Chapter 11 #2
“Hounds?” I force the word out.
Tiny’s shoulders go still. “Something I buried.”
“Because Pearl said…” I trail off.
“Pearl says things to hear herself talk.”
“What things, Tiny?”
Something shutters behind his eyes. He keeps his voice low. “Not here.”
“Then when?”
“Soon,” he answers, which isn’t an answer.
I fold my arms over my stomach, holding the ache in. “You promised me we weren’t doing this alone.”
“We’re not.”
“But you’re not telling me what’s chasing you.”
He looks past me, to the kids, to Capone, to the map only he can see. For a beat, I hate the road for existing at all.
“Hey,” he says, gentler. “I’m not choosing secrets over you.” I want to believe him. I really do, but belief takes practice, and I’m out of shape.
The silence lingers a heartbeat too long. Tiny’s gaze drifts toward the stage, like maybe he can outrun the weight in my eyes by counting speakers instead of truths. I turn too, pretending to follow his line of sight, but my chest is already tight.
The music swells, bass rolling through the heat, kids laughing, Dagger yelling at Torch for stealing the mic. Life keeps moving, indifferent to the cracks in our armor. Tiny brushes a hand down my arm, a touch too light to anchor me, then steps away when Capone calls his name.
I stand there, swallowing the ache, watching his back disappear into the noise. The distance feels bigger than the crowd between us, bigger than the secret sitting like a live wire under his skin.
By the time I pull myself together, the music shifts. The dancers line up, stage lights turning dusk into fire. The finale unfolds. The dancers' bare feet glide across the stage in precise movements, making them dance like the wind.
Cheers erupt from the crowd as they move with defiance wrapped in grace. Parents stand, and people cheer as Jezebelle’s glitter cannon misfires sideways and hits Bones, who pretends to combust before bowing to a roar.
We spill into the shade behind the stage.
Capone smiles like a man who counts heads and finds them all.
He squeezes Danyella’s waist, murmurs something that melts her edges.
Blayze tosses a towel at Dagger, but Dagger misses because Ms. Emerson is congratulating a student within six feet of his self-control.
Trigger eats a funnel cake like it insulted the budget spreadsheets. This is my family.
I’m tying up extension cords when Pearl returns with two other bunnies, Gigi and Trixie, dangling on her drama like ornaments. She plucks a stray piece of glitter off my shoulder, flicks it into the sun.
“You taught them well,” she says, and for one stupid second, I think she means it. “Must feel good, having the club behind you.”
“It does,” I say carefully.
She tilts her head. “Does it feel the same, knowing your guy still wears another brand on the inside?”
Gigi’s mouth pops open. “Pearl!”
Trixie winces. “Girl, read the room.”
Pearl smiles at them without teeth. “What? We do honesty here, don’t we? Charity, community, transparency?” She glances at Tiny across the lot, where he’s loading speakers with Red and Trigger. “Ask him who taught him to tag a wall like that. Ask him why the Hounds aren’t as dead as folks say.”
I keep my voice level. “If you have a point, make it.”
“My point,” she says softly, “is that men are mosaics. You love what you can hold and ignore what cuts you.” She steps closer, drops her voice to a thread. “Don’t bleed for a man who holds secrets that can kill you and ask him what he knows about the man haunting your nightmares.”
Gigi whispers, “Pearl, stop,” but Pearl is already sashaying away, her blown-out lashes blinking with innocence at Bones, who barks a laugh at something she says, as if she didn’t just leave a fuse lit. The doubt lands exactly where she aimed it.
I move to the side of Tiny’s bike to get away from Pearl and her deceitful lies. My hands won’t stop shaking. No matter how many breaths I take, my pulse won’t slow down.
Peanut crawls out of Tiny’s unzipped saddlebag and presses against me, purring hard enough to vibrate my ribs.
“You little escape artist,” I whisper, stroking her head.
Peanut lifts her chin and nudges me again, stubborn and sweet and determined.
I swallow hard. “Ok. Ok. I’m breathing. You win.” Peanut bumps my chin again and darts out of my arms, scrambling toward the table.
I follow, finding Nadia by the merch tables, stacking T-shirts. “Tell me I’m making up problems.”
She looks at my face, then at Tiny, then back. “I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you you’re not alone in them.”
“I don’t want to be the woman who picks a fight because she’s scared.”
“Then don’t pick a fight. Ask a question.”
“He didn’t answer the first one.”
“Ask again. In a place where he can’t look away.” Nadia’s right. I hate that she’s right. I hug her tightly, and she hugs back.
When I look up, Tiny’s already watching me from across the lot. Not the guarded scan. The other look. The one he saves for exactly three people and a cat.
He crosses the distance in ten long strides, stops just close enough that only I can hear. “Are we okay?”
“We could be,” I say, and it comes out thinner than I mean.
His eyes search mine. “Tell me what you need.”
“Truth,” I whisper. “All of it.”
He nods once. “Tonight.”
I want to say now, but Red waves him over. Capone lifts two fingers, meaning club business, and the moment closes like a door. Tiny squeezes my hand before he goes. It should help, but it doesn’t.
Nadia bumps me with her hip. “He said tonight.”
“I’ve heard that word before,” I mutter.
“Then hold him to it,” Nadia demands.
I exhale. “Yeah.”
At sunset, the last of the chairs clatter into the van. Bones spins Nina in a ridiculous victory dance while she squeals. Dagger thanks Ms. Emerson for “making him legitimate,” and she replies, dryly, “Temporarily.” He looks thrilled by the sentence structure alone.
Jez announces the raffle winners and somehow also sells three more tickets after the drawing. Trigger argues with Red about whether a speaker can be both “vintage” and “broken.” Capone stands at the top of the steps, counting.
When Tiny looks toward the gate like he hears something the rest of us don’t, the old ache knocks again. The part of me that wants to trust him is finally finding its footing. The part that doesn’t has always known how to run.
We load the last crate. As the lot empties, heat bleeds out of the asphalt. Peanut appears out of nowhere, rubs her face against my ankle, claiming me like she always does. I scoop her up and press my mouth to her fur.
“For me,” I say into the quiet, the promise I made in the mirror. “Not for him.”
Across the yard, Tiny’s head tips like he caught the whisper. He gives me that small, private smile and taps his chest once, here, and for a breath, the doubt loosens.
I want to believe him. Tonight decides if that thread holds or snaps.