Page 36

Heather

T he moment they pull me away from Ghost, I feel the loss. I’m used to him hovering over me, worrying about me, radiating protectiveness and just being extra in general. My world goes too quiet without him.

The sliding glass doors shut behind me with a soft hiss, and it’s like I’ve been separated in more ways than one.

There is no more engine noise. No more Ghost’s deep voice rumbling in my ear.

Instead, it’s just fluorescent lights, a cold emergency bay, and tests.

As well as nurses who move too fast, speak too loudly, and ask enough questions to boggle my mind.

I feel strangely detached from my surroundings, like I’m watching it happen from outside myself.

They take my vitals. Ask questions that I struggle to answer. My name. My date of birth. How far along I am.

“Twelve, maybe fourteen weeks,” I say.

The nurse frowns gently, glancing at the cut on my neck. “We’ll do a scan to be safe, alright? You had some blood loss. It could be minor stress trauma.”

The word trauma sticks in my throat. I know the detached feeling I’m experiencing is trauma-related. It has to be, because I’ve never felt that way before.

They clean the cut with something that stings worse than it should.

It’s a shallow, surface nick, they confirm.

The nurse tells me gently, “It could’ve been worse,” like that’s supposed to make me feel better.

I tell them that Ghost is my partner, it’s not really a lie because he is, and finally they let him join me in the examination room.

After having my wound dressed, I’m allowed to leave. But before I head back to the clubhouse, I need to see how Brittany is.

They give us her room number and Ghost leads me down two hallways and into a quiet recovery wing.

We go to the nurses’ station, introduce ourselves, and ask about Brittany.

The nurse walks us to her room. She warns me before opening the door.

“Your friend is still in some pain. She had lots of sutures. But she’s awake. And has been asking for you by name.”

When I hesitate outside the door, my mind fills with a bunch of questions, like why did this have to happen to Brittany of all people? She’s such a nice person and I hate this for her.

Something deep in my soul doesn’t want to see what Carnage did to her, but another part needs to know what happened to her, to see it with my own eyes.

Brittany’s looking really rough, but she’s propped up in the bed, eating and drinking. That’s more than I would have expected after getting so seriously injured.

An older woman is with her, she’s wearing a leather vest and looks like she’s had a hard life. She’s accompanied by a large man who’s wearing a Sons of Rage cut. I’ve never met her grandmother, but I’m guessing this is the indomitable Queenie and the man is probably one of Brittany’s relatives.

Her hair is still matted with blood and her face is bruised around the cheekbone and jawline. But she’s awake. Her eyes are sharp and, best of all, she’s smiling.

She grins when she sees me. “You’re just in time for fries. Queenie had Uncle Onyx buy me a whole bag. It’s an embarrassment of riches that you can help me with.”

I come over and kiss her on the forehead because it looks like the only place not bruised. “I can’t believe you’re eating fries and drinking a milkshake.”

Brittany snorts a laugh. “I’m injured, not dead.” She glances over at her grandmother and says, “This is my friend, Heather. The one I told you about.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she beams. “My granddaughter told me all about how the two of you snuck out of a lockdown at the clubhouse and ran into trouble at a local lab.”

I automatically begin to tear up. “I’m really sorry that Brittany got injured. It was all my fault. I should have waited for one of the brothers to escort me to the lab.”

Queenie just shrugs, “We all live and learn.”

“My grandmother wouldn’t be mad at you. She knows we were just trying to do the right thing.”

Queenie shoots Ghost a meaningful look before saying, “All’s well that ends well, I heard.”

My eyes get big, and I begin nodding like a bobblehead doll.

Ghost states quietly, “Yes ma’am, the man who did this to her got justice served on him today.”

Brittany quips, “I got the satisfaction of clobbering him with that metal chair, so I feel like I gave him a run for his money.”

Her joke lands wrong for me. I can’t help bursting into tears. I ugly cry because I got my friend hurt. I hate to ugly cry. It’s embarrassing to have that horrible, uncontrollable kind of crying where your lungs seize up and your whole body goes warm with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry. This was all my fault.”

