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Wherever Cyclone was...is where I would be. That kind of thinking was starting to feel like home, too.

26

Jude

The highway stretched out before me, I crossed into California. Every mile felt lighter. Every breath came a little easier.

I was leaving the shadows behind.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I ran toward something instead of away.

Cyclone.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my heart racing as I neared the coastal town where he lived — where he and his Team had built something solid. The Golden Team.

The scent of saltwater hit me long before I saw the ocean, and when I finally pulled onto the street lined with beach houses and palm trees, my heart just about beat out of my chest.

There it was.

Cyclone’s house — perched at the edge of the sand, the windows glowing warm against the early evening sky.

I parked across the street, hands shaking as I sat there for a moment, staring at the life he’d built. It’s been three months since I last saw him. I was so nervous.

Was I crazy for coming here without calling him?

Maybe.

But something inside me knew if I waited and let fear creep back in, I might never be brave enough to take the next step.

So I grabbed my bag, slammed the truck door shut, and marched across the street before I could lose my nerve.

The front door was open, a screen door in its place, and from inside, I heard laughter — deep, familiar voices.

Cyclone wasn't alone.

I hesitated.

And then I heard him.

That low, warm voice I’d know anywhere, weaving through the others like a lifeline.

I pushed the screen door open and stepped inside, following the voices to the back of the house.

A half-dozen men lounged on the deck, eating barbeque and all looked up at me like I'd just dropped out of the sky.

But it was Cyclone’s face that made me smile.

Shock.

Joy.

Something wild and unstoppable sparked in his eyes.

“Jude.”

It was just my name, but it was everything.

Before I could take a breath, he was moving, crossing the deck in three long strides.