Chapter 12
Sloane
The Present
The thing about small towns is you can measure time by the traffic lights. In Chicago, it took three songs and a podcast episode to get anywhere. Here, it's one stoplight, two left turns, and Knox's hand on my thigh the whole way.
We're stopped at that light now. The only one on this side of Willowridge. Knox idles the bike with one hand relaxed on the handlebar, the other heavy and warm just above my knee. His thumb traces lazy circles over bare skin.
That touch pulls low through my belly, warm and sure.
"Relax," he says, voice low enough it vibrates up my spine. "You're wired tight, Turner."
"I'm literally on the back of a motorcycle with zero protective shell. Wired tight seems reasonable."
He huffs a laugh. "Your body loves it."
I do. God help me, I do.
The light turns green. He kicks us forward, and the engine roars, wind pulling at my hair where it escapes the helmet. His cut flaps against my chest, the patched leather warm from his body. My arms are snug around his waist, fingers hooked in his belt.
It's become a reflex. Anchor points and pressure grip, muscle memory built over hundreds of miles.
The town slides by in familiar pieces. Brick storefronts with faded signs. The bakery Maggie bullies us into visiting twice a week. The thrift store where Frankie "accidentally" finds things that fit me. My hospital Willowridge General, with its wide windows glowing pale in the morning light.
Two years ago, I was sprinting through a parking lot, thanking every deity that would listen that the man from my one-night stand was there. Now I'm arguing with my husband about seatbelts, motorcycle physics before grocery shopping, and a family lunch.
We turn off Main and roll down a side street lined with warehouses. East's garage comes into view first, all glass doors and metal siding, The Outsiders logo painted big and bold on one wall. Next door, the two-story brick clubhouse with that same patch over the door.
Home. I flinch.
Knox pulls into the lot behind the garage and kills the engine, the sudden quiet pressing in around us. My ears ring faintly as the world narrows to ticking metal and his heartbeat under my cheek.
He taps my thigh twice. "Off, nurse."
I roll my eyes inside the helmet. "You know that's not my official title."
"You patch my idiots and the town's idiots. Nurse works."
He steadies the bike as I swing a leg over and climb off. Before I can straighten, his hand closes around my hips, dragging me backward until my spine kisses his chest.
"You good?" he murmurs, lips close to my ear, helmet bumping his jaw.
I nod, aware of exactly how hard he is behind his jeans.
He catches where my attention goes and chuckles, low and sinful. "Every time you wrap yourself around me on this thing. Every. Fucking. Time."
Heat rushes to my face. "We're literally here for saline and gauze."
"Yeah. And after lunch we're literally going to be naked, so…" He shrugs, stating the weather.
He unclips my helmet, lifts it off carefully, fingers brushing my cheek.
"What?" I ask, self-conscious.
"Just like seeing you here," he says simply. "In my town. On my bike." He kisses my forehead, light and brief, then steps back, tugging me toward the side door. "Come on. East's guy boxed this order last night. We're just picking up and signing off."
Inside, the garage has the scent of oil, metal, and the faint citrus cleaner Frankie insists on using when she steals a corner for custom paint. A car sits up on a lift. Two younger prospects move around it. Kyle's under the hood, sleeves shoved up, while the other kid rolls a cart of tools.
"Vice!" one calls, wiping his hands. "Boxes are by the office."
"Don't call me that," Knox grumbles automatically, then smirks when the kid flinches. "Unless you're in front of Malachi."
I trail after him toward a neat stack of boxes by the office door. Labels flash past in tidy printing: STERILE GAUZE. IV START KITS. SALINE. SUTURE MATERIAL.
All part of the little unofficial clinic Maggie and I carved out in the back hallway of the clubhouse. You're already doing the job, she'd said when I got hired at the hospital. Might as well have the tools.
Knox hefts two boxes at once as though they weigh nothing. Muscles bunch along his arms, and his T-shirt pulls across his shoulders. My brain does a quick, involuntary rewind to the way he moved over me last night.
I look away, focusing on the smaller boxes I can actually manage.
He notices.
"Eyes up, Turner," he murmurs, amused. "Or I'm going to drop all this shit and take you on East's office couch."
I duck my chin into the box I'm carrying. "You are impossible."
"You married impossible. That's on you."
I grab the box labeled ASSORTED and follow him into the sun.
We load the boxes into the back room off the clubhouse kitchen. I sign the inventory sheet with a practiced flick, printing my married name.
Sloane Turner.
It still looks like I'm forging someone else's signature.
"Lunch is at one," Knox says, checking his phone. "Family's texting Maggie asking what she's making."