“Stop.” Her voice is suddenly sharp, even through the pain. “Don’t you dare feel guilty about the decisions I made in the heat of the moment.”

“I keep replaying the memory of him throwing you into that glass cabinet over and over again in my head,” I say. “I thought you were dead and it’s all my fault.”

Brittany puts the French fry in her hand back down on her napkin and tells me sternly, “I don’t regret what happened.

I do what I want, and I wanted to knock that asshole out for putting his hand on us,” she says angrily.

“I’ve always been a fighter, and I always will be.

That’s who I am. And if you want to continue hanging around with me, you need to be ready for me to stand up for myself and the people I care about. ”

I smother back my tears, nodding. “I get that. I really do.”

Her grandmother doesn’t seem to know what to do with my tears. She perks up when she hears Brittany talking about standing up for herself. “Rock and I are really proud of our granddaughter. I’ve learned that what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger.” She shoots Ghost another meaningful look.

Brittany shifts with a wince, then reaches out with her unbandaged arm and curls her fingers around mine.

“I knew what I was doing. I saw him coming and I had one second to choose, run or fight. I picked fight. Because you’re pregnant. Because you didn’t have a choice. And because you’re my friend.”

I tear up again, even though I’m trying my hardest not to. “The bottom line is you got hurt because of me.”

“I got hurt because of me.” After a short pause, she acknowledges, “Even if I did get hurt because we were together, I’d get hurt for you again,” she says simply.

Hearing that wrecks me all over again. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

She rolls her eyes, “No, of course you don’t. No one does,” she says. “But I’m here anyway.”

Queenie claps her hands and exclaims, “I like the hard right turn this conversation took. I’m glad to see that my Brittany has such a good friend.”

Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I look at her with new eyes.

Queenie is a bit of a character. She’s wearing jeans and gold ankle boots and a cheetah-print shirt and leather bustier.

Her bag matches her shirt and she’s skinny as a rail.

I see a giant bouquet of flowers on the counter behind her, and she’s drinking from a travel mug that says, “Hot Bitches Do It Better.” Queenie is very comfortable in her own skin, and I like that.

“We should throw a jailbreak party when Brittany finally gets discharged. We can roast a pig and play wiffle ball.”

Ghost’s mouth twitches into a smile. “I don’t know for sure, but your old man’s MC is starting to sound like a lot of fun.”

It feels like Queenie is trying to change the subject to something less traumatic, and I appreciate her doing that.

“Queenie,” Brittany groans. “You are making me seriously want to sign out against medical advice.”

Queenie just laughs. “I think you miss your kids. Have you picked a favorite yet?”

Poor Brittany looks absolutely scandalized. “Of course not. All five of them are amazing. Parents aren’t supposed to play favorites.”

“Piff, our youngest was everyone’s favorite. He was born premature. The doctors told us to feed him every two hours, and we just never stopped. He’s all grown up now and still grazes all day like cattle.”

Brittany bursts out laughing. “I am going to tell him you said that.”

“Everybody knows, Britt. Ain’t no secrets in the Sons of Rage.”

I blink. “Really?”

Queenie just laughs. “We’re a pretty open family, Heather.”

Brittany changes the subject again. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how Silver is working out at your club.”

Ghost cursed under his breath. “That woman turned you over to a cult and now she’s the new star attraction at the Sons of Rage clubhouse. I don’t think that’s the least bit acceptable.”

“Damn, Ghost. You must not think very highly of our club if you think we’d let Silver run around doing whatever she wants.”

“What did you do with her?” Brittany asks curiously.

“For starters, I took away all her silver clothing and jewelry. We call her Plain Jane, and none of the brothers will have anything to do with her because of what she did to my granddaughter. If there’s one thing you can say about the Sons of Rage brothers, it’s that they are loyal.

She’s got a heavy load of chores for the next year, and then she can try to give being a club girl another try.

I think that’s more than generous, considering the offense she committed. ”

Brittany nods. “I’m surprised she hasn’t run off by now.”

“Me too,” Queenie replies with a frown.

The next hour blurs a little. Brittany fades in and out because she’s on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers. But before she drifts, she makes me promise something.

