Page 9 of Held-

“Looks like we've got an audience,” I murmur to Cece, nodding subtly toward the doorway.

Skelly notices too, flashing the old woman his most unsettling grin—the one that shows off the silver caps on his canines. “Think she's waiting to see if we catch fire by being on holy ground?” he stage-whispers loud enough for her to hear.

Domino snorts. “If that were true, I'd have been a pile of ashes years ago.”

The woman’s expression tightens, and she takes a half-step backward, like she’s genuinely afraid we might burst into flames and take the whole building with us.

“Mrs. Peterson,” Cece calls out, straightening from the box she’s unpacking. “Is there something you need?”

“I-I was just checking to see if you needed any help,” the woman stammers, still staring at Skelly’s pink mohawk. “I saw that we had...visitors.”

“We're good,” Cece says firmly.

“Actually, we could use an extra set of hands,” I say, flashing Mrs. Peterson my most innocent smile. The one that makes people nervous because they can't quite tell if I'm being sincere or planning to steal their car. “I've got a whole sermon's worth of toys out there that need saving.”

Mrs. Peterson's hand clutches her cross pendant tighter. Cece shoots me a look that's half warning, half amusement.

“Sermon's worth?” she mouths, eyebrows raised.

“You know, like a shitload, but more...ecclesiastical.” I wink at her, enjoying the way her cheeks flush pink. “I'm trying to speak the local language.”

Mrs. Peterson makes a strangled noise. “I think I hear Reverend Montgomery calling me,” she mutters, backing away like we might chase her if she turns too quickly. “I'll just...check on the...situation outside.”

She disappears so fast she practically leaves a cartoon dust cloud behind her.

“Situation?” I ask, turning to Cece.

“Someone replaced baby Jesus with a dildo in the nativity scene,” she explains with a completely straight face. “It's been quite the crisis.”

I burst out laughing. “Holy fuck—I mean, holy...” I search for an appropriate church word. “Holy communion?”

“Not better,” she says, but she's fighting a smile. “You're going to get me in trouble.”

“This place could use a little trouble,” I say, watching the spark of suppressed laughter flicker across her face. Something about her has changed since high school. The Cecelia I remember was careful, controlled—always mindful of her reputation. This woman looks like she’s one smart comment away from telling the whole church to go to hell.

I like it.

The door bangs open again as Rabbit and Big haul in more boxes. Rabbit’s sleeve rides up, revealing the snake tattoo that coils from his wrist to his bicep. Mrs. Peterson would probably need smelling salts if she saw that one.

“Where you want these, boss?” Rabbit asks, glancing curiously between Cece and me.

“Anywhere there’s room,” I tell him, gesturing to the half-empty tables. “We’ve got plenty more coming.”

Cece watches them with something like wonder as they stack the boxes along the wall. “I still can't believe this,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear. “I pictured maybe a few board games, not...” She waves her hand at the growing pile.

“Disappointed?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding? This is...” She shakes her head, and for a second I think she might cry. “This is a miracle.”

“Don't let the guys hear you call it that,” I warn. “The last thing I need is them calling me Christmas Jesus or some shit like that.”

“This didn’t like fall off the back of a truck, did it?”

I roll my eyes at her. “We're not the mafia. We're a motorcycle club. Totally different dress code.”

Cece laughs again, and something about the sound warms parts of me I thought had frozen over years ago. “I just meant—this is a lot. It must have cost a fortune.”

“The club did alright this year,” I say with a shrug, not elaborating on exactly how we did alright. Some things are better left unsaid in a church. I glance around the fellowship hall, memories washing over me like high tide. I'd spent countless Sundays in this room, slouched in the corner while Aunt Jillian chatted with the other church ladies. Always the outsider, even when I was technically invited. “My aunt said something about the town's big donors didn’t show up this year. Pretty fucking low if you ask me.”