Page 100 of Emmy's Ride

A slow blink, her eyes finally shifting toward me. “About what?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “The club. I just had church with the guys. We voted on something big.”

That got her attention. She turned slightly, brow furrowing. “Big how?”

I met her gaze head-on. “We’re done with the illegal shit. No more gun runs, no more shady deals. We’re going legit.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time in days, I saw something other than pain in her eyes. “You’re serious?”

I nodded. “Dead serious. We’re gonna be working with the cops in a way that lets us keep our freedom but also makes sure we’re using our skills for something that actually matters.Helping kids in schools, taking jobs that might fall into the gray area but are still legal.”

She looked away, back out into the dark. “And what about The Ghost?”

My jaw tightened. “He’s still out there. But we’re gonna find out why he’s after us, and when we do, I’ll end this.”

A beat of silence stretched between us before she whispered, “And me?”

“What about you, Emmy?”

She turned to face me fully. “What do I do? How do I move forward from this? I thought I knew who I was, but now…” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. “Now I don’t know anything.”

I reached out, my fingers grazing her arm before settling on her wrist. “You’re still you. What happened to you doesn’t change that.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” My grip on her wrist tightened just enough to make her look at me. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel you’re drowning in your own head? To think that what’s been done to you, or what you’ve done, defines you? I’ve been there, Emmy. And I’ll be damned if I let you stay there.”

Her lip trembled, and for a second, I thought she might push me away again. But then she exhaled, shaky and unsure, and whispered, “I’m trying. I think I’m past the worst and then something triggers a memory, and I slip backward.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.” I lifted her hand, pressing it against my chest, right over my heart. “I’m right here.”

She stared at our joined hands, then at me, as if searching for something—maybe a reason to believe me. Maybe a reason to run. But after a long moment, she simply nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

I wiped it away, then leaned in, pressing my forehead to hers. “We’ll figure this out together.

The tiniest bit of hope bloomed in my heart, and I felt like maybe—just maybe—we actually would.

Emmy

I sat stiffly on the overstuffed couch in Dr. Lorraine Foster’s office, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles turned white. The room was designed to be calming—soft beige walls, a warm glow from a floor lamp in the corner, and a faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. But nothing about this felt calming.

I felt like an imposter sitting here. I was the one who helped people process their trauma, who guided victims toward healing. And yet here I was, completely lost in my own pain.

Dr. Foster sat across from me in a leather chair, her expression kind but neutral. “You’ve been quiet since you walked in, Emmy. We don’t have to rush into anything, but I’d like to help you.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. I had no idea where to begin. How did I put into words everything I was feeling when I couldn’t even make sense of it myself?

“I—” I stopped, staring at a crack in the hardwood floor. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

“There’s no ‘supposed to’ here. This is your space. You can say whatever you need to.”

I let out a breath. “I feel… wrong.”

Dr. Foster didn’t flinch, didn’t react. She simply waited, giving me room to gather my thoughts.

“I’ve spent years helping victims of abuse and trauma,” I continued. “I know what I should say to myself. I know the steps to take to get better. But I—I can’t do it. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without feeling sick.”

“Can we explore this more?” Dr. Foster prompted gently.

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