"It's a fact." Her thumb ran along the last piece of tape. "Lucky for you I know someone."
"That so." I turned on the chair to look at her. "Anyone I've met?"
Whitley poured two mugs and set mine on the table and looked at the mantle from across the kitchen.
"Tell me about her," she said.
I picked up the mug. "Gran was the constant. My parents left when I was young, both of them, different reasons, same result. She took me in when I was five." I looked at the photo. "She died the week before I shipped out."
Whitley was quiet.
"Four years in the service. Came back and there was nothing here. No one." I kept my voice even; I'd had enough time to get there. "Brim found me in a bar in Kerrville about six weeks after discharge. Bought me a drink and sat three hours without saying one word about any of it. Then he asked if I knew how to ride."
"That's all it took?"
"He's a man of efficient questions." The corner of my mouth went up.
"The club gave me structure. Brotherhood. But a club isn't a person." I set my coffee down. "I've spent my whole life showing up for people. The one who handles it, keeps everybody moving,makes sure the thing gets done. Did it growing up, do it for the club." I looked at her. "Nobody's ever done it for me."
Heat moved through my chest and settled in behind my sternum. I left it there.
Whitley set her cup on the counter.
"I've spent most of my adult life making sure I didn't need anyone to stay," she said. Flat and clear, no armor in it. "If you don't need it, it can't hurt when they don't."
"I know it now." I held her gaze. "I was going to let you drive straight back to Houston this morning. Before I came and found you, I had the whole argument built: long weekend, you'd been through enough, nothing stopping you. Ready to hand it to you." A beat. "Couldn't make myself say it."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then Whitley crossed the kitchen.
She put her hands flat on my chest and looked up at me and kissed me. I gave it one beat—and then I wrapped around her and kissed her back.
She pulled back just enough to see my face.
"Those eggs of yours," she said.
"Not hungry for eggs right now."
The corner of her mouth went up. She took my hand.
My room was at the end of the hall. Spare and clean, a bed that had only ever been mine. Whitley went to the edge of it and turned around, and I came to her and waited.
She pulled my shirt over my head. Ran both hands flat across my chest, slow and certain, and her eyes followed her hands: the memorial ink at my right pectoral, the full left sleeve going dark toward the wrist in the morning light. She was looking at me the way she looked at everything she was working through.
"I've been fitting pieces together this whole time," she said.
"You've got the picture?"
"I'm getting there." She kissed me, slower this time, and I let her run it.
I got her shirt off. Unhooked her bra and set it aside. Looked at her, the early light across her skin, those hazel eyes direct on mine, the faint scatter of freckles at the bridge of her nose. I'd had my hands on her twice already and it still landed somewhere past my ribs every time.
"You're staring," she said.
"Every chance I can get."
She pushed me back to sit on the edge of the bed, reached for my jeans, and I lifted to help her get them off. Then she went to her knees and looked up at me from the floor, and I exhaled hard and clean.
