Chapter 15
Loco
She didn’t answer.
At first, I told myself she was busy. DC was always busy. The kind of busy that swallowed whole days and spit them back out after midnight. I left a voicemail that night, kept it light, kept it short. Just told her I hoped she got home safe.
No return call. The next morning, I sent a text. You okay?
Delivered. Read.
Nothing.
That one hit harder than I expected. Did I feel like some lovesick fool for reaching out incessantly?
A little bit, yes, but I told myself it was just concern.
I was worried, friends worried after all and we weren’t anything more than that.
Even though I knew friends didn’t still feel the ghosts of her kiss.
I stood in my kitchen staring at the phone like it had personally betrayed me. Fifty-two years old, decorated military career that only ended due to a back injury, I survived things that put men in the ground, and here I was rattled by three dots that never appeared.
I tried again the next day. Not needy. Never needy. Just present. And I wasn’t about to let her forget me or brush me off.
I’m not trying to complicate things. Just want to hear your voice.
Silence.
That was when it started to hurt.
Not sharp. Not dramatic.
Dull. Persistent. The kind of ache that sat in your chest and reminded you of itself when things got quiet. Which, unfortunately, my life had become.
I kept replaying her walking out of that hotel room. Calm. Controlled. Like she hadn’t just undone me with one night and a morning I wanted to stretch into forever.
We aren’t this. She said it like a verdict. Such finality.
I went back to routine because that’s what men like me did when something got under our skin. I rode, miles under my bike. I lifted weights telling myself it helped my back ache. I handled club business. I answered calls that mattered and ignored the ones that didn’t.
But everything reminded me of her.
DC came up on the news—some hearing, some protest—and my attention snagged. I found myself wondering if she was in one of those buildings, sharp as ever, eyes narrowed, spine straight, taking up space like she belonged there. Because she always had.
By the fourth day of unanswered calls, I stopped pretending this was casual.
I missed her. It was the damn truth.
Missed the way she looked at me like she could see every version of man I had ever been and wasn’t afraid of any of them. Missed the way she didn’t flinch at my rough edges—or try to sand them down.
Missed waking up with her warm and solid beside me, like something in my life finally made sense.
I was at the clubhouse when Tower finally said something. We were in the lobby area of the old bank. The part that had been converted into a common area with a bar.
It was late afternoon, the kind of hour where the light slants low and makes everything look like it’s holding its breath. I sat at the bar with a beer I hadn’t touched, phone face down beside my hand like a loaded weapon.
Tower leaned against the counter across from me, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He had known me long enough not to bullshit. “You gonna drink that or just stare holes through it?” he asked.
I picked up the bottle, took a swallow I didn’t taste, set it back down.
He watched me for a beat. Then, “You look like hell.”
“Appreciate that,” I muttered. “Anyone ever tell you how observant you are?”
He snorted. “Don’t get smart. You’ve been pacing like a caged animal for days.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. He already knew.
He nodded at my phone. “That her?” Because yes I had a picture of her on my screen.
A picture I took of her face pressed against my chest while she slept with a faint smile on her lips.
I had never had anyone on my phone screen before.
I had never wanted to look at anyone more than once to save their picture.
I exhaled through my nose. “She’s not answering.”
Tower’s mouth twitched. “Sounds like she’s answering just fine. You’re not accepting her response, brother.”
That got my attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he stated calmly, “you got your answer. You just don’t like it.”
I bristled. “You don’t know her.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I know you. And I know that look. You don’t chase things unless they matter. And in all these years, Loco, you’ve never chased a woman.”
I stared into the amber of my beer. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“Exactly,” Tower shot back. “Which is why I don’t get what the hell you’re doing.”
I looked up. “Enlighten me.”
He leaned forward, voice lower. “You had a taste of something you wanted that much is obvious. Something real. And instead of figuring out how to make it work, you’re sitting here waiting for it to come back to you.
Brother, knew your ass was crazy. Didn’t know you were fuckin’ psychotic.
Because only someone with a mental problem would have someone that beautiful in their bed, obviously crave another taste, and still not have the balls to go after that sweet cunt. ”
“That’s not—”
“Bullshit,” he cut in throwing a hand up to silence me. “You think she shut you down because she doesn’t feel anything? Or because she doesn’t want to be an afterthought in your chaos?”
That one landed square in the ribs.
I didn’t answer.
Tower straightened. “You said it yourself. We’re not young. There’s no extra time laying around to waste pretending you don’t want what you want.”
I scoffed quietly. “Her life’s in DC. Mine isn’t.”
“So?” he questioned me. “Then you find a way. Or you decide she’s not worth the trouble and stop torturing yourself.”
He paused, eyes narrowing. “But don’t lie to yourself. That woman got under your skin. And if you let this go without a real fight, you’re gonna regret it.”
He got up from the bar stool and walked away, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke.
They plagued me. For eight more days.
Every mile I rode, every night I lay awake staring at the ceiling, every time my phone buzzed and it wasn’t her—I heard Tower’s voice. You had a taste of something you wanted.
He was right.
I had sworn I’d never go back to that city. Never put myself in a position where the ghosts could find me again. DC held too many memories. Too much blood. Too many versions of me I’d buried on purpose.
But it also held her. And apparently that was a temptation I couldn’t resist.
A few days later, I woke before dawn with the decision already made. No debate. No overthinking. Pure adrenaline, need, and reaction.
I pulled on my jeans, my boots, my jacket. Checked the bike like I always did—muscle memory, steady hands. The engine roared to life under me, familiar and grounding.
As I rolled out onto the open road, the sky just starting to lighten, I felt something shift in my chest.
