Chapter 15
Knox
The clubhouse is too fucking quiet. Objectively, it isn't. Pool balls crack, someone laughs near the bar, there's a low thrum of country on the jukebox. But my nerves are wound tight enough that everything feels half a beat off.
Or maybe that's just because my wife's been gone since before sunrise and I hate the goddamn twelve-hour shifts almost as much as I hate not knowing where Chuck is.
I flip my phone over. No new messages.
"Jesus Christ," Nash mutters from across the table. "You gonna burn a hole through that thing with sheer misery, or you want a beer?"
I drag my gaze up. He's leaned back in his chair, arms folded, expression in full resting-enforcer mode.
I just grunt. "It's barely one. I'm good."
He snorts. "You are absolutely not good. You're an asshole. There's a difference."
"Eat me."
"Ask your wife to," East sings, dropping into the seat between us, smelling like motor oil and bad decisions. The brunette regular at the bar is playing with her straw like it's a dick, and he's grinning at her like she's already won the lottery.
I don't bother hiding my eye roll. "Don't you have paperwork to fake or something?"
"Already did." He winks at the girl, then turns back. "We could all use a morale boost. Which is why I'm saying… vice"—he looks at me, smirk sharpening when my jaw ticks—"go visit your wife. Find an empty room. Quickie. Boom. Whole mood fixed."
I keep my face blank. Years of practice.
Inside, though, I picture an empty room. Sloane with her scrubs pushed up around her hips. My hand over her mouth while she tries not to be loud.
My cock twitches against my zipper.
"Not all of us can abandon fiscal responsibility every time our dick twitches," I say dryly.
"Please. You're halfway to a permanent hard-on anytime she breathes in your direction. Don't pretend you're above it."
He's not wrong.
I think about her in that fading navy, hair scraped back, eyes tired but fierce. The way she looks at me when I show up in her break room, coffee in one hand, my other already on her waist. Her eyes drop to my mouth before she catches herself, and the tired drains out of her face for a second.
Every time she answers the phone with "Hi, husband," I feel my grip on the day slip a little.
"Seriously though," East says, glancing toward the bar, then back. "You're extra murdery today. Go see her."
"That your clinical assessment, Dr. Shaw?"
He opens his mouth, probably some joke about bedside manner and blow jobs, but Nash cuts in.
"You're pissed about Chuck. And you're pissed she's working after seeing Candace like that and pretending she's fine."
He says it like he's reading off a menu.
I stare at him. "You become a therapist when I wasn't looking?"
"Unfortunately. Occupational hazard."
There's a tightness around his eyes today, too. Same as last night when he was pacing the edge of the lot, phone lighting up every ten minutes, jaw set.
"You hitting the fight tonight?" he asks, steering away from my shit.
"Yeah. You?"
His gaze flicks away, just for a second. "Thinking about it."
East snorts. "Translation: ninety-nine percent chance he's going to see her again."
"She's bad news," I say quietly.
Nash's jaw works. "Yeah." He sounds tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying something he can't set down, and whatever this woman is to him, it sounds less like want and more like a debt he can't pay off. "So am I," he adds, and finishes his beer like the conversation's over.
Before I can push, my phone buzzes. Sloane. All the air in my lungs eases at once.
Sloane: Halfway through hell. How's your day, vice president of chaos?
My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it.
Me: Grumpy. Wife abandoned me for twelve hours. Might file a formal complaint.
Three dots appear. Vanish. Return.
Sloane: You were the one who said "Sure, take the job, nurse." Actions. Consequences.
Me: Didn't realize the consequence would be my dick suffering cruel and unusual neglect three days a week.
Sloane: Pretty sure that's not in any medical journal. And it definitely didn't suffer last night.
Me: You sure? Might have to conduct a study. N=1. Symptom: constant ache. Cause: wife not in my lap. Conclusion so far? Patient requires immediate, repeated hands-on treatment. Preferably with your pussy around my cock.
I can almost see the eyeroll.
Sloane: I have five charts and a med pass between me and lunch. Behave.
Every line she types, I hear in her voice. Soft, wry, so fucking tired.
My thumb hovers.
Me: What are you wearing?
Another pause.
Sloane: Scrubs. Obviously.
Me: Under the scrubs, sweetheart.
The three dots sit there longer this time. My body tightens as I wait. Then my phone pings. Image received. I open it and suck in a breath.
She's in the staff bathroom, angled just enough to keep the room anonymous. Scrub top hitched up, teeth catching her lower lip, other hand holding the waistband low. Black lace. A hint of skin. The barest shadow of the curve between her thighs.
