2. MYLA #2
Gunner was smiling.
Actually smiling.
“You look happy.”
He followed my gaze. “Was young and stupid.”
“Who’s that?”
“My uncle Ray.”
The answer changed his expression just enough that I noticed.
“This was his house?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to him?”
His gaze stayed on the photograph for a moment before he looked away. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
That was clearly as much as he wanted to give me, so I didn’t push.
Still, the photograph stayed with me.
Until then, Gunner had been the biker patch, the military background and the man who always seemed to know where the nearest exit was.
Now he was also a kid who had once gone fishing with an uncle he loved enough to keep the picture hanging years after the man was gone.
It made him easier to understand.
And somehow more difficult to dismiss.
He found two cans of chili in the kitchen and started heating them while I checked the windows.
“Two exits,” he said behind me. “Bedroom window makes three.”
“You already checked?”
“Always do.”
“Military?”
“Partly.”
“And the rest?”
Gunner met my eyes.
“Life.”
That answer I understood well enough to leave alone.
The chili was awful.
I ate all of it.
Gunner sat opposite me at the table, his attention returning periodically to the dark window even while he ate.
“So what do you do when you’re not shooting people and hiding women in murder houses?”
“Fix guns. Ride. Drink whiskey.”
I smiled into my bowl. “That sounds like somebody built a biker from a checklist.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You’re not.”
The words slipped out before I meant them to.
His eyes lifted.
For one uncomfortable second, neither of us said anything.
I changed direction before I could embarrass myself further.
“You have anyone?”
“What kinda anyone?”
“A woman.”
“No.”
“Ever married?”
He shook his head.
“Kids?”
Another shake.
“Why?”
This time he actually considered the question.
“Ain’t built much of a life that leaves room for somebody else.”
There was no bitterness behind it, and somehow that made the answer feel more honest.
“You ever get lonely?”
His gaze stayed on mine for a long moment.
“Sometimes.”
The word landed quietly between us.
I had expected another joke or a refusal to answer.
Instead, he gave me the truth.
Before I could think too hard about what that did to me, Gunner nodded toward my jacket.
“The drive stays yours.”
My fingers tightened around the spoon.
“For now?”
“For as long as you want it. I could’ve taken it at the clubhouse if that was what I wanted.”
“Because you need me.”
“Yeah.”
No lie.
No attempt to make the Iron Flames sound noble.
“But if I’m keeping you alive, I need enough to know what’s coming.”
I looked down at the bowl before giving him the smallest piece I could.
“Rafe wants the drive, but he wants me too. Even if he gets it back, I know enough from memory to cause problems.”
“How much?”
“Routes, payments, drop sites. Some names.”
“And the Iron Flames?”
“Your routes are in there too. Changes Rafe knew about almost immediately.”
His expression hardened.
“That’s why you said leak.”
I nodded.
Gunner studied me for a moment. “You know more.”
“I heard Rafe speaking to whoever it is once. He called him Ghost.”
That got his full attention.
“You hear the voice?”
“Not properly. I think it was a man, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“What else?”
I hesitated before telling him the part that mattered.
“Rafe trusted him. He checks everything his own men tell him because he assumes they’re either lying or incompetent, but Ghost was different. If Ghost gave him information, Rafe acted on it.”
Gunner leaned back slightly, understanding settling over his face.
“Means Ghost has been right for a long time.”
“Yes.”
“And close enough to us to stay right.”
For months, that knowledge had lived inside my head alone.
Saying it out loud didn’t fix anything, but watching somebody else understand the weight of it made it feel a little less suffocating.
Gunner stood and gathered the bowls.
“That’s enough tonight.”
I frowned. “You’re not going to keep asking?”
“You got more you wanna tell me?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Again, he left the choice with me.
I was beginning to notice that more than I wanted to.
He showed me to a small bedroom at the end of the hall with a faded quilt and an old dresser.
“There’s a shotgun under the bed.”
I looked at him. “Loaded?”
“Sweetheart, an unloaded shotgun’s just an expensive stick.”
When I straightened after checking, he was still leaning against the doorway.
Without the kitchen table between us, I became aware of how much space he took up.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
Mine did the same.
“You scared of me?” he asked.
I thought about lying.
“A little.”
Gunner nodded as if that was the sensible answer. “Good.”
My pulse kicked harder.
“You’re terrible at reassuring women.”
“Told you, sweetheart. Ain’t what I’m trying to do.”
“What are you trying to do?”
His expression turned serious.
“Keep you alive till morning.”
“And after that?”
“We figure out the next one.”
We.
I noticed.
He told me he would sleep on the couch and that if I heard anything during the night, I should stay in the room and let him deal with it.
It was technically an order.
Somehow, it didn’t feel like somebody taking control away from me.
It felt like him offering to stand between me and whatever came through the door.
“Goodnight, Gunner.”
He started down the hall.
“Night, trouble.”
I locked the bedroom door, tucked the flash drive beneath the pillow and put my gun on the nightstand.
For eight months, I had slept with a weapon touching my hand because every room was temporary and every sound outside might mean somebody had finally found me.
Tonight, there was a gruff biker sleeping on a shitty couch between me and the front door, armed enough to start a war and apparently incapable of saying anything comforting without making it sound vaguely threatening.
I still didn’t trust him.
Not really.
But when sleep finally came, the gun stayed on the nightstand.
For tonight, that was close enough.