Chapter 15 #2
"Arden doesn't care about poker," Leo says, still grinning. "He only cares about things that bleed."
"Not true," Arden says, voice flat and smooth as glass. "I also care about things that burn."
Leo laughs. Frankie's mouth twitches as if she's fighting a smile and losing.
The rear door swings open last. Victor emerges, all tailored suit and controlled power, phone already to his ear. He nods once at me, at Frankie, then heads inside without breaking stride.
Leo lingers. His gaze drifts back to Frankie, something softer sliding into his expression.
"You look tired," he says, quieter now.
Frankie's jaw ticks. "You look annoying."
"That's my baseline." He steps closer, hands in his pockets, casual but intentional. "You eating? Sleeping? Or just chain-smoking and pretending you're fine?"
"Option C. With a side of 'mind your business.'"
"Can't." His grin softens into something almost tender. "Tried that once. Didn't take."
They stare at each other for a beat too long. Arden clears his throat. It's barely a sound, but it cuts through the moment clean as a scalpel.
Leo blinks, steps back, the easy mask sliding into place. "Malachi inside?"
"War room," Frankie says, carefully neutral.
"Cool. We'll go ruin his day." Leo starts toward the clubhouse, then pauses, glancing back. "You coming?"
Frankie shakes her head. "Break's over. Gotta get back to the shop."
Leo's jaw tightens for a half second before he covers it. "Next time, then."
"Maybe."
"I'll take maybe." He grins again, quick and bright, then disappears through the door.
Arden lingers a second longer, studying Frankie with that unsettling, unblinking intensity. "He worries," Arden says finally.
Frankie snorts. "He's a professional worrier. Comes with the job."
"Not about most people." Arden tilts his head, measured and precise. "Just you."
Then he's through the door without making a sound, which shouldn't be possible for a man his size. Frankie stares at the closed door, hands curling into fists at her sides. I clear my throat. She startles as if she forgot I was here. Her eyes snap to mine, too bright, too sharp.
"Don't," she warns.
"Wasn't gonna say anything."
"Good." She shoves off the wall, heading for her car baking in the lot. "Tell your wife I said hi."
"Will do."
She pauses, hand on the door, back to me. "Knox?"
"Yeah?"
"Leo's one of the good ones." Her voice goes quieter, rougher. "Make sure he stays that way."
Before I can answer, she's in the car, engine turning over, gravel crunching as she peels out. I watch her go. My chest won't loosen.
Then I kick the bike over and head for the hospital, Frankie's words echoing. Make sure he stays that way.
By the time I hit Sloane's favorite burger place, my patience is shot. I order her usual; double cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, the chocolate cake she pretends she doesn't crave, and a Coke. Grab myself a sandwich so she doesn't yell at me for watching her eat.
The bag is warm and greasy in my hand when I step into the hospital lobby. I tuck my helmet under the front desk counter where they know me by now, and clip on a visitor's badge. So routine I could do it in my sleep.
The smell hits first. Antiseptic, coffee, that faint copper tang that never quite leaves.
I hate hospitals. I hate what they did to me once upon a time, and what they do to her now; stealing pieces of her day, leaving her heavy-eyed and quiet.
But she lights up in these halls in a way she doesn't anywhere else, and I'm not stupid enough to get between her and the thing that makes her feel like herself.
So I walk these halls and deal with it. The nurse's station on her floor is a blur of scrubs and beeping monitors. One of her coworkers spots me and smirks.
"Your husband's here," she calls toward the med room.
The word husband still hits me in the ribs, even after two years.
Sloane steps out a second later, chart in hand, pen tucked behind her ear.
Her hair is in a messy braid, wisps escaping around her face.
Smudge of ink on her wrist. Scrubs a size too big, but I know the shape underneath—the curve of her waist, the glimpse of collarbone at the neckline that the fabric can't quite hide.
Fuck. She looks good.
Her eyes find mine and soften. Just a fraction. But I see it.
"Hey," she says. Tired but warm. My lungs unlock.
"Hey, nurse. I brought bribery." That gets an actual smile. I hold up the bag. "Burger. Fries. Chocolate cake."
Her eyes almost roll back. "Marrying you was an excellent life choice."
"Yeah. It was."
I follow her into the cramped staff break room. There's a table, sad couch, microwave that has seen some shit, bulletin board full of passive-aggressive notes about labeling leftovers.
She scribbles a Post-it on the way in and sticks it to the break room door, then drops into a chair with the kind of boneless plop that tells me she's running on fumes.