“Don’t pull away, okay?” she mumbles, eyelids heavy. “Don’t disappear into guilt and try to tough it out alone. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

I squeeze her hand. “I promise.” I honestly couldn’t see myself walking off from this amazing found family. They were all too nice and caring.

She nods off to soft snores, her grip finally loosening.

Queenie just sort of takes over the space naturally. At one point, she brushes and braids my hair and makes me sit still while she hums something that sounds like an old fashioned country song slowed down by grief and weariness.

“You remind me of me,” she says eventually. “When I was young and stupid and thought surviving meant being silent.”

I grin at her. “I’m not sure if that was actually a compliment.”

“You’ve got the same kind of steel in your bones. But steel doesn’t mean you can’t bend a little. Especially when it’s just you and the people who love you.”

I close my eyes and let myself breathe, just for a second, as I reflect on her words.

Ghost leaves and then shows back up with coffee sometime later. He has a cup of black coffee in each hand. His jaw is clenched like he’s ready to rip someone in half for not letting him in sooner. The minute his eyes land on me, his whole face softens.

He doesn’t ask questions or intrude on our conversation. He just comes to my side, sets the coffees down, and tucks me under his arm. I melt into him because he’s warm and reassuring.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers again. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you this time.”

He says that with such conviction that I honestly believe him. He would have kept me safe this time if only I had listened when he said to stay put, I remind myself.

***

At some point, Ghost gets a message from Patch. Ghost tells me, “Doc ordered a sonogram to make sure everything’s okay with the baby. He says we need to go ahead and get it done immediately. He’ll review the report and let us know if anything unusual shows up.”

I crane my head to look at his phone. “Did he say where we’re supposed to go?”

“Third floor, west wing. They have a whole office up there.”

“Best get it over with,” Queenie tells me. “And then go home and get some rest. Brittany likely won’t wake up again until the morning with all those painkillers they gave her.”

I hug her and we say our goodbyes before heading up to the sonogram unit. “Thanks, Queenie. Call me if you need anything.”

“My boys will get anything me and Brittany need. Tusk is coming later once he’s dropped off the kids at their grandparents. You go on now. She’s got her family minding her now.”

They pull me into the exam room the second I give them my name, looking curiously at the bandage on my neck, where Grime nicked me with his knife.

Ghost is right there, refusing to leave my side.

They ask me a bunch of questions as I lie on a narrow table under dimmed lights.

They tug up my shirt just enough for the tech to work the ultrasound wand across my stomach.

There’s a monitor beside me — black and white fuzz, grainy images move across it.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing, but I just keep staring.

I guess I’m hoping to capture a glimpse of my baby in that grainy mess.

I realize that now Carnage is gone, the baby is mine, and mine alone.

Or at least mine to decide who I want to be his or her father.

Ghost holds my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.

Having him being here, so close and tender, settles something deep in my chest. When I look up at him, there’s this flicker of emotion, something I can’t quite name.

I get the distinct feeling that he’s holding himself together by sheer strength of will alone.

I remind myself that we’ve both been through a trauma, not just me.

My skin’s still cold. He wraps his other hand over mine, trying to give me warmth.

The tech shifts the wand and suddenly, we hear whump. Whump. Whump.

The heartbeat hits the speakers loud and strong. It’s faster than I would have thought, but the tech assures us that it’s normal. Something stirs in my emotions when I hear the steady beat.

“The baby sounds strong and healthy,” Ghost murmurs under his breath.

“As you can probably tell, your baby has a strong, steady heartbeat,” the tech says excitedly. “The baby looks great. About fourteen weeks. Moving around a bit.”

My eyes well up, but I don’t make a sound.

I squeeze his hand and feel him give me a little squeeze back.

Relief surges through my entire body. Not the kind you get when something turns out okay. The kind that crashes through you and makes you realize how close you came to losing everything.

He brushes his thumb over my hand. He doesn’t let go, not even for a second.

Me, the baby, and this sweet, fierce, protective man. We’re still here, still together. And I suspect he’ll do whatever he can to keep it that way