The door closes behind them with a finality I’m not quite ready for. I’m not sure what’s worse in this moment—having notice that somebody I care about might not come back, or having them ripped abruptly from my life as my parents were. Is it better to have time to prepare, or to have such pain thrust upon you without warning?

All I know is that the arms that wrap about my middle and pull me into a warm embrace are the only thing that stops me from falling to the floor where I am and spending the hours it might take for Gunter to come back sobbing into the carpet. Having that support, the care of another, is a first, and fuck, if it isn’t the exact sense of belonging I’ve longed my whole life for.

CROSSROADS

Bronx

The confliction is real, and it crushes me with the weight of indecision like an invisible vice. Gunter needs her, but she needs me more. I keep telling myself that what they have isn’t love. Well, it isn’t for her. But fuck it all, if I don’t recognize a man who’s tied heart and soul to a woman. Working with the thug tonight showed me that Tommy’s right—he has a heart.

Things were so much easier when I completely hated the guy. Now that the lines have grayed, I kind of wonder if Eddie knew what he was doing, throwing us together for the night.

Ryan sighs in my hold, and I squeeze my arms around her tighter, resting my chin on her shoulder. We haven’t moved from the hallway since the others left. She doesn’t seem to want to.

“Tired?” I ask, brushing my nose against her ear.

“Yeah, I am a little.”

I draw in her scent, rubbing my cheek against the side of her head and loving how fucking soft her hair is against my face. “Let me settle you in to bed. You’ll need rest.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Didn’t say you had to. But you can at least close your eyes for a bit.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d rather wait in the living room.” She twists in my hold, wrapping her arms about my waist. My hand finds it way up her back to knot in the hair at her nape, holding her to me while she speaks. “You know, I’ve never seen Gunter cry.”

“I can believe that.”

“Even when his mom left, or when his dad went to jail. Never.”

I rub my fingers in soft circles on the base of her scalp, massaging. “The thought of death is a lot harder to process, darlin’. It’s irreversible. Have an argument with somebody, and you can apologize. Steal, and you can make amends. But death? There’s just no changin’ that.”

“I know.” Of course she does, you moron.

I coax her head from my chest, tipping it back with my hold in her hair. “You want to tell me what you were talkin’ about before? What happened?”

Her eyes glass, and she offers me the weakest fucking smile. “I do, actually. I think it’s time I got this shit off my chest.”

“Come on then, let’s get comfortable.” I tuck her under my arm and lead her toward the living room.

“Do you think Tommy will be okay?” She looks to me as I guide her to a seat, hope all up in those bright blue eyes of hers.

I want to tell her yes, that he’ll walk through that door in a few hours with a fucking big bandage and a story to tell. But I’m not sure. Images from Ty damn near dying on me flash through my mind, and I’m forced to swallow away all the welling emotion just to be able to speak a fucking word. “I don’t know.”

She nods firmly, taking the pain that comes with such uncertainty and tucks it away for later, settling herself into the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. “Don’t be all proper and sit over there away from me. I need you close right now.”

“Whatever you say.” I drop down beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She turns in to me, lying her legs over my lap. Just how it should be.

“I was eleven.” Her eyes fix to some random point on the wall opposite. “I thought because I was in double digits that I was old enough to be treated like an adult, that I was all grown up.” She chuckles bitterly. “Most eleven-year-olds are pretty life smart, but I wasn’t. I mean, shit, I’ve met seven-year-olds who are cutting up the goods for their big brothers or sisters to deal, you know? There are kids out there who have more experience with how shit life can be than I have even now.”

“The world is pretty damn fucked up,” I agree.

“My point is, I should have been able to get on with it. I should have been able to sort my shit out after it happened, but I’d just never seen anything like it.”

I rub her arm a little, trying to offer comfort the way I’ve seen Malice do for Jane “You sure you’re okay to talk about it?” If it fucked her over that bad back then, then how’s she going to deal now?

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need to talk it through with somebody who can see sense in a situation. Gunter’s not exactly a great listener, and Tommy? Well, until tonight the most gruesome thing he’d ever seen was when Gunter broke his arm on his BMX as a kid.” She gives a small chuckle before continuing. “The nuts of it is, a man I’d been raised to call my uncle shot my mom and dad, and then burnt our house to the ground.” Her breathing stills, her arm going rigid under my hold.

I swallow away the profanities ready to spill over, and answer with a simple, “That so?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I don’t know.” Ryan sighs, playing with the creases in the T-shirt I’m wearing absently. “I don’t know why a guy who could love me like a daughter would do that to our family. I’ve tried so damn hard over the last five or so years to find out why, but nobody has the answers.” Her throat bobs against my side as she swallows. “Except Eddie.”

Stroking the hair from her face, I ask her about the one piece to her puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “How can a guy who’s only been in the country for three years know about your past but nobody else does?”

“He found something out from Big Mike before he killed him. Mike used to supply Harris’s club with weed.”

“Who’s Harris?”

“My uncle.”

“Oh, right.”

“He was a member of the Devil’s Breed. That’s all I remember about him; that damn cut he wore all the time—I never knew what the picture on the back represented until a few years ago. I was a kid, you know? It was just a devil on a leather vest to me.”

Devil’s Breed. “You must know about Horse then, right?”

“The old guy who hangs out at the Lion? Yeah, I know about him—know he’s one of them.”

“So . . .?” Why hasn’t she just asked him?

“Harris is dead. There’s no point talking to Horse about it.”

I can see how that puts a dampener on things. “He might still have the answer, though.”

Ryan pulls herself up to sit, looking me square in the eye. “You do know the basic rules of MC, right?”

“I know enough bikers to understand a few, yeah.”

“So you know that members don’t discuss club business with anyone, let alone a woman, and more so a woman who doesn’t belong to the club?”

Of course. How fuckin’ stupid are you, Bronx? “What if I asked him?”

She sighs, as though explaining this to me is physically taxing on her. “He wouldn’t tell you either; you’re not a member.” She pats my leg with a kind of finality. “Eddie’s my only option.”

Right. I rub a hand over my head. There has to be a way around this, to know for sure. King? One of the Saints? Sure, they aren’t the same club, but there’s a kind of brotherhood between bikers that doesn’t exist between a civilian and a patched member. It could work. “What if I told you I know a few guys who might be able to help?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Who?”

“How much you know about MCs outside of the Devil’s Breed?”

Ryan tucks her legs up, leaning an arm on the back of the sofa so she can face me. “I’ve heard a bit about the other clubs around here. Talked to a woman at a party one night that reckoned she was a club whore for a while. Now she had some interesting stories to tell.” Ryan smiles.