Chapter 16
Gunner
Itried to play it cool all the way to Pearl’s, but the truth was, my nerves were shot to hell.
Most of that came down to Lysander—the smooth-talking, platinum-haired gallery rep who’d nearly bled out on the floor for Brie.
I’d spent the better part of twenty-four hours trying to get my head around why that made me want to snap something in half.
The man wasn’t even competition, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Lysander was gay—like, museum-grade gay.
He was the kind of guy where he’d see a shirtless man and ask what moisturizer he uses.
The kind where he’d walk into a biker bar and immediately rearrange the barstools because the spacing “felt emotionally off.”
And even if he weren’t gay, he’d have to be clinically insane to want to tangle with my mate. But logic had never been my strong suit when it came to women, and jealousy was a bastard that crept in like kudzu. It didn’t matter if it was rational—it was mine, and I owned it.
Brie was in high spirits, all things considered.
She’d thrown herself into her work, which for her meant a flurry of emails, last-minute vendor calls, and frantic sketches on the legal pad she clutched like a lifeline.
By the time we parked out front, she was still halfway through a conversation with her own reflection in the visor mirror, reciting what sounded like her entire gallery opening speech under her breath.
“D’you want to finish that before we go in?” I asked, watching her lip the words “innovative” and “accessible” like they’d been loaded into a shotgun.
She snapped the mirror up, clicked her pen closed. “No, I want to drown it in bourbon and fried food like the goddess intended.”
I grinned. “Pearl’s probably got your usual table ready.”
She side-eyed me. “You always act like we’re on a date, cowboy.”
“That’s because we are,” I said. “Anytime I’m out with you is a special occasion.”
We walked in arm-in-arm, which always felt less like a statement and more like mutual reinforcement against the Dairyville gauntlet.
Pearl’s was already humming—two guys from the bank at the bar, a family of five on their way to a wedding reception in the side room, and in the back, a knot of Iron Valor cuts holding down the corner booth.
The place smelled like heaven: frying oil, sweet onions, cigarette smoke that still clung to the curtains from the days when that was allowed.
Pearl herself intercepted us before we hit the hostess stand, looping a towel over her shoulder and hugging us both at once. She was built tall and broad and had the kind of presence that could stop a bar fight with a look.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite trouble magnet and the best thing to ever happen to him,” she boomed, squeezing Brie so hard I heard a vertebra pop.
Brie laughed. “Hi, Mama Pearl. Any chance you’ve got something with extra carbs and zero guilt?”
“Honey, the only thing I don’t have is guilt. Sit yourselves down. I’ll bring you the sampler and a couple of specials. Finn, you want a double?”
“Always,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Brie plopped into the booth and immediately started laying out her notepad, phone, and a stack of Post-Its like she might have to take depositions mid-meal.
I watched her for a minute, just absorbing the kinetic energy that seemed to buzz off her skin, her hands never still.
Even after everything she’d survived, she could still turn a room electric.
I hated to bring it up, but the thoughts of last night had me twisted into knots.
That dream was like a storm rolling through the room.
The way she’d kicked, thrashed, and screamed words that made little sense was unsettling.
She’d bitten my bicep so hard she’d left a bruise the size of an egg.
And the fact that she’d remembered none of the dream at all seemed so strange.
I took a swig of water, then tried to keep my tone casual. “So. Did you have flashes of the dream you had last night today?”
She paused from looking at her phone her brow furrowed. “I didn’t. It’s so weird. I remember feeling terrified, but nothing else. Guess it was no big deal, or I’d have remembered it.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You were screaming, Brie.”
That stopped her. She set the phone down, hands pressed flat on either side of the legal pad. “I don’t remember, okay? I woke up. I was in bed; you were there; it was fine. I have shit to do. I can’t afford to get sidetracked by a bad dream.”
The words came out sharp, but I didn’t let it bother me. “I’m not saying you can’t handle it, Maverick. I just don’t like waking up to you in a cold sweat, is all.”
She exhaled, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I’m sorry. I just… every time I think about it, it slips away.
Like, the more I try to remember, the less there is.
It’s just this feeling. Like something terrible happened in that dream that my mind doesn’t want me to remember.
