Page 3 of Carrick
“A cat? Christ, she’s probably one of those crystal-wearing moon girls,” I groaned.
“Please don’t say ‘moon girl’,” Maddy said, entering the room with a laundry basket on her hip. “It makes you sound like a sixty-year-old man who just discovered TikTok.”
“If I were sixty, at least I’d have the benefit of hearing loss to block out your sex life.”
“You’re just jealous because no one wants to hear you moan through the walls,” she tossed back.
“If I ever moan, I’m in pain. Or drunk. Or both.”
“And we still don’t want to hear it,” Sully said, opening the fridge. “Seriously, Maddy. Carrick’s version of pillow talk is just him muttering tactical jargon between grunts.Please secure the perimeter... oh God... suppressing fire...”
“Fuck all of you,” I muttered, dodging a damp towel that Sully whipped in my direction. It missed, barely.
“I swear, you act like we’renotrunning a covert ops Airbnb for traumatized civilians,” Jax said. “Maybe we should get a sign made: ‘Welcome to the Bunker: Breakfast served at six, death threats not included’.”
“I vote we start charging rent,” Sully added. “You break our silence, you owe us rent in cookies.”
“Bellamy better not talk in her sleep, that’s all I’m saying.” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “If I get woken up by someone crying about their chakras or reciting Shakespeare, I’m moving into the woods permanently.”
“Please do,” Maddy said. “You can go live off acorns and attitude.”
Deacon wandered through, silent as ever, holding a new trail cam in one hand and a drill in the other.
“Where are you mounting that?” Jax asked.
Deacon gave a one-shouldered shrug. “North fence line. Fresh prints last night.”
“Animal or human?”
Another shrug.
“Cool. That’s not ominous at all,” I muttered.
“If it helps, I’m also arming the perimeter sensors,” Deacon added. Then he turned and walked out, still silent, still vaguely terrifying.
“He’s like if a ghost and a grizzly bear had a baby,” Maddy said.
“And somehow, he’s still less scary than Carrick before his first cup of coffee,” Sully added.
“Hey, I’m a delight,” I said.
“You’re a hazard,” Jax corrected. “Like a sexy, unstable landmine.”
“Flattered.”
Maddy dumped the laundry basket on the couch and started folding. “So what’s the plan when Bellamy gets here?”
“Nod politely, don’t make eye contact, and avoid being emotionally available,” I said. “Standard operating procedure.”
“In other words, you’re gonna glare at her like a feral cat, and hope she doesn’t try to pet you.”
“Exactly.”
I headed to the guest room, shaking my head as I went.
When I’d left for the op, there had been no Maddy. No soft cinnamon scent trailing through the halls. No girlish laughter echoing down the stairwell. No sex-slicked moaning rattling my goddamn walls. But when I got back three days ago, there she was—sprawled across Niko’s bed like she belonged there. Like she’d always been there. Smirking. Sharp-tongued. Wearing one of his shirts and none of her own. Like she hadn’t arrived in this house terrified, alone, and hunted. Like she hadn’t almost died.
I hadn’t seen the aftermath firsthand, but I’d heard pieces. Enough to put it together. A witness. A mafia hit. A mole somewhere in the department. Niko pulled her from the fire and never put her down again. She wasn’t just passing through, not anymore. She had roots now. Here. With us.