"Says I'm on my thirty," she explains. "If they knock before my break's over, someone's coding. Otherwise they can wait."
I start unwrapping food. She tears into the burger like she hasn't eaten in a week.
"I knew you skipped breakfast," I say.
Her mouth is full. She just gives me a look that says obviously, mind your business.
"This helps," she says around another bite. "Thank you."
"Always gonna feed you, sweetheart. Even when you're annoying as shit and ignoring my basic needs."
She snorts, dunking a fry in ketchup. "You don't have emotional needs. You have a hard-on and thoughts, like, ninety percent of the time."
"That is a basic need. It's called physical affection. Look it up."
She huffs, but there's a twist of her lips.
I wait until she's halfway through the burger before I say, "We still can't find Chuck."
Her whole body goes a notch stiffer. She keeps eating. But the rhythm changes. It's more mechanical, less present.
"Maybe he's just… gone," she says in a cool voice.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's hiding. Either way, we'll find him."
She nods, noncommittal. She polishes off the burger, then pulls the cake toward her and digs in like a woman on a mission.
I lean forward. "Hold still."
I drag my thumb along the corner of her lip, collecting the frosting. Her breath catches. Then I bring my thumb to my mouth and suck the chocolate off, eyes on hers. Her pupils flare. Good. She's still in there.
"Wasting good cake," I murmur.
She swallows. "You always say that, then you always lick it off anyway."
"That's because you taste better than dessert."
Normally she'd toss back a dry line. Roll her eyes. Tell me to stop being filthy in public. Today, her expression closes like a door. She turns her head, then reaches for her Coke.
"Rough day?" I ask quietly.
She exhales long and slow. "One of the patients coded this morning. We got him back, but…" One shoulder shrugs, the motion tight. "He's on max support. Family's coming in to talk about options. It's just… a lot."
I nod. "You okay with that?"
"I'm fine," she says automatically. Then, after a beat, "It's my job."
"And Candace? How you feeling about that?"
Her fingers tense around the cup. "I told you last night I was fine. I checked her over. She's beat up, but she's okay. End of story."
There it is. The edge. My first instinct is to push. To say, You came home shaking and tried to fuck the panic out. You're not fine.
But she's halfway through a shift where people live or die depending on whether she keeps her head on straight. This isn't the battlefield for that conversation.
I don't say anything. She slumps back, shoulders sagging. "Sorry. I just… I don't have room in my brain for everything today."
I hook a finger under her chin to make her look at me.
Guilt flashes across her face. "You shouldn't have to walk on eggshells just because my brain is a dumpster fire."
"Good thing I like walking. And I'm from a long line of trash collectors."
A huff of reluctant laughter slips out. There it is.
I lean in and kiss her, slow, careful of the public nature of the room, but not caring enough to pull back quickly. Her lips are warm and taste like chocolate, salt, and Sloane. She breathes out against my mouth, and for a second, she lets me hold her like I want to.
Then she pulls back, swallowing. "If I don't get back out there, someone's going to page me. Then I'll have to explain why I was making out with my husband in the break room, and no one wants that."
Speak for yourself. I would not mind everyone knowing she's mine.
I sit back, forcing my hands to let her go.
"Malachi's fight is tonight," I say. "After that, everyone's sticking around the clubhouse. James is making burgers. Ruby and Frankie are planning 'morale activities,' which should concern us all. Come by if you feel up to it."
She hesitates. That haunted look sneaks back at the edges of her eyes.
I want to rip it out. Want to track down every man who ever put that there and break their fingers one by one.
"I'll try," she says finally. "Depends what the night looks like."
I nod, even though every cell in my body is already rearranging itself around making sure she can get there, get drunk, laugh, sit on my lap while East and Darla play chicken with their feelings across the room.
"Text me when you're on your way. I'll come get you from the lot."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," I cut in. Rougher than I intend. "Humor me."
Her gaze softens a millimeter. "Okay. I'll text you."
Her pager chirps, shrill, slicing the moment. She grimaces, stands, and tosses her trash. I stand with her, stealing one more fast kiss; the kind that tastes like a promise.
"You got this, nurse," I murmur against her mouth.
She nods, even though she doesn't look convinced. "See you later, vice."
I watch her go, ponytail swinging, shoulders straightening as she slips back into battle mode. The door swings shut with a soft click.
I stand there for a moment, then pick up the empty bag, toss it, and head out. I grab my helmet from behind the front desk, drop the badge, and walk into the lot. The elevator doors close behind me. My reflection stares back from the glass. I keep my face controlled. Calm. My hands are shaking.