Page 19 of Taken By The Wolves
All okay. Working with a lumber yard. Doing business. Don’t worry. Will call soon.
There. She won’t freak out and report me missing. Not yet, anyway.
The motel is as depressing as I remember, with cracked paint, a faded sign, and the scent of stale air clinging to the breeze outside.
“I’ve got it from here,” I say when Nixon pulls into a spot near my room.
“No, you don’t,” he says, already out of the truck.
Before I can argue, he’s circling around to my side, opening the door, and offering a hand. I hesitate for a beat, then take it. His palm is warm and callused, steadying me as I ease onto my good foot.
We move slowly across the lot, Nixon hovering close but not crowding. When we reach my door, I unlock it and push it open.
“Let me make sure it’s clear,” he says.
I raise a brow. “You worried my underwear’s going to attack me?”
He gives me a look and disappears inside before I can respond.
By the time I step in, leaning heavily on my crutch, he’s already scanned the room like an elite bodyguard. Satisfied, he steps aside to let me pass.
I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my things and mentally checking off what I brought with me for this trip: toiletries, sketchbook, phone charger.
“You rest,” Nixon says, already moving toward the corner where my bag lies half-open. “I’ve got it.”
I watch him kneel, this enormous, muscle-thick man, who methodically packs my things. He folds my T-shirt like valuable silk Kimonos, sets my hairbrush in a side pocket, then—
His hand pauses.
Panties. A lacy black pair.
He holds them for a second too long, frozen in place.
Our eyes meet.
My face flushes instantly. “I—I can get that—”
But he doesn’t look away or make a joke. He sets them carefully in the bag, zips it shut, and stands.
My mouth is dry.
“There,” he says, voice low and raspy. “All set.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
The air between us is thicker now. More charged like something has shifted, and we’re both dancing around, pretending it hasn’t.
When he takes my bag and holds the door open, I hobble out without another word.
As we pull out of the parking lot, a woman steps into the crosswalk ahead of us, guiding a wide stroller with two toddlers kicking and chattering in tandem. They’re dressed in little fleece hoodies, one red and one yellow, and are deep in some toddler babble argument over a sippy cup.
The woman pushes the stroller with practiced ease, golden hair braided over one shoulder, a tote bag slung across her back. She moves like someone used to multitasking, taking motherhood in her stride. Beside her, a man walks close. Too close to be a friend or a helpful neighbor. He’s tall and broad, with shoulders like a linebacker and a beard that gives me déjà vu. There’s something in the way he watches the road, the stroller, the world with an alertness that reminds me of Nixon. I turn to him and find him lifting his hand and giving the man a brief nod. The man returns it, but it doesn’t seem open or friendly; instead, it appears a little wary.
The woman smiles at us as we pass, her wide mouth holding none of the man’s guardedness. But behind that smile is curiosity. Her gaze catches mine like a hook. She doesn’t look away.
It’s like she’s assessing me. Like I’ve walked into herstory uninvited, and she’s trying to decide what role I’ll play.
The truck clears the street, and I glance back once, watching as the twins wriggle and the woman crouches to fix a shoe that’s half off one little foot. The man stands behind her like a sentry, solid and watchful.
