8. Whitney
WHITNEY
“You have a visitor.”
I glance up from my Bible and smile at Melissa. It’s amazing seeing her out of her room, but I know the grief will stick around for years to come. By all accounts, she was very loved by her parents, so her situation is sadder than most who come to Sacred Haven.
“Thank you,” I say, rising to my feet and walking to the door. “Why don’t you see if you can find Sister Mary Jane? I think I heard her say something about baking cookies today.”
Her eyes light up briefly, but she shutters her expression as if being happy is wrong. My heart breaks for the child, and I silently vow to spend some time with her later to see if she’s ready to open up about anything.
“On second thought, do you want to come with me?” I ask when she doesn’t move. “I think we could use someone as smart as you to help us.”
Melissa nods, and I reach out to hold her hand. Tentatively, she places her palm in mine, and we walk through the hallways to the office in silence.
Before I step into the room, I take a deep breath. I know it’s Quake on the other side of the door, and the past week has done nothing to cure my… curiosity.
I turn the knob and push the door open.
“I don’t have much fuc—” Quake slams his mouth shut when Melissa steps in behind me. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were bringing a friend.”
His obvious discomfort amuses me. The last time he was here, he made it abundantly clear that he isn’t inclined to change his language just because I’m a nun. I guess he doesn’t have the same problem doing it for children.
“This is Melissa,” I tell him, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Melissa, this is Mr…” He glares at me. “Quake. This is Quake.”
He watches her for a few seconds, and then his expression softens. Crouching down in front of her, he smiles.
“It’s nice to meet you, Melissa,” he says quietly.
Bless her, she studies him as he did her before tilting her head back to look at me. “I think you’re right. It’s a good thing I’m here because he doesn’t look very smart.”
I cough to cover up my mirth while Quake doesn’t bother. He throws his head back and laughs.
“I think what she’s trying to say is that I asked her to help us because she’s so smart,” I say, my lips quivering from trying to remain composed.
“Nah.” Quake ruffles her hair as he stands. “She was very polite about it, but she meant that I look stupid.” He smiles at her reassuringly. “And you’re right. I do look dumb to some people, but I promise, I’m not.”
I glance at her, and she screws up her face in consternation. “I’m sorry. My mom always tells me to think before I speak. I forgot.”
As if her words are just registering, Melissa promptly bursts into tears. I’m taken aback, but not Quake. He quickly kneels back down and rests a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay, honey,” he says, his tone soothing. “You cry all you want.”
Thoughts of her mom seem to have opened the floodgates. One minute, she’s trying to be brave, and the next, her tears are uncontrollable.
“I f-forgot,” Melissa sobs. “I f-f-forgot she’s d-dead.”
Quake spares me a quick glance before focusing entirely on her. “I bet she’s watching over you, and you know what?”
“W-what?”
“I imagine she’s not mad that you said what’s on your mind. I’m guessing she’s pretty proud of you for that.”
Who is this man?
“What about m-my d-dad?” she hiccups.
“Your dad, too,” Quake assures her.
“I miss them. And Stella.”
At the mention of her dog, my heart bleeds. I’ve spoken to a few of the shelters, as well as the police, and no one has seen Stella. Sister Mary Jane and I even put up fliers near the area of the accident, but we haven’t heard anything.
I quickly and quietly relay this information to Quake as he hugs Melissa.
“What kind of dog is Stella?” he asks her once her sobs slow and she steps out of his embrace.
Melissa immediately launches into a description of floppy ears, white paws with nails she painted pink, and a matching pink collar covered with tiny cherries. By the time she’s finished, her eyes are a little clearer, and the tears have dried up.
“She sounds like a good dog.”
“She’s the best.”
Quake nods solemnly as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “Do you have a picture of her?”
Melissa glances at me, and I nod. “Yes,” I reply, grabbing the folder from the filing cabinet that has all of Melissa’s information in it, as well as copies of the flyer for Stella.
