I meet his eyes. “Not much more than what I told you already.”
“Have you talked to them?”
Huffing, I start to get a little annoyed that he’s jumping to conclusions about me and the Iron Wraiths. “No, I haven’t talked to them, just seen them. And I think they know someone I . . .” Like? Date? Want to date? “Someone I know,” I finish, not wanting to incriminate Frankie if these guys are as bad as I think they are.
“You don’t want to have anything to do with them or anyone they’re associated with,” Cole advises, going full-deputy-mode on me. “Listen, I know you’re new to Green Valley and it can be hard to find people to . . . hang out with, or whatever twenty-somethings do these days.”
I want to laugh, because Cole isn’t old, not by any means. Sure, he’s older than me, but there’s no way he’s over thirty. I might’ve thought that was old a few years ago, but the older I get, the younger thirty sounds.
“If you want to find people to hang out with, try the jam sessions at the Community Center.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Are they as hopping as the farmer’s markets on Saturdays?”
“You’ve been to the farmer’s market?” he asks, disbelieving.
“Have you tried Mr. Henson’s blueberries?”
To that, Cole quirks an eyebrow as if to say “touché.” Switching back to the subject at hand, he says, “About those bikers—they’re criminals, Gunnar. Not just your run-of-the-mill B&Es, but hard stuff. Drugs, grand theft auto . . . murder.”
“Murder?” I ask, my mouth going dry as my stomach drops. What the hell, Frankie? Surely she knows what these fuckers are capable of, so why would she be hanging around them? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Cole, but I can’t. I won’t out her like that. Besides, she basically told me to leave her alone—after the best first kiss of my life, mind you—and I’m still a little butt-hurt about it.
That kiss. Man, that kiss . . . it was everything and not enough all at the same time.
I’ve been dying to touch her. I didn’t get much, but what she gave me was enough to make me an addict for life. And then she basically used it against me.
“Yeah,” Cole continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, stay away from them. If you see them, go the other way.”
Scoffing, I kick at the gravel beneath my feet.
“I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself,” he adds, holding up his hands. He must take my reaction as one of offense, but it’s nothing like that. I’m just so fucking confused as to why Frankie would willingly associate with these guys yet be so turned off by my fighting and be so guarded around me. It doesn’t make any sense.
“I also know that Cage would kick your ass all the way back to Dallas if you get twisted up with these guys,” Cole continues.
Now, that’s the truth. Fighting for sport is one thing. Getting in a back alley brawl is another and it would earn me an economy class bus ticket back to Dallas. My father and all my brothers are sticklers about a fighter’s code of conduct. The main one being no threat or use of violence.
Just because we can cause damage, doesn’t mean we do.
Growing up, my father made it clear that our fists were only to be used in the ring. Or the cage.
That wasn’t always the case in a house full of testosterone-filled Neanderthals, but we paid the price when we crossed the line. Usually, when we’d start fighting, my mother would stick us out on the front porch and lock the doors. Our entry back inside was a hug. It had to be longer than three seconds and we had to act like we meant it.
The one thing our father would allow was standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.
Even though I haven’t known Frankie Reeves for long, I know she’s nothing like what Cole has described.
She’s good, to her core.
She’d lose her own life before she’d take another.
Which can only mean they’re either using her for their benefit or they have something she wants. Either option makes my blood boil.
**BC**
This morning, after an early training session followed by a long run with Cage, he tasked me with driving to Maryville to make deposits on the venue and rentals for the benefit fight.
I’ve done that, and now I’m driving around looking for a place to grab a late lunch.
Fine. I’m also stalling, because I want to drop by the hospital and see Frankie. I want to apologize for overstepping, even though that wasn’t what I was trying to do. All I wanted was to let her know I’m here for her, when and if she needs me. She has an out, an ally, someone to lean on, even if she’s not used to depending on other people—which I know she’s not.
I want to be here for her.
While grabbing a sandwich at a small cafe, I remember the other part of our conversation from Saturday, when she told me she wanted to take me to the shelter. Since I have Helen’s number in my phone and actually have a few things to talk to her about, I decide to call her up.
“Hello?”
“Helen,” I reply. “It’s Gunnar.”
“Well, hello,” she says, her older voice cheerful, but all business as usual. “How are you? Everything going okay with the benefit?”
“It’s going great. I’m actually in Maryville today running some errands and thought about stopping by the shelter.”
“That would be great.” She says it so quickly, almost before I can get the statement out. It makes me think she means it and what Frankie said was true. “I’d love to show you around, give you an idea of where the money will go.”
I’d like that too. Not that I don’t already think it’s a worthy cause, but when I meet with the television station and newspaper, it would be great to have first-hand information to give them.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to an old church building. When I step out of the truck, I’m greeted by a woman carrying a clipboard. She has dark hair with streaks of grey in it and I’m immediately reminded of my mom. Unlike all of us boys—who took after our full-blooded Scandinavian father—our mother has darker hair and complexion. She always says she did all the work and our father got all the glory.
“You must be Gunnar,” Helen says, approaching the truck with an outstretched hand.
I shake it and smile. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Gunnar Erickson. It’s really nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says, all business. “Let me show you around.”
She walks me through the main rooms, showing me where the people who stay here eat and live. Some of the women are milling about, doing everyday tasks like laundry and taking care of children.
There are even more children in the yard out back.
Helen explains that some of the women have been placed with jobs and are gone during the day, so the shelter offers childcare to help get them back on their feet.
The building is old, but in good shape. It’s easy to see it’s well-cared for and I can only guess that is thanks to Helen, and people like Frankie who donate their time and services.
“This place is great,” I tell her as we make our way back to the front of the church. “Seems like you’re able to help a lot of people.”