Chapter 9
Sloane
We don't stay long; people have places to be.
Maggie shoves a container of chili into my hands, FOR COURT DAY scrawled on the lid, while James tucks in rolls and apples. Frankie points out her shop with a casual voice and serious eyes. East grins and promises to handle whatever we need. Nash tips his chin once, still watching.
By the time Knox steers me out the front door, my arms are full.
The street smells of warm asphalt and bakery sugar.
The afternoon hangs sun-soft and slow. Knox opens my door, waits until I settle, then loads the food into the back seat.
He pulls away, and the clubhouse shrinks in the rearview.
The garage stays snug beside it with a half-open bay and East's laughter trailing after us.
"You okay?" Knox asks once we hit the main street.
"Everything's too bright. Too loud."
His mouth curves just enough. "You're doing better than half the men did their first day in there. James had to sedate one of them."
"You're joking."
"Nope."
Images of Malachi or Nash passed out on a couch while Maggie tucks a blanket over them make me huff out a laugh I don't expect.
Knox turns down a quieter street lined with older houses. Trees shade the sidewalks. Some yards have toys strewn across them. One porch sports a sagging couch that somehow still looks inviting.
He eases into the driveway of a brick house with a deep porch and swing. A bike is tucked to the side, road dust dulling its gleam. The grass is trimmed, and the windows are clean. He kills the engine.
Somewhere down the block, a porch swing creaks. That's all the sound there is.
"This is yours?" I ask.
"Yeah." He shrugs, almost self-conscious. "It's simple. Walls, roof, hot water. Bed that doesn't vibrate when somebody slams a door downstairs."
He comes around and opens my door again. He keeps doing that. Opening doors, stepping aside, making room automatically.
"Welcome to my house, Sloane. Details tomorrow. Tonight, no one gets to you."
I step out, Maggie's bag in my hands. The porch smells of wood and faint detergent. A wind chime taps once in the breeze.
I catch the bike before I catch anything else.
It crouches in the porch shade, black and matte, metal edges hungry, built to eat the road. The long seat arches sleek. The Outsiders emblem sits on the tank, subtle and unmistakable.
"You stare any harder," Knox says behind me, voice low and warm, "you're gonna make her purr."
Heat flashes up my neck. "I wasn't… I mean… It's just beautiful."
He steps closer. Close enough that his breath warms my nape. He takes my elbow and steers me closer. "C'mere. Let me show you."
I go. My feet know before my brain does.
He stands behind the handlebars, one hand on the grip, the other tracing along the tank. "Custom seat." He pats the leather. "Engine rebuilt last year. Handles like sin."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Handles like sin?"
He lifts his eyes to mine and holds. "Yeah. Fast. Smooth. Real good at keeping a woman steady behind me."
That's not subtle. He comes around the bike, one solid line of heat against my front, and places my hand on the seat. His calloused fingers slide over mine, lingering.
"Can't wait to get you on the back," he murmurs. He smirks, self-satisfied, then his jaw tightens just enough to show he's paying for it.
"Knox," I whisper.
"What, baby?"
Baby. My bones liquefy. His fingers slide up to my jaw, tugging me forward until my body fits against his. His heartbeat thuds against my collarbone, and his chest presses flat against mine until there's no air left between us.
"You settle once we're alone," he murmurs. "Good. Means I can touch you now without worrying you'll bolt."
His forehead brushes mine. "I won't shatter," I say.
"You won't," he says. "I'll catch you."
Then he straightens, clearing his throat as though he's forcing himself to slow down. "Right," he mutters. "Before I forget—"
He jerks his chin toward the truck behind us. "Keys are yours when you need them."
My jaw drops. "Knox—"
"Before you argue," he cuts in, raising a brow, "you're gonna need to get around town. Groceries, appointments, whatever you want. I'm not gonna make you wait on me to drive you."
"That's… it's too much," I murmur. "I don't even have clothes. Or, hell, shampoo that isn't hotel-size."
"Then we'll go shopping after court. Clothes, toiletries. Handled." He grips my chin gently, so I have to look at him. "I don't do anything I don't want to do. I choose this. Got it?"
I nod. "Got it."
"Good." He kisses my forehead, and my chest cracks open. "Come inside. Tour time."
The house smells of cedar and detergent. It's clean, simple, lived in. He kicks the door shut behind us, drops his keys in a ceramic bowl that looks suspiciously like Maggie bought it and forced it on him, then leads me forward.
The living room opens wide. It has a dark couch, low coffee table, a TV, and not much else. A single framed picture is on the mantle: Knox standing with Malachi, East, Nash, James. All in cuts, all scowling except East, who's flipping off the camera.
