Page 18 of The Chance

“Yeah … yeah, I should get him something.”

It takes a literal shove and a chuckle from Jonathon to get my feet moving.

Mac’s already got headphones in when I walk by, his eyes closed, his chest rising with steady breaths.

It eases something in me to see him calm, to see him getting himself in the zone and surrounded by a safety net of people that care about him.

Including the woman that’s already pricking him thousands of times with a color-doused needle.

Cedar catches my eye, shoots a wink my way, then goes right back to inking over his abdomen.

It feels odd as shit to leave him here without me, but when I catch sight of the baseball bat leaned up by the back door, an airy chuckle escapes me.

And because I can’t seem to make myself walk away just yet, I do an entire round of the whole building that includes Mac’s sister-in-law’s boutique next door and the third shop that sits mostly empty. I check all the locks and windows, including the empty apartments above, before I clamor into the car and make my way to one of Mac’s favorite drive-thru joints. It takes longer than I’d hoped, the line moving slower than a snail, but the bag is filled to the brim with piping hot burgers and mac and cheese when I finally pull away.

The drive back across town seems to be taking forever. Long enough that I’m near bouncing in my seat when I glance at the clock and realize I’ve been gone too long.

I should have told him I was leaving.

“Shit,” I mutter to the windshield as I finally pull up to the parlor and there’s another car parked behind the building. I think I recognize the SUV, yet it still makes my skin tighten with nerves.

Is he okay?

Snatching the bag from my passenger seat so fast part of it rips, I jog the length of the broken alley past the dumpster and curse when the back door opens freely.

Why does no one lock fucking doors?

The stock room is a blur of bottles and boxes, my sights set on the light spilling from the shop floor, my gaze zoning in on Mac the second he’s in view.

What I expected to see was my drummer propped up by a trashcan and ready to tap out.

Instead, I’m struck frozen by his glimmering smile and shirtless torso. There’s a black patch taped over his left hip, all the way up to nearly his rib cage and dipping low into his jeans.

But that’s not what my sight is stuck on.

No, it’s his eyes.

They’re brighter than when we got here, the green of them shining behind a hint of black eyeliner.

My breath catches when he laughs at something Cedar says and my brow furrows.

Am I the reason they’ve been dull?

The thought rocks me, though I don’t understand it, and I swallow against the building lump in my throat.

“Vida,” I say, and it cracks, but I ignore that with a clearing of my suddenly dry throat. “I got you food.”

Mac’s sight swings on me and softens the tiniest bit. “Shit yes!” He jumps up, scrambling over to me like I’m holding the answer to everything instead of just a bag of greasy shit. “I’m fucking starved. Cedar’s granola bars suck.”

“Hey!”

I let loose a soft chuckle at the scowl Cedar throws at Mac’s back and hold the bag steady as he dives right in and takes what he knows is his.

“So, she force fed you?” I ask with a crook to my brow, and desperately hoping for a distraction against the weird flutter happening in my stomach.

Mac’s gaze flips to mine over the bag and a tingling of recognition rushes over me.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, taking a bite of his now unwrapped burger. “Get her.”

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