Page 67 of 23 Hours

“They’re still breathin’.”

“Yeah. I know.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Truth be told, neither do I, but I’m not about to tell him that.

“We’re gonna get ‘em help.” It’s the best positive, self-help, mumbo jumbo I can muster at the moment.

Wind knocked outta his sails, White Boy shrugs both shoulders, nearly touching his ears. “I know.” He sighs as they drop. “But what about Jade’s son? He’s gotta see his mom like this. Then Blimp and Mom… Fuck… He’s messed up.”

“That’s why I told him to stay in the truck.” There’s no way on God’s green earth Blimp could’ve witnessed his old lady tied up like that and not gotten himself killed trying to rescue her. Like Runner. For all his toked-up chill, he’s protective. He’s also the size of, you guessed it, a Blimp. Despite the fact he owns a gun shop, he’s not stealthy. He’s the backup man. The slow-and-steady blow-you-apart-with-a-sawed-off kinda brother. The one great for a lookout, or from a distance, but up close, when emotions run high, he’s more liability than asset. I knew that going in, which is why I lied about the getaway driver. He’s a smart cookie. He knew what I was doin’ as I was doin’ it. We’ve been friends most of my life.

“We did this,” White Boy declares with too much vehemence.

“We didn’t do shit,” I return with just as much, if not more, intensity.

“They’re like this because of us. Because of who we are.” My brother pounds the center of his chest with a fist, stacking all the responsibility on his shoulders.

Not down with the martyr horseshit, I shake my head, and I do it well. “No. They’re like this ’cause some sick motherfuckers prey on women and boys… and they don’t like us meddlin’ in their business,” I rationalize to keep the kid’s guilt in check. He doesn’t need this kinda baggage. That’s for us ancient fuckers to carry. We’ve got the grit to manage it. He needs to live his life to the fullest—fuck, fight, and have a blast on the back of his Harley, with the wind in his blond hair. Not nightmares of blood staining his hands. Pussy and booze. Smiles and rock-n-roll. The shit men sign up for when they become a Sacred Sinner. Violence might be a byproduct of our brotherhood, but it’s not the heart of us. We do what we gotta do to make the world a better place for those we love and those who can’t fight for themselves. I happen to think it’s honorable. Maybe that’s just me, though. I’m not some twenty-something, fresh-faced baby. I’ve bled Sacred Sinner far longer than many of these fuckers have been alive, including him.

We don’t speak much as we finish navigating our way outta the warehouse, me grittin’ my teeth with each step.

The parking lot’s a circus as we exit the building through the front. The first thing I latch my sights on is Bonez’s big head tending to Niki in the open bay of an ambulance. One of two they brought, parked side by side. I scan for you-know-who and find feminine, tatted arms embracing Loretta next to a wild-eyed Blimp, staring a possessive hole straight through his old lady. Never blinking. Not moving. Just lookin’.

Kit releases her friend when Blimp speaks to her. Rubbing something from her eyes, my lady turns and… fuck.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

KIT

Those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. They tether our souls across the headlight-lit expanse as I stumble forth in oversized sweats like a newborn colt, nearly falling on my ass to get to him. Gunz’s arms widen to catch me, his hands bathed in red. Not caring about anything but him, I dive into his embrace, arms locking around his middle. He staggers backward to keep us upright and groans as he absorbs me, wrapping me up tight. Warmth and him. Leather and comfort. Muscles and man.

Unable to control it a moment longer, my internal dam crumbles into a million pieces at my feet, and I weep into his chest. Vicious, full-bodied agony rips from the depths of my being. Fat, salty droplets soak into his shirt. He’s here. We’re together. I’m alive. He’s alive. The torture’s over. The relief’s immense.

Gunz whispers sweet nothings against the top of my new beanie. The warmth of his breath bathes my bald head through the knit fabric. I clutch the back of his shirt until my knuckles ache, never wanting to let go.

“I’ve got you. I’m here now, love,” he vows.

In response, I shudder violently, then hiccup as an all-consuming wail wrenches itself from the knot in my belly, up my throat, and through my mouth, needing to be liberated. I let it go because it doesn’t give me a choice.

Just as he’s been with me through it all. My shelter against the storm. My solace. Gunz holds me, strong and unyielding. I want to tell him how much this means to have him here but can’t. Not yet. Another horrible noise erupts from my lips. I try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t fucking care.

Stuffing my nose between his pecs, I breathe in the scent of death and him—of spice, laundry, and sweat. I close my eyes and relish the present. Not the past. Not inside the building. Not the emotions. I ignore the ache in my legs, as I struggle to stand for too long. I can’t let go. Not yet.

I breathe.

In.

Out.

Calming myself.

When they cut us from our chairs, they dressed us, mended our surface wounds, and fed us protein bars. They didn’t taste like much. It couldn’t fill the void in my middle. The rot there, poisoning me from the core out, has changed me forever. No food could ever fix it. I don’t know if anything can. Not for me, not for any of us women. Not after what we went through.

“Gunz.” The breathy accentuation of his name comes from Niki. I do my best to tune her out. She’s in love with him. We all know it. He’s all she spoke about in the closet. He, too, was her solace. If I was selfless, I would let him go to care for her like he has me. But I can’t. Horrible or not. Selfish or not. I just can’t.

I know I don’t know Gunz well. Not like Niki. Not like Beth or Loretta. Not like Jade. I’m new. He and I have spent a total of three nights together, just three, and look where we are. The first time, he gave me the biggest gift anyone could receive. The second, he gave me another. I couldn’t tell you what it is or what it means. I just know he feels big… he’s important. I should’ve known it the night we met all those years ago. How special he is. The rebel who fucked me into oblivion. For many years, I often wondered how he was. How his life turned out. In the parking lot of a warehouse, wrapped in his arms, now I know.

“Sweetheart.” Gunz jostles me.

I rub my face on his shirt to dry the tears. “Yes?”

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