"Let me guess. Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes. Enough carbs to kill an elephant."
He grins. "You love her potatoes."
"I do." I pause. "My arteries don't."
"Your arteries can take a hit once in a while." He glances at me, gaze sweeping down. "You wearing that skirt today?"
I glance down. The leopard-print skirt hits mid-thigh with a black tank, and my hair half up, half down. Frankie practically forced the outfit into my arms last week, declaring it a "hot wife" look.
"Is there a problem with my skirt?"
The green goes dark. "Nothing about that skirt is a problem." He steps in, tracing the hem, barely brushing the top of my thigh. "Just trying to mentally prepare for having to sit across from you at a picnic table while the entire club watches me try not to pitch a tent."
I snort. "You do realize no one would be surprised by that."
"Still. I like to at least pretend to be civilized around Maggie's potato salad."
A laugh bubbles up that I don't manage to swallow. He smiles when he hears it, and it’s softer around the edges.
My phone buzzes. Hospital group text, shift swap offers. I thumb it away since I'm off for the next two days.
"Come on," Knox says, catching the edge of my tank top and steering me outside. "One more stop before we go home."
"What's the stop?"
He jerks his chin toward the corner pharmacy. "Maggie texted. She's out of half the shit she swears she's stocked. She sent a list. We're on errand duty."
"Domestic," I say, mock-horrified. "We're married and running errands. How did this happen to us?"
He slides his hand into mine without asking, fingers strong and sure. "You climbed on the back of my bike and never got off. That's how."
Inside the pharmacy, we weave down aisles that smell like shampoo, bubblegum, and rubbing alcohol. I grab antiseptic cream, bandages, and a restock of the cheap readers Maggie keeps losing.
Knox tosses chocolate into the basket.
"That's not on the list," I say.
"It's for you."
"I have a hospital paycheck. I can buy my own chocolate."
His jaw ticks. He doesn't look at me. "Yeah, well. You're my wife. Let me buy you fucking chocolate."
Dark chocolate with sea salt. He remembered. My throat tightens, and I look at the shelf of shampoo bottles until it passes.
We're headed for the register when Knox's phone buzzes. He glances down, stops in his tracks, thumb swiping.
He straightens. I catch it a beat before he turns away; the squared shoulders, the focus sharpening behind his eyes, the faint tightness at the corners of his mouth.
"Malachi?" he says into the phone, shifting into that low, controlled register he uses when things matter.
I busy myself comparing two brands of cheap mascara at the endcap, pretending my ears aren't straining.
"Yeah," he says. "We're in town. Pharmacy. Supplies."
A beat.
"She is." He glances at me briefly and away, as though the word she weighs a little more today. "Okay," he says after a moment. "You sure about this?… Yeah. I know. I know who she is, Malachi."
Silence.
"And Chuck?… You seeing it or feeling it?… Uh-huh. Yeah, we'll be there early. Keep an eye. Text me if anything shifts."
He hangs up and stands there for a second. The fluorescent lights make everything feel too sharp.
"What's going on?" I ask.
He looks at me, gaze steady, reading me. For a second, I think he's going to say it's club business.
He doesn't.
"Candace is coming to lunch," Knox says finally.
"She's the one whose dad is…" I don't finish, because it's a line I shouldn't cross.
Knox crosses it anyway. "Chuck, yeah. He patched in before I did." His jaw flexes hard. The tendon below his ear jumps. "He used to have his shit together. But the last few years? Sliding hard. Candace stopped coming around when she was about sixteen. Pulled back from everyone."
"So she doesn't come to club things?"
"Not for a long time. Maggie and James tried to keep her close, but…" A shake of his head. "Some kids run when they get hurt. Some run when they're scared. She did both."
A beat.
"Now she's showing up today. Chuck paid off dues he shouldn't be able to afford." Knox's mouth hardens. "So now Candace is coming to a family lunch while we're trying to figure out if her old man dragged us into something we didn't consent to."
He goes still. I've seen it in the ER a hundred times, right before someone's body catches up to the news. His eyes lose focus for half a second, staring at nothing, and his breathing changes. It turns shallow, controlled, metered.
"Knox?" I say.
He blinks hard, present again. "Yeah. Just thinking." But the muscle in his jaw hasn't stopped.
"That sounds complicated," I say.
"That sounds like a clusterfuck in progress."
"Does everyone have asshole fathers?" I mutter, more acid than I mean to let slip.
His full attention lands on me. His whole expression flattens, the muscle at his temple jumping.
"Haven't met yours yet, have I?" he asks.