13. Chapter 13
Colt
I knew Caroline would be at the fundraiser.
Lena had mentioned it during one of my check-ins with the club. A charity event for the Lords' recovery programs. And Caroline was helping coordinate. Which meant she'd be there. Which meant I'd have to see her outside the context of therapy or crisis.
I'd planned to skip it. Had convinced myself that maintaining distance for six months was the right move. Dr. Williamson had told me so too. Giving her space to forget about me was the noble choice.
But then I also convinced myself how much the Lords needed me and how much I needed them. It was a purpose so I didn’t get into my head again.
The truth was somewhere in the middle; a middle ground I planned to ignore entirely.
Then I saw her walk through the doors.
She was wearing a simple dark dress, her hair down instead of pulled back the way she wore it in the office. She was laughing with Lena about something, her entire face open in a way I'd never seen before. Not guarded. Not professional. Just Caroline being herself.
And everything I'd been telling myself about distance and waiting evaporated.
"Oh, no," Sweet said from beside me. "That's the look."
"What look?" I asked, not taking my eyes off her.
"The look a man gets when he's completely fucked." Sweet grinned. "That's your therapist."
"She's not my therapist anymore."
"Yeah, but she still has that effect. I can see it from here."
Stretch appeared on my other side. "Brother, you're staring. You might want to be subtle about that."
"I'm not staring."
"You're absolutely staring," Prime said, joining the growing crowd of brothers who'd apparently decided this was interesting entertainment. "And Ditch is about to notice, and then we're all going to have a serious conversation about professional boundaries."
I tore my attention away from Caroline and looked at my VP. Sure enough, Ditch was watching me with an expression that said we'd be having a conversation. Soon.
"I'm going to get a drink," I said, and I walked in the opposite direction from Caroline because apparently I still had some self-preservation instinct.
It lasted about forty-five minutes.
I was talking with Prez about the surveillance from the recent transport operation when she appeared beside me. Not deliberately approaching. Just gravitating in the same direction I was standing.
"The event looks successful," she said, directing her comment at Prez but positioning herself so she could talk to me.
"Lena does good work," Prez said. "We're trying to make sure the resources keep flowing. These programs save lives."
After Prez moved on to talk with a donor, Caroline and I stood in awkward silence.
"How are you?" she asked finally.
"Better. Therapy is helping. The inpatient care made a significant difference."
"That's good. I'm glad."
We stood there like two people who had boundaries between us that neither of us wanted to respect. The chemistry from the warehouse locker room was still there—quiet, buried, but definitely still there.
"The surveillance issue," she said carefully. "The inconsistencies in your case file. Have you noticed anything unusual since being back?"
"A transport operation was being tracked. Multiple vehicles. Coordinated surveillance."
She looked at me sharply. "That's not random."
"No. It's not."
"There's something I need to tell you," she said, and her voice dropped lower. "Can we find somewhere private?"
We ended up on a balcony overlooking the city. Away from the crowd. Away from the brothers who were undoubtedly watching to see what I'd do.
"I've been reviewing your case file," Caroline said.
"Looking for therapeutic context related to your trauma response.
And I found inconsistencies. Detective names that don't match official records.
Shift logs that contradict interrogation reports.
It's like someone created a false narrative about your capture. "
"What kind of false narrative?"
"I'm not sure yet. But the implications are significant. If someone lied about how you were captured, there might be a reason. A reason that involves ongoing danger."
I felt the weight of it settle onto my shoulders. The surveillance on the transport. The inconsistencies in the official story. The feeling that something wasn't finished.
"You shouldn't have looked into that," I said quietly.
"I know. It violates professional boundaries in multiple ways. But you matter to me, and I couldn't just ignore evidence that you might be in danger."
"Caroline—"
"I'm not supposed to care," she continued.
"I'm supposed to maintain distance and remember that you're a former patient.
But I do care. I can't not care. And I can't pretend that what happened in the warehouse was just transference or trauma bonding or any of the other clinical explanations that are supposed to make this easier. "
I stepped closer to her. Close enough that I could see the determination in her expression. Close enough that I wanted to forget every professional boundary that existed between us.
"I think about you constantly," I said. "About what would have happened if we'd both been different people in a different situation. About what might be possible if we weren't navigating this from opposite sides of an ethical line."
"I know. I think about that too."
"I also know we can't do this yet. You referred me out for a reason. Dr. Williamson is the right therapist for me because she's not emotionally invested. That matters."
"It does," Caroline said, and there was pain in her voice. "But Colt, if someone is actively hunting you, if Don's network is still operational, if you're in danger—I need to know that you're taking that seriously. I need to know that you're being careful."
"I will be."
She handed me a small flash drive. "Documentation of the inconsistencies I found. Names. Timeline contradictions. Everything. Take it to Ditch. Have the club investigate properly. Don't try to handle this alone."
I took the drive. Our fingers brushed, and it was like every moment of restraint between us suddenly felt thin and fragile.
"Six months," I said. "That's what we need. Time for you to feel confident that whatever we feel is real and not just therapy dynamics. Time for me to prove that I'm actually healing and not just managing."
"And then?" she asked.
"And then maybe we figure out if this could be something. If we could be something."
She nodded, but she didn't step away. Didn't create distance. Just stood there in the night air with McAllen lights spread out below us and allowed herself to want something that she'd been trained never to reach for.
"I should go back," she said finally. "People are noticing we're gone."
"Probably."
But neither of us moved.
"Six months," she said again. "But Colt? I can't stop caring about you just because there's an ethical boundary between us. I won't be able to pretend that the first time we see each other after the boundary no longer exists."
"I'm counting on it," I said.
She walked back inside alone. I stayed on the balcony for another thirty minutes, watching the city and thinking about what it meant to finally want something beyond survival.
What it meant to imagine a future with someone.
What it meant to know that six months was both an eternity and no time at all.
By the time I went back in, Ditch was waiting.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I know."
"About your therapist."
"She's not my therapist anymore."
"But she was. And there's clearly something happening there."
"There is. But we're not doing anything about it until it's professionally appropriate."
Ditch studied me for a long moment. Then: "You look like you mean that."
"I do. I learned that lesson."
He nodded. "Okay then. But we still need to talk about the case file inconsistencies Caroline found. Because if someone is still hunting you, we need to know."
"Show me what we're working with."
As Ditch outlined the investigation plan, I felt something settle inside me. Purpose. Direction. The knowledge that I was surrounded by people who had my back. And somewhere in the distance, a future that didn't look like just surviving.
It looked like living.