Page 53 of Brazen Being It

For the next week, I run drills. I make sure Cambria knows every escape route, every hideaway, every alley to slip into if it goes bad. She listens, never complains. Every night, she crawls into bed beside me, soft and warm. I hold her like I might lose her. Because I know what war does. I know how fast it can end.

The word comes in: Frankie’s nearby, hiding at the Wild Cherry. A bar with a dump of a bed-and-breakfast attached, just outside town. The second I update Rex, he says,Go. End it.

We ride there with fire in our veins, Toon and Axel at my side. The Wild Cherry is neon lights over broken pavement, two dumb guards out front. We take them down quick, quiet.

Inside, chaos erupts—screams, shots, the stink of cheap whiskey and fear. Frankie’s men scramble. One charges at me, knife out. I dodge, slam him down, pistol to his gut. Pull the trigger. No hesitation.

Another tries to run. Toon catches him outside, drops him with a single shot.

Frankie tries to talk, but I don’t care. “We can make a deal?—”

“No,” I say. “You don’t get to talk. You want her life? I want yours.” I raise my gun, aim for center mass. Pull the trigger. He drops.

We torch the place. Every dirty dollar, every lie, every memory. Gone.

When we roll home, I’m blood and smoke and adrenaline. Cambria’s waiting, hands shaking. She runs to me. I catch her.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

She knows what I had to do. I know she’s worth it.

And as I hold her, my arms wrapped around everything I thought I’d never have, I make another promise:

She’ll carry my name. She’ll have my loyalty. And nothing—no man, no war, no ghost—will ever touch her again.

Not while I’m breathing. Not in this life or any other.

Because she’s home. And I’m never letting her go.

THIRTEEN

CAMBRIA

My world has been flipped upside down since the day I was born … it might finally be right.

The minuteLittle Foot rides into the driveway, I feel like I can finally breathe.

For a whole week, I’ve lived with this ache in my chest, something like hope, but sharper, meaner. Every day I’ve pretended to go about my business—folding laundry, wiping down counters, sketching in the sun—but the truth is, I’ve been holding my breath.

Waiting.

Hoping the world wouldn’t fall apart again. That I wouldn’t lose him to the violence that always seems to catch up to people like us.

But now, the rumble of his bike drowns out every doubt. I see him before he even kills the engine, his face streaked with dirt, blood crusting along his collar, his cut torn on one side. There’s a wild, raw exhaustion about him, but also something new. His eyes meet mine and I see it there, finality. The sense of something ended, for real this time. Closure I never thought I’d get.

He’s here.

Alive.

And something in his eyes tells me it’s over.

I don’t wait for him to come to me. I bolt from the porch, the screen door banging behind me, my bare feet slapping the cracked pavement of the drive. There’s a wild freedom in that movement—no caution, no shame. Just a reckless need to reach him, to touch him, to make sure he’s real and not just another trick my frightened mind is playing on me.

He’s barely off the bike when I reach him. I launch myself into his arms, every bit of weight and fear and relief crashing into his solid chest. He catches me, as always, without hesitation. His arms come around me, strong and steady. He smells like gun oil and sweat and something familiar I don’t have a word for—safety, maybe. Home.

He buries his face in my hair, breathing deep, his whole body shuddering once like he’s letting something go.

“It’s done,” he whispers against my ear, voice rough with exhaustion and something close to awe. “Frankie’s gone.”

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