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My shoulders jerk forward, my eyes blinking too fast as I catapult back to the present.
“Evangeline? Talk to me. Are you okay?” His voice is loud, a harsh difference to how it felt against my skin all those years ago. Like whispered gravel.
I glance at him and shake my head a little to dislodge the dreamlike memory still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
“I'm sorry. I'm fine, really. I must've fallen asleep,” I assure him.
“You were whimpering.” His hand squeezes my thigh gently, his gaze switching from the two-lane highway to me and back again. It's too dark for him to see my expression, these county roads aren't the most well-lit.
I settle my hand on the back of his and squeeze softly, ignoring the warmth in my cheeks. “Sorry. I must've been dreaming.”
He dips his chin and steals another glance at me. Flipping his hand over, he threads our fingers together. “It's alright. I got you. Just rest. We'll be home soon, yeah?”
Home.
Four letters for a word that feels as big as a continent. I used to think Nana Jo was my home and Rosewood was just a place. But looking at his profile, maybe it isn't a person or a place.
Maybe it's just a feeling.
And Lincoln St. James is starting to feel like home.
3
BANE
I easemy foot onto the brake as I turn into the Reaper compound. Anxiety lashes my chest, not deep enough to capture my breath. Just hard enough to get my attention, my body's fucked-up Pavlovian response to seeing the small security booth at the gate.
The anxiety dissipates when it's only Rocker and he's alone. I roll down my window and toss my hand up in a wave, and he opens the gate just wide enough for me to drive Evangeline's car through. If she wasn't sleeping right next to me, I'd have half a mind to get another Reaper on the gate with him. Usually one brother is fine, but we're venturing into uncharted waters in the Diamond.
We have no idea who's behind the robbery on Evangeline tonight or if it was a message meant for us.
But unlike some of the other clubs, I don't make a move without all the information. That's how you start a war. And we're trying to keep the peace we all sacrificed so much to broker.
I bypass the garages, taking the two-lane road that curves around the side of the compound and connects the front retail half of the property to the residential half in the back.
I drive slowly, resisting the urge to shift in my seat again. Her car is just that—a car. It's not a spacious SUV or even a luxury truck. It's perfect for her and it's doable for me. For now. Would I love to see her in a crossover? Absolutely. But for now, this works.
We drive past Aunt Dixie's house, and it's lit up like a Christmas tree. I swear that woman never sleeps, even in times of peace. I heard her once blame it on insomnia, but I think it has more to do with this life. Thirty years in the Reapers will fuck you up in more ways than one. My parents are prime examples of exactly how far you can get fucked.
Rumors of how kind and loving Ma was before she met my dad and submerged herself into Reaper life still float around, usually when Dad's a few drinks in.
But I always call bullshit.
Quietly, of course. I'm not trying to disrespect my old man like that. He may not wear the VP patch anymore, but he's an old school Reaper. Been around since the beginning. And when Uncle Ray died, Dad stepped back. Said he didn't want to lead without his brother. Moved out of his house and into one of the deluxe rooms inside the clubhouse.
So, I moved out of the clubhouse and into my childhood home. Silas once asked me why I didn't raze my parents' house to the ground and build something of my own. I don't remember exactly what I told him, but I know it was bullshit whatever it was. The truth is far more complicated.
I don't think I can.
A lot of life happened inside those walls. Some good, mostly bad.
There's some part of me that needs to hold onto those memories. I don't ever want to forget it—I can't let myself. I need the physical reminder every time Ma comes knocking. Not literally at least, not since she was banned from Reaper property a decade ago. Every ten months or so, she tries to weasel her way back in, but one of the guys usually catches her at the gate.
I cringe, my ears warming with the vivid memory of her trying to seduce Monty, one of the new recruits, at the gate last year. Hair tangled, lipstick smeared, and clothes too suggestive for any son to ever see their mother in. She was a mess—more of a mess than usual.
Dad never sees her, not even when she makes a scene. Which means that I have to. It's been my unspoken job since I was old enough to understand the dynamic between my parents. And just how fucking dysfunctional they really are.
So, I did what I always do. I gave her cash, called her a ride, and sent her on her way. Only for her to show up six months later, and we did the whole fucked-up dance all over again.