So I figure I’m better off not trying so hard to remember it, ya know? ”
I reached across and squeezed her wrist. “That makes sense sweetheart. I don’t want you to think about it if it could cause you more pain. That’s the last thing I want for you. I want to carry all the things you can’t carry; that’s all.”
She smiled, the first real smile since we’d sat down. “I know. That’s why I haven’t lost my mind yet.”
Pearl appeared with drinks and two plates the size of hubcaps. The sampler was a pile of hushpuppies, fried pickles, and something that might once have been a jalapeno, battered and deep-fried to oblivion.
“You’re a saint,” Brie said, popping a hushpuppy in her mouth.
“I’m an enabler, darling,” Pearl said, then fixed her gaze on me. “You keeping this one out of trouble?”
I shrugged. “She’s a tornado unto herself ma’am. I just try to build a fence around it.”
Pearl snorted. “Just don’t let her talk you into one of her ‘health kicks.’ I’ve heard she tried to sub out the mashed potatoes for kale; I had to stage an intervention.”
“Never again,” Brie vowed, solemn as a priest.
Pearl leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “I see you two’ve been on the rumor circuit. Harper says your gallery’s all but ready for the big time.”
Brie flushed, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know about that. But it’s nice to finally be doing something that matters.”
Pearl nodded, then added. “Well darlin’, getting yourself mated to the most eligible man this side of the Red River was a pretty big get if you ask me.” She slapped Brie on her shoulder and sauntered off to the next table to terrorize another patron.
“Well, she’s got me there,” Brie said, and I laughed.
“I’m the one who won the prize in that deal,” I said. “You improved my standing by about a hundred percent.” I squeezed her hand.
We ate for a while in silence, just listening to the hum of the bar, the low twang of a country ballad on the jukebox, the rattle of ice in the cheap plastic glasses. I felt the tension start to drain out of me, replaced by the warmth of being somewhere I belonged.
After a minute, Brie wiped her fingers on a napkin and said, “Hey, Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should try medication? For the sleep thing?”
I weighed my answer. “If you want. But I think you just need to let your mind go a little. Maybe less caffeine after three p.m.”
She laughed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I can try.”
She looked around the bar, then leaned in. “My mom used to make this thing—hot toddy, but with, like, every herb in the cabinet. You ever hear of that?”
“Sure,” I said. “Pearl probably has a family recipe. Want me to ask?”
Brie nodded. “I think I’d rather drink witch’s brew than pop pills.”
I flagged Pearl down as she walked by with a tray of chicken-fried steaks. “Ma’am, you got a hot toddy recipe? Something strong enough to put down a wolf?”
Pearl grinned, wiped her hands on her apron. “Honey, I got a recipe that’ll put a full-grown Alpha in a coma. Gimme five minutes, I’ll have you a to-go jar.”
Brie lit up, more at the idea of a homemade remedy than any actual belief in its efficacy. I think it was the gesture, the continuity—someone from here helping her feel like she belonged.
While we waited, she rattled off more plans for the opening.
Who was coming, who wasn’t, which reporter from Amarillo would try to make her gallery look like a “meth den with a taste for abstract.” I watched her, listened, let myself be hypnotized by the way her hands moved, the cadence of her voice.
Pearl returned with a Mason jar filled with golden liquid. She unscrewed the lid, added a lemon wedge, then tightened it back up. “Thirty seconds in the microwave before bed. Sip it slow. Don’t call me if you end up howling at the moon.”
Brie took the jar with reverence, cradling it in her hands. “Thank you, Pearl. You’re an angel.”
“Just don’t tell the local priest,” Pearl said. “He might make you confess to being a liar.”
As we got up to leave, I paid the tab and threw a ten in the tip jar. Brie grabbed my hand, the warmth of her palm a promise.
“You know I love you, right?” She said, voice low.
I looked her dead in the eye. “I know. But I like hearing it, anyway.”
We walked out into the night, the jar of hot toddy gleaming like a lantern in her grip. I helped her into the truck, then slid behind the wheel, feeling for the first time all week like maybe, just maybe, things were going to be alright.
But then I glanced at Brie, and saw the way she clutched that jar, white-knuckled, like it was the last thing keeping her together.
And I wondered how long we could keep pretending that love was enough to save us from whatever was waiting in the dark.