Chapter 4 - Wraith #2
It's also slightly terrifying, because people who think like me are also people who see through the walls I put up, who notice the things I don't say, who can read the subtext I'm trying to keep hidden.
Mariah wraps her arms around my legs in a hug that nearly topples me. "Be safe, Daddy."
"Always am, baby girl." I crouch down, pull her in properly. "You be good for Quinn."
"I'm always good."
"Sure you are." I kiss the top of her head, breathe in the scent of her strawberry shampoo, the scent that means home and safety and every good thing I've ever done with my life. "I love you."
"Love you too." She releases me and immediately takes Quinn's hand, like she's already decided who her person is for the night, who's going to keep her safe while I'm gone.
I stand, meet Quinn's eyes over my daughter's head. "Call if you need anything."
"We'll be fine," she says, and I believe her.
I leave through the front door, punch in the alarm code, hear it beep its activation behind me as I head for my bike.
The ride to the clubhouse takes fifteen minutes, wind cold against my face, engine rumbling underneath me in a way that usually clears my head but tonight just gives me space to think about the woman I left in my house, in my daughter's life, wearing bee socks and reading bedtime stories like she was made for exactly this.
The clubhouse is already full when I arrive. Bikes lined up outside, lights on inside, the low rumble of conversation audible even from the parking lot. I kill the engine, swing off, head inside.
Phoenix is at the bar talking to Judge, both of them looking grim.
Canvas is on one of the couches, arm still in a sling from the bullet he took almost two weeks ago, Eden curled up beside him.
Brick's in the corner with Rosie, who's been living at the clubhouse since they pulled her out of the warehouse, his arm around her shoulders.
Saint's leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
Diesel and Ranger are playing pool, though neither of them looks particularly focused on the game.
Ranger spots me first, straightens immediately. "Wraith. She get there okay?"
"Yeah." I cross to where he's standing, lower my voice. "She's good, man. Really good. Mariah already loves her."
Relief crosses his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I owe you for this."
"You don't owe me shit. She needed the job, and you needed the help. That's how family works."
Family. That's what the club is, has been since the day I showed up in Millhaven two years ago with a toddler on my hip and nothing else, since the day Judge and Brick pulled me out of a fight I didn't start and fed my daughter smashburgers without asking a single question about where I'd come from or why.
Phoenix calls out across the room: "Church. Let's go."
We file into the chapel, take our seats around the long table. Phoenix at the head, Judge to his right, me on his left because I'm the planner and he wants me close when he's making decisions. The rest of the brothers fill in around us.
Phoenix doesn't waste time. "Intel came in tonight. Vipers are planning something. We don't know what yet, but Echo picked up chatter. They're moving resources, calling in favors from other clubs. Whatever they're planning, it's big, and it's coming soon."
My brain kicks into high gear immediately, running scenarios, calculating timelines. "How soon?"
"Within the week. Maybe less."
"We need to tighten security," Judge says. "No one in or out without confirmation. All civilians stay put until we know what we're dealing with."
I think about Quinn and Mariah, safe in my house with alarms, bars on the windows and a woman who can disable a man in under seven seconds. "My house is secure," I say. "New security system, Quinn's ex-military, she can handle herself if it comes to it."
"Ranger's sister, right?" Phoenix looks at Ranger for confirmation.
Ranger nods. "She's solid. Better than solid."
"Good." Phoenix's gaze sweeps the table. "Everyone else, old ladies stay at the clubhouse until further notice. No exceptions.”
We spend the next hour going over defensive positions, watch rotations, emergency protocols. I map out three different evacuation routes if we need to move civilians quickly, calculate timing for each one, present backup plans for the backup plans. This is what I do. This is what I'm good at.
By the time church ends, it's past ten.
I text Quinn: On my way home. Everything okay?
Her response comes back immediately: All good. She's asleep. Take your time.
I pocket my phone, say goodnight to my brothers, and head back out into the night.
The ride home feels longer than it should. When I pull into my driveway, kill the engine, I sit for a moment in the sudden silence, looking at my house: lights on downstairs, curtains drawn, everything exactly as it should be.
Safe.
I let myself in quietly, punch in the alarm code, lock the door behind me. Quinn's in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book, still in her jeans and yellow shirt. She looks up when I enter, marks her page.
"Hey," she says. "How'd it go?"
"Fine. She go down okay?"
"Three stories, two glasses of water, one bathroom trip that was definitely a stalling tactic. But yeah, she's out." Quinn smiles. "She's great, Dean. Seriously."
I should go upstairs. Should check on Mariah, should go to bed myself because tomorrow's another long day. Instead, I find myself crossing to the couch, sitting down on the opposite end, suddenly not ready for this conversation to be over.
"Thank you," I say. "For today. For all of it."
"You already thanked me."
"Yeah, well. I'm thanking you again."
She studies me in the dim light of the living room lamp, and I feel that same sensation I felt earlier, like she's seeing past the walls I keep up, seeing something I didn't mean to show.
"This is going to work," she says. "I know it's weird, me living here, all of it happening so fast. But it's going to work, Dean. I can feel it."
And God help me, I believe her.