I hand him a flyer, and he grins. “She really has pink nails,” he says with a chuckle.
“I told you,” she says. “She even lets me dress her up for tea parties.” Her face falls. “Or… she used to.”
“I’ll tell ya what,” Quake begins and snaps a picture of the flyer with his cell. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find her.”
Just like they did when I told her the same thing, Melissa’s eyes light up. Unfortunately, I haven’t been successful in my efforts, and she knows it.
“But you don’t even know Stella.”
“Nope.”
“Then how are you going to find her? Sister Emiliani and Sister Mary Jane couldn’t even do it, and they have God on their side.”
He chuckles. “I know a lot of people.”
“As much as God?” she asks, awe in her tone.
I nearly laugh, and Quake chuckles. “Ya know what? I think God and I know different people so maybe that’ll work to my advantage.”
Melissa seems impressed by this and nods. “Okay.”
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he stands. “Well, now that we have that all sorted, we should probably work on our fundraising stuff.”
“We should,” I agree. “Melissa, are you sure you don’t want to go see if Sister Mary Jane needs help with cookies?”
“I am kinda hungry,” she admits. “Are you sure you don’t need me?”
“I think we’ll manage,” Quake replies before I have a chance to.
With his assurance, she practically runs out of the office, and silence surrounds us. Quake returns his phone to his pocket, and I look everywhere but at him. Finally, he clears his throat.
“I hope I didn’t overstep,” he says.
“Overstep?”
“Yeah, ya know, saying I’ll try to find the dog.” He levels his gaze on mine. “I meant it. I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you.”
“It probably won’t amount to shit, but it’s worth a shot, right?”
Ah, no more acting like he’s civilized.
“Yes, it’s worth a shot.”
I’m the first to break eye contact, and I move to the desk where I left the folder we started last time he was here.
“Now, since you drove all the way here, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Quake’s lips twitch. “There she is.”
I glance around the room. “Who?”
“The bossy nun.”
“I am not bossy,” I retort.
“Yeah, Sister, you are.”
My stomach clenches at his words, and despite my best effort not to, I find myself analyzing why I don’t like it when he calls me ‘Sister’.
Moving to the chair behind the desk, I sit. “You can, um…” I lick my lips. “You can call me Whitney.”
What are you doing?!
His eyes widen for a split-second before he masks his surprise. “Whitney… I like it. It suits you.”
“I’d hope so since it’s the name I was given at birth,” I quip, suddenly nervous. I open the folder and pull out our list from last time. “Now, we really need to focus. Your donation last time was wonderful,” I say, referring to the thousand dollars he tossed on the floor. “But it won’t last long.”
“Wait, there’s still some of that money left?”
I lift my head. “Of course. We’re frugal, Quake. We know how to stretch a dollar. What we don’t know how to do is get to the point where we don’t have to stretch it out of sheer panic.”
His expression grows serious. “Then we should get to work.”
The next forty-five minutes pass in a blur. I don’t know what I expected of this biker: abject disinterest, at worst, and polite participation, at best maybe. What I do know is with every minute that goes by, he surprises me.
Quake is a man who gives himself fully to whatever task is in front of him. Whether it’s comforting a hurting child, promising to find a dog, or planning a way for Sacred Haven to operate in the black, he throws himself into it like he’s solely responsible.
“What about a community carnival?” he suggests.
“A carnival?”
“Yeah. Families come, local businesses can sponsor booths, kids get activities, and best of all… all proceeds go to Sacred Haven.” He leans forward as if leaning into the idea itself. “We can get food trucks, bouncy houses, and the club can give motorcycle rides to the kids.”
“We don’t have the space for something like that.”
“What about the field on the west side of the property? It’s fucking massive.”
I heave a sigh. “It is large,” I concede. “But it floods when it rains and then takes days to dry out. What if it rains in the weeks and days leading up to the event?”
“Then we rent equipment to get the water pumped out and flooring to cover the mud.”
A snort escapes me. “With what money?”