I'm rock hard. Fast. Fuck.
She'd kill me if I said it out loud, but I doubt she understands what she does to me when she looks like that. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks pleased with herself.
Sloane: This is your fault. You were filthy last night. Now I can't stop thinking about it.
The edges of the room narrow until the phone screen is all I see. Yesterday, her thighs were around my head. The way she whispered I love the way you feel, the words slipping out before she could catch them.
"Knox?" East says. "You just went somewhere fun in your head. Want to share with the class?"
"No," I say, shoving back from the table. "Class is dismissed."
Nash snorts. "He's going to the hospital."
"Get it, vice!" East crows. "Leave her able to walk just enough to finish her shift. I've got five bucks on her limping."
I flip him off and head for the door, already texting.
Me: Don't move. I'm bringing you food. And when you get off, I'm taking that lace off with my teeth.
Her reply comes quick.
Sloane: You're going to get me in trouble.
Me: Only kind of trouble I want you in is the kind where you're moaning my name. Lunch in 30.
I shove my phone in my pocket and push into the sunlight. Halfway to my bike, a voice cuts through.
"Hey, vice." Frankie's leaning against the side of the building, cigarette dangling between two fingers, eyes sharp beneath her dark fringe.
She must be on a break. Her shop's two blocks over, but she shows up here whenever she needs air, caffeine, or to stare into the void as though it owes her money. "Got a minute?"
"Depends. You gonna yell at me about prank escalation again?"
Her mouth twitches. "I told you the med closet was a line, not a suggestion." Then her expression sobers in that way that makes everyone within a ten-mile radius pay attention. "Seriously, though. You feel that?"
"Feel what?"
She taps ash into the gravel, gaze drifting toward the road. "Air's… wrong today. Old shit waking up. Threads pulling tight."
Most people would write it off as Frankie being Frankie. But every time she's said something's coming, something has absolutely fucking come.
"You talking about Chuck?"
"That's part of it," she says softly. "But not all."
A prickle moves down my spine, the same warning I used to feel when a mission started going sideways before anyone said a word.
"You see something?" I press.
"Not clear yet." Her eyes flick back to me. "Just… pay attention to your edges. And hers." A tilt of her head. "Your girl is carrying more than she's saying."
I swallow. "I know."
"Good." She flicks the cigarette out and crushes it under her boot. "Arden and Leo are swinging by later with Victor. Malachi wants extra brains on the Chuck situation. And the other thing."
"The other thing" being the network that feels a little too organized for comfort.
"Arden will actually come in daylight?" I ask because the alternative is letting the unease sink its claws in deeper.
She huffs a laugh. "He owns sunscreen. And probably SPF-lined hoodies or some shit. Don't let him hear you call him a vampire to his face, though. He finds new and creative ways to get revenge."
I've seen him stand in the shadows of the clubhouse like he's made of mist, Leo beside him all bright grin and lethal. Victor with that bored, rich-boy look that never quite hides the cobra underneath.
Nobody believes Arden drinks blood. But no one is entirely sure he doesn't.
"I'll be back later," I tell her. "Text me if Malachi needs me before then."
"Yeah, yeah." She waves a hand.
Then, as I swing my leg over the bike: "Hey, Knox?" I glance back. She's watching me with that unnerving, too-aware gaze. "Whatever's coming? You're not supposed to fight it alone."
I nod once. "Copy that."
I'm about to kick the engine over when the sleek black SUV rolls into the lot.
Victor's ride. Windows tinted dark enough to hide bodies, engine purring low and expensive. It glides to a stop near the clubhouse entrance, not quite blocking traffic but making a statement.
The driver's door opens first. Leo unfolds from behind the wheel all easy movement and a disarming grin with his dark hair pushed back, olive skin catching the afternoon sun. In dark jeans and a fitted henley that shows off shoulders built for more than charm.
"Frankie!" he calls, spotting her. His grin widens. "You still owe me twenty bucks from the last poker game."
She fishes a fresh cigarette from her pack, lights it, and flicks the match at his feet. "You cheated."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to prove it. I know it. You know it. Arden definitely knows it." She jerks her chin toward the passenger side.
The other door opens. Arden steps out. Pale, sharp-featured, dressed head to toe in black like he's in permanent mourning. His eyes sweep the lot once before settling on Frankie. The scan takes about two seconds. He doesn't miss anything.
He blinks once, holds it, and that's apparently all the greeting Frankie needs because she nods back.