Chapter Seven
Silly
The bed had been comfortable enough, but as it had been the previous nights, her hotel room in Charlotte was too quiet, the noise of the air conditioner a poor substitute for the familiar sounds of home.
It should be Tank’s snores and Jock’s steady breathing beside her, and now it would also hold Maynard’s soft whines.
Silly sat cross-legged on the bed, her sketchpad open to the nearly finished design of Maynard’s eyes, the flames curling around them like a vow of protection.
She was just making tiny adjustments at this point.
The tattoo show had been a whirlwind of ink and energy, but tonight, with only a half day left before her flight home, her heart was firmly in Louisiana.
Jock’s call last night had left her both relieved and uneasy—relieved they’d found the bastard who hurt Maynard, uneasy about the fire in Jock’s voice when he’d said, “He’s running, but we got him.
” She knew that tone, the one that meant he was holding himself together by a thread, and it made her ache to be there, to ground him the way he grounded her.
She set the sketchpad down and grabbed her phone.
She scrolled through the photos Jock had sent over the past few days.
Tank and Maynard in their ridiculous pajamas, sprawled across the dog bed like a pair of mismatched bookends.
Jock’s selfie with the dogs, his grin wide but his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
She lingered on that one, tracing her thumb over the screen as if she could reach through it and touch him.
“Down to counting hours,” she’d told him, but it felt like an eternity.
The show had given her new ideas and connections, but every laugh, every sketch, had been tinged with the pull of home.
A knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts.
She frowned, not expecting anyone, and padded over to peer through the peephole.
Lena, the purple-haired artist from New Orleans, stood outside, holding a six-pack of beer and a grin.
Silly opened the door, leaning against the frame. “You lost, Lena? Party’s downstairs.”
“Nah,” Lena said, breezing past her into the room. “Figured you could use some company. You’ve been moping around the convention like a lovesick puppy.” She plopped onto the bed, cracked open a beer, and offered one to Silly. “Spill. What’s got you so distracted?”
Silly took the beer, sinking onto the bed beside her. “Not moping, just...missing home. Jock’s dealing with some heavy stuff, and I’m not there to help.”
Lena raised an eyebrow, her piercings glinting in the lamplight. “The dog thing? You mentioned he found a pit bull. Sounds like a mess.”
“Yeah,” Silly said, taking a sip of the beer, the cold bite grounding her.
“Some asshole burned the dog, left him for dead. Jock and his buddy tracked the guy down tonight. Sounds like they’ve got enough to nail him, but.
..” She trailed off, staring at the sketchpad.
“Jock’s got a big heart, but he carries a lot, you know?
Stuff from his past. I worry he’ll push too hard. ”
Lena nodded, her usual sass softening. “Sounds like a good man. And you’ve been drawing that dog to keep him close, huh?” She tapped the sketchpad where Maynard’s eyes stared out, fierce and vulnerable all at once.
Silly smiled faintly. “Something like that. I’m gonna ink this on Jock when I get back.
Right over his heart.” She paused, her fingers tightening around the beer can.
“He’s been through so much, Lena. War stuff, PTSD.
He’s better now, but finding Maynard in that alley stirred things up. I can hear it in his voice.”
Lena leaned back, studying her. “You’re not just missing him. You’re scared for him.”
Silly’s throat tightened, and she nodded.
“Yeah. He’s got his chosen brothers, both under the IMC patch and others, like Wildman and Ace, or, hell, the whole of both clubs.
But it’s not the same. I should be there, helping him keep the ghosts at bay.
” She thought of Jock’s mantra, the one he’d shared with her late one night when the nightmares had been bad: Something I can see, something I can hear, something I can feel.
She’d heard him use it in the garage, in the middle of a crowded bar, even on the phone with her, grounding himself in the present.
She wanted to be part of that process, not a voice at the other end of a call.
“Girl, you’re going back tomorrow,” Lena said, nudging her shoulder. “You’ll be there before you know it. And that man’s got a whole pack looking out for him. Dogs and bikers included. Let him lean on them for one more day.”
Silly laughed, the sound a little shaky but real. “You’re right. I just...I love him so much, it hurts sometimes.”
“That’s the good stuff,” Lena said, grinning. “Now, show me this design for real. You’re not hogging all that talent to yourself.”
Silly reached for the sketchpad, walking Lena through the lines of Maynard’s portrait.
Talking about the art steadied her the way it always did, pulling her focus to the interplay of shadow and flame.
Lena offered a few suggestions—tightening the contrast, adding more than a hint of blue to one eye—and Silly found herself nodding, her creative spark flaring despite the ache in her chest. They talked shop for a while, swapping stories about difficult clients and favorite pieces, until Lena stood to leave, tossing her final empty beer can into the trash.
“You’re gonna kill it tomorrow,” Lena said, pausing at the door, remaining beers swinging from one finger through a loop of the holder. “And then you’re gonna go home and tattoo that man’s heart. Don’t let the worry steal your fire, Sylvia.”
“Thanks, Lena,” Silly said, managing a real smile. “See you at the show.”
Alone again, Silly picked up her phone and opened the photo of Jock and the dogs.
She zoomed in on Jock’s face, searching for the shadows she knew too well.
He was holding it together, but she could see the strain in the set of his jaw, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Hang in there, Jake, she thought, her fingers brushing the screen.
She opened a text and typed:
*Just had a beer with Lena. She got hyped about Maynard’s design. Can’t wait to put it on you. Love you, big guy. Call me before you sleep?*
She hit Send, set the phone down, and picked up her sketchpad again.
She had two last sessions booked for the convention’s final day, Dax with his hound and a client who wanted a phoenix rising from ashes, a piece that felt fitting given Maynard’s survival.
She added a few final touches to the pit bull design, deepening the flames to mirror the fire she saw in Jock when he talked about justice for that dog.
It wasn’t just about Maynard; it was about Jock proving to himself he could still protect something, still make things right.
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up, hoping for Jock’s voice. Instead, it was a text from Ace:
*Jock’s good. Got a solid lead on the scumbag. Your man’s home with the dogs now, snoring louder than Tank. Don’t worry too much, Syl. We got him.*
Silly exhaled, a weight lifting off her chest. She texted back, adding a heart emoji:
*Thanks, Ace. Keep him out of trouble for me?*
*Always*
The reply was immediately followed by a photo of Jock sprawled on the couch, Tank’s head on his lap and Maynard curled against his side, both dogs in their pajamas. Silly laughed, the sound catching in her throat. That’s my family, she thought, her heart swelling.
She set the phone down and returned to her sketchpad, but her focus was sharper now, fueled by the knowledge that Jock was safe for the night.
Tomorrow, she’d pour everything into her final sessions, pack up her equipment for the trucks, then board a plane back to him.
Back to Tank and Maynard, to the life they were building together.
She added one last detail to the design by including a faint scar across Maynard’s brow, a reminder of what he’d survived.
Just like us, she thought, her pencil slowing.
She and Jock had their scars, too, but they were stronger for it.
And tomorrow, she’d be home to remind him of that.