Page 57 of Faron
We sat in comfortable silence. The soft crash of waves outside. The old house creaking as it settled. Bear finally curled into a ball, snoring like a chainsaw wrapped in a blanket.
River had stopped by earlier to say the clean-up had begun. The traitors were exposed. Kash and Conner were heading home soon.
We were safe.
Faron’s fingers traced slow, lazy circles on my thigh. “You know you’re never leaving my sight again, right?”
“You say that now,” I smirked, “but wait until I start reorganizing your kitchen.”
His lips tugged into a lazy smile. “Deal. As long as you stay.”
I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere, Lightfoot. Not now. Not ever.”
52
Faron
Ismelled the barbecue before I saw it.
Someone—probably Gage—had loaded what looked like half a cow onto the grill. Laughter echoed from the rec center’s back porch. Music drifted through the sliding glass doors, an old country tune with a beat slow enough to sway to.
Blue was barefoot, a paper plate stacked with ribs and corn in one hand, the other handing out napkins to a group of muddy rec center kids. Kat and Beatrice were arranging a folding table with way too many desserts. Cyclone leaned against a railing like he hadn’t nearly died a few days ago.
We’d chosen the rec center for the barbecue so everyone could come—friends, family, even some of the local families we’d helped.
Cyclone caught my eye. “Nice bandage.”
I raised my drink. “Nice limp.”
“Matches my personality.”
“Always did.”
We both laughed.
The back gate creaked, and in strolled Tag—wearing a Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses, and dragging a rolling cooler that had clearly survived more combat than most of us.
“Oh no,” Blue muttered beside me.
“Oh yes,” Tag said with a grin, popping the lid. “Frozen margaritas. Strawberry and mango. Because I believe in balance.”
“Did you bring any food?” Gage called.
“I broughtjoy, son. Liquid joy.”
Laughter rippled across the yard.
Tag handed me a drink and motioned toward the side fence. “Hey. Got a minute?”
I followed him to a quieter spot, away from the music and the kids chasing Bear in circles.
He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then turned the screen toward me.
A woman. Long black hair. Storm-gray eyes. Soft, familiar features that pulled a breath straight from my chest.
“She popped up in the system two days ago,” Tag said. “Volunteer nurse with a traveling unit out of El Paso. Name was changed. Records sealed. That was eight years back. Now she’s working in L.A. as a detective. Her DNA flagged a match when she donated blood at a clinic partnered with the VA.”
My throat went dry. “Aponi.”
