Page 32 of Falcon’s Forever

I turn to face him. “Go ahead.”

Zip’s forehead creases. “Go ahead with what?”

“Say whatever you’ve been holding in since I rode in,” I tell him.

His jaw works before he finally speaks. “You had one job this afternoon. Oversee the supply meet. That’s it.”

“I know,” I admit.

"No, Falcon, you don't, because knowing means you show up. You keep saying you're handling your shit. You're not. You're handling your guilt and making the rest of us handle everything else." He gestures around the garage. "Vulture's covered your meetings. Sterling's covered your intel. I've covered two runs. Ice Pick's covered security. Now a prospect gets hurt because we had to shuffle positions when you disappeared."

"I didn't know the time changed." I know it’s a pathetic excuse.

"You didn't know because nobody could reach you." Zip is right, and I hate it.

"We get that you're hurting," he says, quieter now. "Cara came back from hell and your head's upside down. Nobody expects you to walk around smiling like it's fine. But you don't get to burn this club down with you."

“I’m not trying to,” I tell Zip.

“I know.” His gaze drops to the VP patch on my cut. “That’s the only reason we’re still having this conversation instead of Vulture taking your patch.”

I follow his gaze without meaning to.

Zip pushes away from the workbench. “I don’t want your job.”

“I never said you did,” I reply.

“Then stop making everybody else do it,” he fires back.

Behind us, Knox cuts the final stitch in Digger’s forehead and leans away to inspect his work. “Done. He’s staying here tonight, and somebody needs to wake him every few hours.”

“I’ll do it,” I offer before Zip can.

Knox strips off his gloves. “Every two hours for the first six. If he’s fine after that, move to every four.”

“Done,” I confirm.

Vulture walks into the garage before anyone can break the tension properly. One sweep of his gaze takes in Digger’s stitched forehead, Rook’s scraped hands, Zip’s expression, and me.

“My office,” Vulture orders.

I follow him without argument.

This time, there’s no lecture. Vulture shuts the door, sits behind his desk, and waits until I take the chair opposite him.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I fucked up,” I admit. “I left for a ride and lost signal. The supply time changed, Zip covered for me, and the SUV showed up. Digger got hurt.”

Vulture’s expression doesn’t change. “Why did you leave?”

There are a dozen answers I could give him. I needed air. I needed to clear my head. I needed twenty minutes. They’re all versions of the same lie, and I owe him the truth.

“Because I wanted to run,” I confess.

Vulture leans back in his chair. “From what?”

“Pick something,” I mutter.