Page 83 of 23 Hours

“Was Beth good with that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to him one way or another. “But it’s closer to where she’s livin’ now and safer for him to live the rest of his days, chasin’ tail, not worrying about his granddaughter.”

True.

“I guess that’s, that… huh?” I lift and drop a single, exhausted shoulder.

Big claps his hands together. “Yeah. Seems it is. Now get your ass home. Sleep. I better not see your ugly mug for the next forty hours.”

To be an ass, I cock a lopsided smirk and salute my best friend.

He flips me off.

Then we come in for a hug. Both arms. None of that one-armed, we’re too manly to embrace, bullshit. Huggin’ a thick, giant ain’t the easiest, but I pound his back, and he returns in kind. The familiar earthiness of his leather cut in my face sets me at ease as I finish our embrace with a final thump.

Havin’ joined our hallway festivities, Viper whistles lowly, “Awe. Brotherly love,” as he approaches.

The fucker opens his arms wide to Big and gets a punch in the shoulder. “Fuck off,” Prez rumbles, not at all impressed by our drunken brother’s antics.

As if just now realizing shit’s off-kilter, Viper sees the dried ruminants of blood on me and our fearless leader. His eyes widen, and he points. His mouth moves without words. Big slaps the green-haired punk between the shoulder blades, his massive mitt covering more than half the span.

“What happened?” Viper sputters out.

Annnd that’s my cue to get the fuck outta here.

I thumb by way of the incident for him to go check out if he wants, then bump shoulders with Big, slap Viper on the shoulder far harder than I should, and escape out the back door of the clubhouse before anyone tries to rope me into the welcome home party or attempts to blow me.

Forty hours with my woman.

Forty hours of bliss.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

GUNZ

With my son fast asleep on the couch, and clothes commandeered from my closet, I’ve showered, towel dried, and rebandaged my wound. Standing naked in front of the bathroom vanity, I’m minutes from getting shut-eye. I tug on a pair of ratty gray sweats, sans boxers, and brush my teeth as my phone vibrates on the counter with an incoming call.

Expelling a groan, I flip the thing over. Bonez’s name is scrawled across the screen, along with his request for FaceTime.

Only because he’s my brother, I hit connect, and prop the device on the back of my sink as I continue to do my business.

“What do ya want?” I grunt good-naturedly when his face comes into view.

“Checkin’ in.” He’s lounging in bed, phone held on his chest, just below his big, hairy pecs. I can see up his nostrils from this angle, and it’s not the best view.

Speaking from the side of my mouth, I resume my dental hygiene. “Didn’t I already see your ugly mug this week?” I wink and waggle my eyebrows like a cartoon character.

This yields an eye roll and snort from him. “Yep. When I was sewing your gut back together.”

I pat the bandage. “Healin’ up.”

“That’s good. Listen…” My brother’s eyes morph from normal, to glum, I’ve-got-important-feelings-shit-to-discuss—the edges go soft, a deep crease forms across his forehead.

Fuck.

I should’ve known.

Not pleased by what’s about to go down, I grumble under my breath, “Big called you.”

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