the world trained him to eat glass and call it breakfast. Then he reached for me, one hand at the nape of my neck, and pulled me in until my forehead rested against his.
He held me there, breathing in the space where our lives overlapped, until I thought we might break something vital if either of us let go.
“I missed you,” he said, the words raw.
“I’m right here,” I answered, but I got it.
I’d been at arm’s length for weeks, buried in meetings and construction updates and all the stuff you do when you’re scared of having to start over.
I let myself breathe him in, the smell of wind and sweat and the faint, lingering smoke that lived in his skin no matter how many times he showered.
He pressed his lips to my temple, a benediction, then let go. I almost said I loved him, but the moment was too thin and bright to risk it.
“Hey!” Taryn’s voice called from the staff door, and we broke apart like teens caught sneaking out after curfew. She waved, a leash dangling from one hand, her hair now a full disaster. “We’ve got it handled if you guys want to blow this popsicle stand.”
Dean grinned, broad and reckless. “You heard the lady.”
Sergeant trotted over to Taryn, who clipped the leash to her collar with practiced efficiency. “Don’t worry,” Taryn said, winking at me, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t eat any toddlers.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
As Taryn led Sergeant back inside, Dean’s hand found the small of my back. It stayed there, warm and heavy, grounding me in a way nothing else could. We stood together for a beat, the only sounds the low purr of Dean’s engine and the distant, unhinged joy of children chasing dogs across the grass.