Page 84 of 23 Hours

“Yeah.”

Thought so.

“I’m fine.” And I am.

“You sure? ’Cause it’d be understandable if you’re not.”

I’m not doin’ this. Not now. Not tonight.

Toothbrush propped in the corner of my mouth, I smile wide around it and pat my living, breathing, still standing, albeit old-as-fuck body. I smack my biceps and my abs. To drive my point home, I dance around in a circle, twerk for the sake of makin’ him uncomfortable, and bow at the end of my small enthusiastic show. Toothpaste runs down my chin into my beard. I use a tissue off the back of the toilet to wipe the mess away and discard it in the trash when I’m through.

The dim face on the phone is none too impressed with my conduct. Bonez opens his mouth to therapize me as pain-in-the-ass brothers often do. Well, mine.

I arch a brow, testing him.

He returns the exact sentiment, his lips smashing into a firm, unpleasant line.

“You got somethin’ to say?” I press, doin’ my best to curb a smile. No need to piss him off when he’s obviously callin’ because he gives a fuck.

“Nope,” is his simple, far-too-calm reply.

Good.

To ease the tension, I go about my post-shower routine of shaving, balming the beard, lotioning the tattoos, nail clipping, and shit like that as I ask him about life, how things are coming along there, and any new stuff I might have missed. Bonez is a talker, so it doesn’t take much to get him going.

“Whisky hired more survivors to work at her bakery. They’re takin’ online orders now. Shipping anywhere in the US. Mags and Cas have been teaching classes daily on general car maintenance to the survivors. They’ve also taken in multiple survivors, not only to work at the shop, but Mag’s and Smoke have ‘em livin’ in their home.”

Not surprising. My brother’s club is solid. Their old ladies are top-notch.

“They’re good people,” I comment.

He nods in agreement. “They are. The entire club has stepped up with the influx of newbies. Whisky especially.”

That woman is a saint. A curvy, firecracker version of one, but still the best of humanity.

“Take good care of Beth, please,” I express, not because it needs to be said, because I know better than to think they’d let her fall through the cracks. I say it because… guilt. The ugly kind. The kind that keeps ya up at night. I don’t feel it much. But for those I care for… those who matter in my world, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for them. Her included. Beth not ending up like Niki is goddamn paramount.

Bonez’s expression goes soft along with his tone. “You know we will. Big wouldn’t have sent her to us if he didn’t trust we would.”

He’s right.

It’s just hard not havin’ a say in something like this. Not seein’ Beth and helpin’ her myself doesn’t sit well. I dunno if it ever will. Especially after Runner died. I was the one she vented to when he did what he did. The one to help pick up the pieces of her broken heart.

We talk longer about life before he seems convinced I’m doin’ well enough to hang up.

When we’re through, I palm my iPhone, quietly exit the bathroom, and join my woman in our bedroom. The flashlight on my phone works wonders in the darkness as I navigate around our bed. Kit’s asleep on her side, curled up like a burrito in the blue comforter. Not sure of the protocol of us sleeping together after what she’s been through, and knowin’ I don’t wanna wake her to ask, I pull my pillow off the side of the bed and grab a blanket from the top shelf in the closet.

Having slept in worse places, I lay my pillow on the floor, close to the nightstand, and spread out by Kit’s side of the bed, in front of the door, not only as protection but in case she needs me. I leave enough space to keep from being stepped on should she need to pee in the middle of the night, as I often do. The blanket keeps my legs warm as I turn off my light, tuck both arms behind my head, and let my eyelids drift closed. Within seconds, I’m dead to the world.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

GUNZ

Pacing my living room like a caged animal, my arms down at my sides, biceps flexed, jaw ticking, I pump my fists open and closed, open and closed, sucking furiously on a root beer Dum Dum. This is not okay. This is…

“Gunz.” Debbie sighs my name as she and Candy Cane, two of the Sacred Sisters, give me a wide berth, watching as I wear a hole through the floor with my bare feet.

This morning, Adam woke both his mom and me up when he knocked on our bedroom door to inform us he was headed to work at the Sacred Sinners’ auto shop and that the doc was here. The one Big told me about. The one who’s in our bedroom right now with my woman, doing God knows what to her body. The doc, a nice brunette close to my age, I’ve met multiple times before, as she’s a regular ‘round here to treat the sisters whenever they need. Them… not Kit. Not my female. Not…

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