"Wow," I murmur. "Bachelor chic."
He snorts. "Translation: looks like a man lives here."
"It does."
"You'll fix that," he says casually. "I can feel it already."
I freeze. "Fix?"
"Throw pillows. Blankets. Weird candles that smell like desserts. Plants I'll forget to water. Whatever you want." He shrugs. "The house could use it."
"You want me to decorate your house?"
"Yeah," he says, then looks away, as if the words slipped out. "I want your shit here. I want you here." He nudges me down the hall. "C'mon."
The first room is all tools and unfinished projects. The second is a guest room; it's unused, neutral, untouched. I stand in the doorway, staring at the bed, then at him. He watches me, hands in his pockets, shoulders filling the frame.
"You want this room?" he asks.
The bed looks empty and quiet. Like Chicago.
"I… don't know," I whisper. He tilts his head. Waits. "I don't want to be alone."
His whole face changes. "Then you're not." He brushes his knuckles down my arm. "You're not alone tonight, Sloane. Not unless you ask to be."
My throat tightens. He touches my nape, guiding me down the hall to the last room. His room. There's a big bed, black comforter, plain walls, a nightstand with a gun safe tucked beside it. A lamp, laundry basket, and a framed map of old route lines. A dresser that looks mostly bare.
Every surface is hard and plain. Then there's Knox in the doorway, watching me look.
"This is mine," he says quietly. "And yours, if you want it." I do. My hand finds the doorframe and grips. He brushes a thumb over my lower lip. His jaw set, eyes steady on mine as though he's already decided and is just waiting for me to arrive. "Let's get you settled," he tells me.
We end up on the couch instead. Maggie's chili reheated, a bottle of water between my knees, a throw blanket folded over the armrest, Knox beside me with an arm thrown over the back.
MMA fights on TV thud through the room, commentators turned low enough to blur.
The rhythm of it lulls me down by degrees.
At some point, I lean back. Then he pulls me closer. My head rests on his chest, and his hand slides into my hair, steady strokes that make my bones loosen. I drift. The world narrows to warmth and his heartbeat steady under my ear.
Knocking jolts me awake. I sit up fast, hair sticking to my cheek. Knox's hand catches my hip before I roll off the couch.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "Just a knock." His hair's a little mussed. Shirt wrinkled. He dozed too, but stayed alert the whole time.
The knocking comes again brisk and familiar.
"That's Maggie," Knox says, already standing. "And probably Frankie."
"What—"
"You'll see."
He cracks it open. Maggie breezes in like she owns the oxygen. Frankie follows, a bag slung over her shoulder and a garment bag hooked over her fingers.
"We brought things," Maggie announces.
"What things?" I ask, pulling the blanket Knox must've tucked around me at some point.
"Courthouse things," Frankie says, lifting a garment bag. "Maggie called your sizes in before you finished the chili. Dress. Shoes. Something that won't make the judge wonder if Knox kidnapped you."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. "How—"
"Because you deserve to feel like yourself walking in there," Maggie says, already heading to the kitchen to unload another bag. "Not like a runaway with one pair of socks to her name."
Frankie drops the bags on the couch. "Makeup. Toiletries. Couple outfits to get you through the week. And shampoo that doesn't reek of someone else's misery."
I blink hard. "I-I'm not sure what to say."
"Try 'thank you,'" Frankie says lightly. "Then try on the dress."
Knox hovers at my side. Maggie shoots him a look.
"Go." She points. "Malachi wants you. So does James."
Knox bristles. "For what?"
"Doesn't matter. Let us talk to Sloane."
"I'm not—"
"Knoxville Turner, do I look like I'm asking?"
Knox stares at her. Frankie props a hand on her hip. "Go before she calls your mother."
Knox mutters a curse. I touch his wrist. "It's okay."
He studies my face. "You sure?"
"Yes," I whisper. "Go."
He cups the back of my neck once, warm and anchoring. "I'll be right outside." Then he leaves.
The room exhales. Maggie sets a mug of tea in front of me. Frankie sits cross-legged on the opposite couch. Silver rings stack her fingers, and the sleeve winding up her left arm isn't bar flash; it's constellations, nebulae, something cosmic and precise.
"Alright, sweetheart," Maggie says gently. "Let's get everything laid out for tomorrow."
The lump in my throat swells. I step into the bathroom and slip the dress over my head.
The fabric settles against my skin, soft and fitted.
When I look in the mirror, I almost don't recognize the woman staring back.
Maggie smooths the collar when I come out.
Frankie lines up the makeup on the coffee table, uncapping an eyeliner to test the shade against my wrist.
"Perfect," she murmurs, capping it again. "We'll do your face in the morning."