Fear, maybe.
Hope, definitely.
I didn’t know if she would answer the door. I didn’t know if she would tell me to leave. I didn’t know if I was about to make a fool of myself at an age where men liked to pretend they were past that. I didn’t know much of anything. But I knew one thing with absolute clarity.
For her, it was worth it.
Worth the miles. Worth the risk. Worth breaking a promise I had made to myself a long time ago.
The city rose on the horizon hours later, steel and stone and memories.
I didn’t slow.
Not this time.
Her building looked different in daylight.
Cleaner. Sharper. Less forgiving.
I killed the engine at the curb and sat there for a second longer than necessary, hands resting on the grips, helmet still on. The city hummed around me—sirens somewhere far off, traffic breathing in fits and starts, the low, constant pulse of a place that never truly slept.
I swore I would never come back here.
I pulled off the helmet.
That vow felt flimsy now. Like something made in a different lifetime by a man who hadn’t known yet what it felt like to wake up empty and realize the only thing he could still taste was her mouth.
I took the stairs two at a time. Didn’t give myself time to think, to back out. Her door stared back at me like it already knew why I was there.
I knocked.
Once.
Firm.
Footsteps. A pause. Locks disengaging. Then the door opened.
Shock flared across her face so fast she didn’t have time to hide it.
“Dante?” she breathed.
That was all I needed. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me without breaking eye contact. The city vanished with the click of the lock. The air between us went tight, electric.
I didn’t speak. I crossed the space in two strides, cupped her face, and kissed her.
Hard.
Not desperate—but determined. Like a man planting a flag and daring the world to argue. She gasped against me, hands coming up automatically, fingers fisting in my jacket like her body remembered before her brain could catch up.
I felt her melt.
That was the moment I knew I hadn’t imagined it. That this wasn’t some one-night illusion I had built in my head to survive getting older alone.
She wanted this too.
I broke the kiss just long enough to press my forehead to hers, breath rough, voice low. “I had one taste of something good,” I muttered, the truth tumbling out of me. “And I’m not letting it go.”
Then I kissed her again. She didn’t stop me. Didn’t hesitate.
Her mouth opened to mine like it had been waiting. She kissed me back with heat and hunger that knocked the breath out of my lungs, her hands sliding under my jacket, palms flat against my back like she needed the contact to ground herself.
We backed into the living room without looking, knocking into the edge of the couch, a chair scraping softly across the floor. Her place was just like her—clean, intentional, nothing wasted. No clutter. No chaos.
Except for us. We were the whole damn storm of crazy.
I pushed her gently but firmly until she was sitting, then standing again, then pressed back against the wall. My hands skimmed her waist, her ribs, memorizing the lines of her through her clothes. Her head tipped back as I kissed down her throat, felt her breath hitch under my mouth.
“Dante,” she whispered my name as a warning this time.
I lifted my head, eyes dark. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t. She pulled me back to her instead. That was all the permission I needed.
The rest of it blurred—not because it wasn’t intense, but because it was.
Heat and movement and the sound of our breathing filling the room.
Clothes discarded in a trail that led nowhere but into each other.
The couch creaked. The wall pressed cool against my back at one point.
Her nails dug into my shoulders like she was holding on to something solid.
There was nothing polite about it.
Nothing careful.
Just two people colliding with years of restraint burning off in seconds. I stayed present, grounded, making sure she felt me there—hands steady, mouth intentional even when the urgency spiked. When she made that soft, broken sound against my shoulder, I swore under my breath and held her tighter.
When it was over, we stayed exactly where we were.
Me on my back on the rug, her sprawled across my chest, skin warm, hair tickling my jaw. My heart thudded hard enough that I was surprised she didn’t comment on it.
I stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, feeling more alive than I had in years.
She shifted first, pushing up onto her elbows, eyes studying my face like she was cataloging damage.
“Well,” she spoke finally, voice light but eyes sharp. “That was a good visit, Dante.”
I felt it coming before she said it. “You should go to your hotel.”
There it was. My dismissal.
I turned my head to look at her fully. “No.”
Her brow creased. “No?”
“No,” I repeated calmly. “I’m staying.”
She sat back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest, naked and still somehow composed. “That wasn’t an invitation to move in or even stay overnight.”
I smiled despite myself. “Didn’t say it was. Don’t remember asking for an invitation.”
“Then—” she began but I cut her off.
“I’m staying with you,” I stated evenly, sitting up, forearms resting on my knees. “Until we figure out what we’re gonna do.”
She stared at me like she didn’t quite trust what she was hearing.
“You don’t get to just decide that.”
“Sure I do. You had a chance to answer my calls and discuss our options. You didn’t answer, so here I am.”
She scoffed. “You’re impossible.”
“Been called worse.”
For a long moment, she just looked at me. I could see the fight in her—the instinct to keep control, to protect her independence like it was a hard-earned medal.
Then, unexpectedly, her mouth curved. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t flashy. But it was real.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she said.
I leaned back on my hands, smirk tugging at my mouth. “Great. ’Cause baby, I don’t know what to do with me either.”
She laughed then soft, surprised, like it had slipped past her defenses. I stood and offered her my hand, pulling her up until we were close enough again to feel the heat between us without touching.
“What I know,” I shared, voice dropping, sincerity threading through every word, “is I’ve lived enough life to know when something is good, you don’t let it slip through your fingers.
” My thumb brushed her jaw, not pushing, not claiming—just there.
“And baby,” I continued quietly, “you’re the best thing I ever had a sample of.
I can only imagine what we could be together. ”
Her eyes searched mine, walls cracking but not falling. Not yet.
That was fine.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Not this time.