Page 69 of Resilience

“I don’t want anybody to get in trouble because of me. And I don’t want to get pushed out of the equation, either. I still want a say.”

“As for the first part, we won’t have to ask your father to handle it. As soon as he knows what happened, he’ll want to handle it. His choice. That means it’s not on you if there’s trouble. As for having a say, well ... I think you need to decide if you want justice or control. You might have to give up one to get the other.”

“That sucks. It happened to me.”

“I know it sucks. But it’s true. If you want your dad involved because he can get it done without putting himself or any of us at risk, then you need to let him decide how that gets done.” Mom leaned close and locked eyes with her. “This is where you have control, Athena—it’s your call now. If you let the club handle it, that’s you making the call. Understand?”

Athena thought she did, but she took a beat to think it through. Mom was saying that telling Dad—which would, of course, mean involving the whole club to at least some degree, and would also mean everybody would know—was her decision. Making that decision was her control, but the decision would be to hand control over. Not have it taken from her, but handing it over.

That was still her decision, her involvement. And whatever was done to Hunter would be done by people who loved her, who were enraged on her behalf.

He would pay what he owed.

She thought she could live with that.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The door was ajar, but Sam knocked on it anyway.

“Yes, come in!” Aunt Leah called. Her voice carried; she wasn’t trying to be quiet.

Feeling shaky for more reasons than having been shot, Sam pushed the door open. “Hey. Can I visit for a while?”

“Of course, honey,” Aunt Leah said. Then she turned to Uncle Gun, on his back in the bed, the head barely raised. “It’s Sam, baby.”

“Hey, Sam,” Gunner said in a raspy mumble. “Get over here, kiddo.”

Sam went to the bed. There were so many machines in an arc around the head of the bed, Sam couldn’t get much closer than Gun’s legs. One large machine, a ventilator, sat behind the bed, no longer in use.

Gunner was pasty white except for the charcoal-dark skin just beneath his eyes, like fresh bruises. He was fastened into a brace of some kind. It was mostly under his hospital gown, but it seemed to encase most of his torso, up to his neck. The bullets had severed his spine near his lower back; Sam wasn’t sure why the brace went up so high. His medical training ended somewhere around how to apply a Band-Aid, so what did he know.

Sam gripped Gunner’s hand where it lay on the covers; it was cool and dry. Relief fluttered through his heart as Gunner squeezed back.

“Hey, Unc. How’re you doin’?”

“I suck, kiddo. But I’m an old bastard, so it’s okay. I’m glad to see you up and running—and in street clothes, too. They spring you from this joint?”

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