Chapter 6 Bones #2
Mercy’s face softens, and she nods toward the door.
“He’s outside. Said he needed some air, but I think he’s just getting antsy waiting for me.
” She wipes down the counter with a rag, her movements efficient and practiced.
“I finish my shift in about twenty minutes, so he’s probably just killing time until then to have his fun. ”
“Hey, Mercy!” someone calls from the far end of the bar. “When a guy’s gotta wait this long for a drink, he starts wondering if prohibition came back!”
Mercy rolls her eyes at me. “Duty calls. Try not to brood too much while I’m gone, OK?”
“No promises,” I mutter.
I turn around, leaning my back against the bar and surveying the room. The place really does look better than before. Higher ceilings, better lighting, more space to breathe. We kept the soul of it—recreated the original bar top and neon signs—but most of it is different. Better.
Sometimes destruction can be a gift. If you survive it.
My eyes drift to the door. Habit I can’t break. Watching. Waiting.
Six months without her. Six months of rebuilding this bar, rebuilding my place in the club. Six months of not knowing where she is—Stone made me hand over access to the tracker the day I got back, and the disconnection feels like a phantom limb.
For years I knew exactly where she was. Could pull up an app and see that little dot moving through her life, know she was safe even when I couldn’t be there. Now there’s just . . . nothing. A blank space where she used to be.
I fucking hate it.
But she needs the space. Needs to figure out what she wants without me hovering. So I wait.
I’m good at waiting.
“You gonna stand there brooding all night, or you gonna actually enjoy the party?” Kya appears at my side, Lee trailing behind her with an empty bottle in hand.
“I’m enjoying,” I say.
“You’re lurking. There’s a difference.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re being antisocial.” She pokes me in the ribs. “Go dance. Even Stone’s up there with some random from out of town.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Liar. I’ve seen you dance.”
“That was years ago and I was drunk.”
“So get drunk and come dance.”
Before I can argue further, Lee intervenes. “Leave him alone, babe. Not everyone wants to be dragged onto a dance floor.”
“Thank you,” I tell Lee.
“Though you do look like you could use some fun,” Lee adds, completely undermining his defense.
“I’m having fun.”
They both give me identical looks of disbelief.
“Fine. I’m having an adequate time.”
“There’s the enthusiasm we were looking for,” Kya says dryly. She links her arm through Lee’s. “Come on. Let’s go show these people how it’s done.”
They head for the dance floor—really just an open space near the stage where people are already moving to the music. I watch them go, Lee tugging Kya against his body, Kya laughing at something he says when he leans close to her ear.
I push off from the bar, suddenly needing air myself. The crowd parts for me—not out of respect anymore, but habit. Even without the intelligence officer patch, I still carry myself like I own the room. Some things don’t change.
Outside, the night air is cool and fresh compared to the hot press of bodies inside. I take a deep breath, letting the tension ease from my shoulders as I scan the parking lot. The whole place is packed with bikes and cars, people spilling out onto the sidewalk with drinks in hand.
I spot Duck by the edge of the lot, sitting on a wooden bench we installed last week. He’s alone, nursing what looks like a whiskey and staring up at the stars. Even from here, I can see the slight slump in his shoulders, the way his thick white beard catches the glow from the string lights.
“Mind some company?” I ask, approaching slowly.
Duck glances up, pale blue eyes crinkling as I set myself on the bench next to him.
“Maggie still dancin’?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nod.
“She’s gonna be complaining about her knees for the next week.” Duck chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “She’ll say it’s worth it though. She loves to dance. Always has.”
I nod, watching as a couple stumble out of the bar, laughing and hanging onto each other. They’re young—probably barely old enough to drink—and completely wrapped up in each other.
“You doing all right, son?” Duck asks after a moment.
I take a pull from my beer. “Fine.”
“Bullshit.”
I glance at him, but his eyes are still on the stars. Duck’s been with the MC since before I was born. He’s seen presidents come and go, watched brothers live and die, weathered every storm that’s hit Stoneheart. Nothing gets past him.
“Just tired,” I say finally. “Been a long six months.”
“Mmm.” Duck takes a sip of his whiskey. “You heard from her?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. The girl you’ve been moping over all this time. The princess.”
I take a long drink instead of answering.
“That’s a no, then.”
“She’s living her life. I’m living mine.”
“And you’re just gonna wait?”
“Swans mate for life.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Duck looks at me for a long moment, something like recognition in his old eyes. Then he nods slowly.
“Yeah. They do.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “Maggie made me wait four years, you know. Said she wasn’t ready to be an old lady.”
“What changed her mind?”
“Nothing. She just got ready.” He shrugs. “Some things can’t be rushed, son. You just gotta be there when they figure it out.”
“Bones!” Ginger waves me over to where she and Tank are standing with some of the construction crew. “Get over here. We’re settling a bet.”
I head over, grateful for the distraction.
The next hour passes in a blur of conversations and congratulations and brothers razzing each other about various construction mishaps from the rebuild.
Someone convinced Miguel to open the kitchen even though we’re not officially serving food tonight, so now we’re inside again and there are burgers and fries making the rounds.
I’m several drinks in, the music is loud, the energy is high, and for the first time in months, I feel . . . OK.
Not thinking about Emma.
Not wondering what she’s doing.
Not wishing things were different.
But then my eyes do that drift toward the door.
And I have to blink them several times to be sure. But . . . there she is.
Emma.
Standing in the entrance of Devil’s Bar like she just materialized out of thin air, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket that looks brand new, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, scanning the crowd.
She’s here.
She’s actually here.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and everything else—the music, the conversations, the celebration—fades into white noise.
Six months of waiting—of yearning—and she’s just walked right through that door.
She’s fucking here.