He glares at me. “I didn’t take you for a quitter.”
I glare right back, irritated by his assessment. “I don’t quit.”
“Then you better get to writing this shit down because this is the best idea we’ve come up with.”
“And the most childish,” I mutter.
“The most fun,” he corrects, causing me to smile.
We spend the next hour making a to-do list for the carnival we’ve apparently already decided we’re having. Several times during our conversation, I catch him looking at me, and each time, my stomach flutters.
His looks are casual. His attention isn’t accidental. It’s as if he’s really looking at me, Whitney, not Sister Emiliani, the nun he’s been forced to work with. I try to convince myself I’m imagining things, but by the fifth such look, my cheeks are warm, and I have no doubt very red.
Feigning extreme interest in our projected budget, I focus all my attention on the papers in front of me. I don’t know how long I pretend to read and review the numbers, but it must be a while because Quake taps the paper with a pen.
“Earth to Whitney.”
I blink as I glance up. “What?”
His laughter rumbles through the room. “You’ve been staring at that blank page for five damn minutes.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yeah, you have,” he counters.
“I was thinking.”
“Didn’t your mama ever tell you that’s dangerous?”
The question is meant to be playful, I’m sure, but it has the opposite effect. All of my mental walls fall into place, and I straighten in my chair.
“My mom didn’t teach me much of anything other than how not to be a parent,” I say quietly.
“Oh, uh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Let’s just get back to work, okay?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. If anything, he puts more effort into planning than before. For every potential problem I identify, Quake is quick to verbalize at least three solutions, and by the time we’re done, we have many of the details sorted.
He’s infuriating and… impressive.
“This might actually work,” I say, leaning back and stretching my arms above my head.
“Of course, it’ll work,” he states, his words certain.
I eye him skeptically. “Have you ever actually pulled something like this off because you seem very confident.”
“No, I haven’t,” he admits. “But yes, I am confident.”
“Why?”
He hesitates so long I start to think he’s not going to answer, but then he shrugs. “Because the kids matter.”
It’s a simple statement of fact that brings to mind when he told me that he’s a biker and I’m a nun and those are just facts. This man is genuine in a way I haven’t seen since Ryan.
The tattoos, the rough edges, the cursing, the leather and denim, the faint scars across his skin… those were the things I thought would make the man.
I was wrong.
His actions define him. His interest defines him. The way he’s spent all day trying to make the lives of kids he doesn’t know better defines him.
And that makes him dangerous in a way that shouldn’t even cross a nun’s mind.
I shuffle the scattered papers that encompass our planning session, if for no other reason than to give myself something to do. Once it’s all neat and tidy, I push a stack of pages toward him as we agreed to divide the workload.
Then, I lift my head.
Our eyes meet, and the silence is deafening. The look he’s giving me is impossible to misunderstand, even for me. It’s not inappropriate or even bold. It’s… warm, interested, and it sends my pulse skittering in a way I do not appreciate.
Quake abruptly stands, so I follow suit.
“Well,” I say.
“Well,” he repeats.
I clear my throat. “I suppose we should start reaching out to potential sponsors, local businesses, and anyone el—”
“I’ll get on it as soon as I leave.”
I smile. “Of course, you will.”
He gathers up his lists and heads toward the door. “Oh, Whitney?”
I whirl around. “Yes?”
“Don’t worry about finding volunteers,” he says, his expression serious. “The club will handle that.”
“The club?”
“Yeah. I know you might not believe me, but we do have a lot of connections in the community.” I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand to stop me.
“I promise that there will be no inappropriate or illegal activity. We’re one percenters, not monsters.
Shit, Zombie will have his daughter there, so trust me when I say, that carnival will be the safest place on the planet. ”
Zombie? One percenters?
Rather than voice the questions plaguing me, I say, “Thank you, Quake.”
He lingers in the doorway a moment longer than necessary before nodding. “No problem, Sister.”
Once he’s gone, I slump into the chair and exhale.
Dear God, what am I getting myself into?