Page 61 of Silent as Sin
Except now, his eyes looked darker, rimmed with something heavy.
“I’m fine,” I said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My voice felt too small in the vast, empty room.
“You should stretch your legs. Been cooped up too long.” His tone was easy, almost kind. But his arms shifted, uncrossing, recrossing, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable standing still. “Rain’s cleared. Air’ll do you good.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the windows. The desert sky was washed clean, clouds thinning into strips of white against endless blue. The ground still held the storm’s dampness, and the air had that potent, metallic bite of rain on sand. It was tempting, the thought of stepping into something that wasn’t smoke, leather, and fear.
Still, my pulse quickened.Ashen wouldn’t want me outside.
“I don’t think Ashen would want me outside,” I murmured, hugging the blanket tighter.
Dusty gave a low chuckle. “Ashen’s a good man, but he’s wound tight. Out back’s clear. Security’s got eyes everywhere. Ten minutes, no one’ll even notice.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. A shadow flickered there and was gone.
Something in his tone carried weight—the calm confidence of seniority. He’d been wearing the patch longer than most,longer than Ashen himself. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that maybe for once it was safe to breathe without fear closing in.
I set my book aside, standing slow. “Just for a minute.”
His mouth curved again, warmer this time, and for a second it looked almost fatherly. But his hand flexed once at his side, like he was holding something back. “That’s the spirit. Come on.”
We walked through the back hall together. My shoes hitting the floorboards, every creak louder than it should’ve been. Dusty moved ahead of me, shoulders squared, his steps heavy. For a moment I thought I saw his hand brush the wall, steadying himself. Not nerves exactly—something else. A burden.
The clubhouse door opened with a soft groan, spilling us into the gravel lot. Beyond stretched the desert, endless and raw, smelling of wet dust and rain. The air rushed against my face, cool and sharp, and for the first time in days I let my lungs fill all the way.
Relief washed over me so strong it almost felt like joy.Maybe Ashen’s right. Maybe I can have more than fear.
I took several steps out, damp wind brushing my skin—
And then pain exploded against the side of my skull.
The world lurched, blurred, spun away.
Through the ringing in my ears, through the darkness that pulled me under, I caught one last image: Dusty’s face above me. Not the calm, fatherly mask. Not the steady brother in the background.
It was twisted, not with cruelty, but with something rawer. Desperation. Regret.
His lips moved, whispering words I couldn’t hold onto.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE ROAD STRETCHEDendless, the sun climbinghigh, heat shimmering off the blacktop like waves off fire. The pack rode tight, engines growling low as we cut across the desert chasing ghosts.
Bones.
Every lead felt thinner than the last. Some cousin of a cousin swore they’d seen him near Tucson. Another said he’d been up north, holed up in a dive outside Flagstaff. All smoke, no fire. Bones was too smart to leave a trail worth following. Still, we chased, because stopping wasn’t an option.
The miles dragged, hot wind slapping against my cut, grit stinging my skin where it slipped past my shades. My hands ached on the bars, not from the ride but from the restless urge to do something—anything—that might bring us closer. Every mile between me and the clubhouse felt wrong.
We pulled into a cracked parking lot outside a rundown bar, paint peeling in long curls, neon sign flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to live or die. Warden killed his engine first, the rest of us falling silent one by one. The stillness afterward felt louder than the roar had been. The air smelled like dust and old beer, a stale mix that clung to the back of my throat.
Inside, the place was half-dead. A few drunks slumped at scarred tables, boots propped up, eyes glazed. One woman fed the outdated jukebox like it owed her money, punching the buttons so hard I thought she’d break them. The bartender barely looked up as we filed in, his rag pausing on a chipped glass for half a second before he dropped his gaze.
Warden stepped forward, the weight of his cut filling the room. His questions came straight and gruff, no wasted words. “Heard anything about a man calling himself Bones. Tall, shaved head, tattoos down both arms.”
The bartender snorted, shaking his head. “You just described half the bastards that crawl through here.”
