I sat and watched the last of the bikes pull into the Spiders’ clubhouse. The one I’d snuck into earlier and planted my homemade bomb in. I’d shooed out some women, most of whom were beaten, and all of whom were defeated. I promised them that I’d take care of them, get them away from this life for the price of their silence.
They all agreed.
It was only the guilty who were in there when my bomb exploded, killing each and every one of them.
I drove back to the club numbly, without any particular emotional response to being responsible for mass murder. Did it still count as murder when the men were scum?
I guessed it did.
Still, my conscience was clear.
My first destination when I pulled in was the bar. I didn’t really feel like I needed to escape my decision, but Jose Cuervo was as good of company as any.
“Proud of you.”
I glanced up at the gravelly voice, its owner the man who was the closest thing to a father I had left.
I poured him a glass. “What? For drinking this straight instead of swirling it in ‘liquid sugar and bullshit’?”
He laughed. “Well, that too.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. “The explosion at the Spiders’ compound. No survivors.”
I drained my own drink. “Well, looks like Lucifer’s gonna have himself some houseguests,” I muttered.
“Wasn’t any of my boys,” Steg continued.
“I think not, with the police watching you like hawks,” I said, feigning disinterest.
Steg’s wrinkled and tattooed hand closed over mine. “Was my girl.” His other hand went to my chin, moving my gaze from the chipped wood of the bar to his steely gaze. “You don’t wear a patch, babe. Even if you did, as president, I’d have a shit show tryin’ to control you.”
I grinned. “Of course.”
“But today you were more of a Son than anyone wearing a patch. Know no one’s gonna know. No one can know. Place we need you is right here, keeping our family together, not behind bars. So no one will know what you put on your soul tonight, what you did for us. I will. And your daddy will too. He’ll be proud, baby. Prouder than me, and that’s a tough fuckin’ feat.” He paused, and I took that moment to inwardly smile at my adopted father telling me my dead father was looking down—or up, depending on your view—at me, proud of mass murder.
And Steg wasn’t wrong.
“Takin’ lives, it’s a funny thing. At the time, when the blood is hot and the temper is hotter, it don’t seem like much. Fuck, it don’t seem like enough. But we cool down. We’re not meant to run that hot. It’s when we cool down that it gets to us. Even if we were doing the right thing.” He paused again. “Our version of the right, at least. Even the worst of souls answers to themselves for taking another. And you, my girl, are not even close to being the worst. Better than most. As better as I think one can get. So you don’t think it’ll get to you, but it will. I’m here when it does. For now, let’s get fucked up.”
I smiled shakily. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”
I opened the door and debated closing it again for two reasons. One, the sunlight was extremely offensive to my soul and my pounding head. Two, Luke was standing at my door.
In uniform.
Looking too fucking hot for his own good.
And mine.
Because I reasoned that I looked like one of those witches who ate people’s hearts in order to preserve my youth. And I hadn’t had my protein in a while.
I didn’t close the door. Because I was a masochist like that.
“Do you take to knocking on doors at dawn for fun, or has there been some sort of zombie incident you’re telling everyone about?” I groaned, blocking the sun with the back of my hand.
“It’s noon,” Luke said.
“Like I said, dawn,” I countered.
Luke didn’t crack a smile. “Can I come in?”
I dropped my hand. Blinked.
Luke had never asked to come into my house. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure Luke had knocked on my door.
But there he was.
And a cop, in uniform, asking to come inside the house with a grim expression meant bad things. Especially if the cop was Luke.
“Oh my God, is someone… has someone… has there been an accident?” I spluttered, my heart thundering as much as my head.
Luke’s face changed, gentled some. “Shit, no, Rosie. Everyone is okay.”
I sagged. “Okay.”
I was so overcome with relief that I actually stepped aside and let him walk in, passing by so close I could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth of his body enrich the air.
I held my breath and closed the door behind him.
He was already sitting on my vintage sofa when I made it to the living room. I knew he wouldn’t exactly fit in my environment, but I didn’t think he’d stick out so much. Neatly pressed uniform, smoothed hair, clean-shaven. Fucking beautiful. Against my chaos.
If I ever needed a photo of just how ridiculous my feelings were, I just needed to remember this. I sat gingerly on the armchair across from him, expecting him to engage in some kind of small talk.
“Spiders’ compound blew up last night,” he said, without pleasantries.
I did my best not to let the lack of… anything in his voice get to me. Nor the sick feeling curling in my stomach about this being the topic of conversation and me being the fucking criminal, the murderer.
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” I said. “They’ve deserved something along the lines of a fiery death since Laurie died.”
It hurt, every cell in my body, saying that out loud. It was a year ago but it felt like a minute. I tried not to remember the way Luke held me that night. The way he saved me. Because if I did, then it was all over.
Like it wasn’t already.
Luke didn’t betray anything, didn’t make me think that my words had any kind of effect. “Scene is pretty much burning bone and rubble,” he said, voice flat. “Not much evidence to be found.”
“Bummer for you, dude,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice casual and cold like his.
Luke didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “I said not much. Didn’t say none.”
His grim, detached face caught me then, chilling me when paired with those words. “Well, isn’t that great? You might just find justice for the rapists and murderers yet,” I said, sarcasm concealing the fear in my tone.
Luke didn’t reply, just reached into his pocket and dangled a piece of chain from his thumb and forefinger.
I stilled, and then, stupidly, my hands instinctively went to my bare neck.
The necklace, in sloping script, read Rosie.
I had literally left my motherfucking name at the crime scene.
The thought filled me with cold dread, the image of life in a cold and dank prison cell. A life trapped.
But then something else filled me.
Gloveless, Luke was presenting evidence. Evidence he’d not bagged and tagged, as was procedure. Evidence he’d pocketed. Luke had, quite literally, taken my motherfucking name from the crime scene.
A crime in itself.
A big fucking crime.
He was grim-faced and silent as he handed it to me. Woodenly, I took it.