Page 51 of Riding the Line (Steel Saints MC #1)

I smiled at her, though it was more like a grimace because the fucking Benadryl had gotten stuck in my throat.

“Something like that,” I croaked.

When it was my turn to board, I hurried onto the plane. At this point, I was just ready to be there. Ready to be somewhere where it was truly too late to turn back before I lost my nerve.

I found my seat between a guy my age and about three times my size, and a teenager who wore an “unaccompanied minor” lanyard around her neck.

The guy basically ignored me, intently focused on his bag of chips, and the teen looked up at me with a look of general distaste and popped her gum.

Normally, I would be cursing my luck, but right then, I really couldn’t find the time or energy to care.

I plopped down between the two of them and pretended I was on a beach somewhere.

In my fantasy world, the sun was warm and the water was blue, and the men I loved sat by my side.

That must be the Jim Beam talking—I was a lightweight when I had an empty stomach.

As my eyelids got heavier, I was happy to note that the Benadryl had started to work too.

By the time the flight attendants had finished their safety speech, I was out like a light.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Helloooo! Wake up. I’ve had to pee for like freaking years.”

I rolled my neck and opened a single bleary eye to find that we had landed, and the strange guy had already gone.

The kid next to me frowned. “Oh, great. You’re alive.

You’ve kept me from peeing this whole time.

Could you maybe get off the plane so that, I dunno, I could get off too? And find a bathroom?”

I stretched and yawned. Snarky teens were the best thing to wake up to.

I eyed her pink hair and hard frown before saying, “Sorry, kid, you should’ve woken me up.”

I stood up, turning to grab my bag as she said, “Trust me, I tried. I thought maybe you were dead.”

I didn’t bother answering her, just joined the throng of people filing out of the aircraft.

My stomach growled loudly, and the sound must have woken up my brain, which simultaneously said, “Food!” and “Oh shit!” as I realized that I was back in Georgia. I still had no idea what I was going to say.

I turned my phone back on, and was surprised to see a message from Shelly.

Damn, the girl worked fast. My house was still on the market.

And now it was in my name. My real name.

I sent her a heartfelt thank you, and followed my nose towards the smell of food.

I sat at the first restaurant I saw and practically salivated at the thought of a big, juicy burger.

A waiter quickly came and took my order.

Not even fifteen minutes later, he was back with my food, and I burned my tongue in my hurry to scarf it down.

I left money on the table and headed for the luggage carousel.

After a minute, I finally located a bored-looking security guard who pointed me in the direction of the baggage services area.

I signed for my gun, presented my ID, and then stepped outside to hunt down a cab.

Just as I raised my hand to flag one of the waiting ones down, I stopped.

I really was just flying along with no plan.

Which, cop or no cop, was a stupid decision.

I should at least have some idea of what I was doing.

Another text to Shelly confirmed that the spare key I had left in the fake rock behind the bushes should still be there.

So, that’s where I went first.

The key felt heavier than I remembered. Or maybe that was just my guilty conscience talking.

I stood on the porch, just staring at the door, for what felt like hours.

Behind that door was a cocktail of memories, and my chest tightened with the overwhelming swirl of emotions—fear, hope, regret, love.

I had walked away—I was no longer Nicole Moore.

But all those memories were still mine. Still something I cherished.

Sighing, I bit the bullet and opened the door which creaked open with an all-too-familiar groan.

I stepped inside, and it felt like coming home.

I inhaled the smells deeply. Coffee, cedar cleaning product, the lavender wall plug-in that glowed in the dim light.

I flipped the switch, and my smile fell when I saw the mess.

My Vans sat by the door, but that was the only thing in place.

My footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood as I walked through my home.

The overstuffed armchair Dalton liked to read in was on its side; the books he gave me covered the floor.

The coffee table in the living room was upside down.

My footsteps faltered when I caught sight of the mics mixed into the wreckage.

Dalton wouldn’t have made this mess. It was all Mac.

What were the chances he would forgive me?

I steeled myself before making my way to the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

My fox was on the floor, and my cellphone was gone.

My mattress leaned up against a wall. The boards in the back of the closet were still loose.

I sat on the box springs, reaching for Molly, pulling her close to my chest. If I closed my eyes, I could still see it—the look in Mac’s eyes when he let his guard down, Dalton’s hand on my bare hip, and that crooked smile.

The laughter in the mornings, the gentle sounds of their breathing at night.

My heart clenched painfully. The house felt a bit like a tomb, a place full of ghosts.

But the ghosts weren’t dead. They were just somewhere out there, hurting.

Because of me.

I looked over at my dresser, and at the picture there.

One of the many I had been tempted to take with me.

We had spent Holly’s birthday at the lake house.

Maria was on Diego’s back, legs wrapped around his waist, and chin resting on his head.

Her grin was as bright as the sun shining behind us.

Jackson had been tickling Holly, trying to force a laugh out of her, and the camera had caught them mid-tussle.

I stood between Mac and Dalton, my arm wrapped around Mac’s bicep and Dalton pressing a kiss to my cheek.

I loved that picture. I half-expected to see a crack in the glass, a symbolic fracture.

But the frame was whole and, perhaps irrationally, that gave me hope.

It was time to face the music. For better or for worse.