Chapter Eight #2
I could have brushed it off. Made a joke.
Told him that was private. Instead, because apparently head injuries made me emotionally reckless, I answered.
“We were close because we had to be. Foster care kind of does that. You learn pretty fast who’s safe, and most of the time, it was just us.
” I rubbed my thumb over a loose thread on the blanket.
“But when you grow up surviving together, sometimes you don’t know how to stop surviving long enough to actually be sisters. ”
Push didn’t say anything. That made it easier to keep talking.
“She’d disappear for a few days sometimes when she got overwhelmed.
Not like this, though. Never this long. Never without checking in eventually.
” My voice thinned, and I hated it. “Even when she was mad at me, she’d send something.
A middle finger emoji. A picture of ugly shoes.
A text that just said alive, stop being dramatic. ”
“Ugly shoes?”
“She had strong opinions about footwear.”
Push’s mouth twitched. “Sounds serious.”
“Oh, very. Erin once ended a second date because a guy wore toe shoes.”
“Toe shoes?”
“You know, those weird shoes with separate toes.”
His face shifted slightly. “That’s fair.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “She said if a man was willing to make that choice in public, there was no telling what kind of chaos he’d bring into a relationship.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
Not was.
Is.
I held onto that.
I looked back at the laptop even though it was closed. “I need to find her.”
“We will.”
There it was again.
We.
I blew out a breath and tried to lighten the moment before it swallowed me whole. “You know, for a guy who looks like he communicates mostly through grunts and intimidation, you’re not terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Being supportive.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m putting it in my notes.”
“You keeping notes on me?”
I glared at him. “I’m a private investigator stuck in a biker clubhouse. Of course I’m keeping mental notes.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How many more dead bodies I find you standing over.”
He stared at me for a beat. Then shook his head, but I saw the almost-smile before he turned away. “Pain in the ass,” he muttered.
“Emotionally useful caveman,” I shot back.
He looked over his shoulder. “That better not be my official note.”
“It’s a working title.”
For a second, the room felt almost normal.
Almost easy.
The laptop sat between us with murder footage trapped inside it, my sister was still missing, and I was technically being “strongly discouraged” from leaving a motorcycle clubhouse, but somehow I was sitting in bed teasing Push like we’d known each other longer than a day.
That was probably not healthy. Then again, nothing about my life had been healthy lately.
A yawn hit me hard and suddenly, wide enough that my jaw popped.
Push’s expression immediately shifted. “You’re done.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You almost unhinged your jaw.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Same thing, but bossier.”
He moved to the edge of the bed and picked up the laptop. “No more footage tonight.”
I wanted to argue, I really did, but the second he took the laptop away, my body seemed to realize the work was done and went boneless against the pillows. “Fine,” I muttered. “But only because my brain feels like oatmeal.”
“Get some sleep.”
I watched him set the laptop on the dresser.
He moved around the room quietly, checking the window lock without making a big deal about it, glancing toward the bathroom, then back at me.
Protective without announcing it. That was becoming his thing. It was annoying how much I noticed.
He stopped at the doorway and looked back. “I’m right next door,” he said. “You need anything, holler.”
“I remember.”
His hand rested on the doorframe. “Door’s always open.”
Something about that settled low in my chest.
Not the words exactly, but the way he said them. Like he meant more than the room. Like if I needed water or help or someone to stand between me and the rest of the world, all I had to do was make a sound.
I nodded. “Okay.”
Push held my gaze for another second, then stepped into the hall. The room felt bigger the second he left. Which was ridiculous because he was literally right next door. I could probably throw a pillow at the wall and hit him by sound alone.
Still, I missed him.
The realization hit fast and sharp.
I missed him.
Oh, that was inconvenient.
I stared at the doorway for a second longer before forcing myself out of bed.
Changing clothes with stitches in the back of my head was not graceful.
I managed to swap into an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts from my duffle without falling over, which felt like a win worthy of applause.
Unfortunately, no one was there to clap, which was probably for the best because I didn’t need that level of humiliation in my life.
I brushed my teeth, washed my face again, and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Still rough.
Less dumpster chic. Maybe motel-adjacent chaos.
When I walked back into the bedroom, the hallway light spilled softly through the open door. I reached for the knob to close it, then stopped. For a long moment, I stood there with my fingers curled around the edge of the door, listening to the muted sounds of the clubhouse.
Voices somewhere far off. Boots moving.
And next door, quiet.
Push.
I should close the door. Privacy was good. Boundaries were healthy.
I was an independent woman with a missing sister, a concussion, and an active murder investigation to think about. I had plenty going on without examining why leaving a door cracked open made me feel safer.
Still, I didn’t close it. I pulled it until only a few inches remained open enough that if I needed Push, he’d hear me. Enough that I could tell myself it was practical.
I turned off the lamp and climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chest as I stared at the narrow strip of hallway light cutting across the floor.
I wasn’t going to think too hard about what it meant.
I had enough to worry about with murdered bodies, a missing sister, and a mystery man in a gray hoodie.
Push being right next door didn’t mean anything.
Probably.