Page 172 of Dagger

She scrunched her nose up. “I don’t think it works like that, Elise, but I kinda get it. My mom’s the same way with me. When she had her hysterectomy, she was laid up and hated me waiting on her, even though she’d just had a massive operation.” She grinned. “I told her to get used to it because there may come a day when I have to change her diapers.”

I laughed.

“My point is,” she continued. “Everybody needs help at different points in their lives. Right now, you need Soph’s support, but who’s to say next year, she won’t need yours? One thing therapy taught me was that everybody goes through hard times, but it’s up to us to find the tools to cope effectively. Family is a huge tool, so utilize it.”

“I don’t think I know how,” I explained. “I’ve gone for years relying on myself. Now, it’s second nature. I can be vulnerable, but only to a certain point because all my life, whenever I’ve been vulnerable, somebody’s used it to hurt me.”

“Do you think Sophie, John, Atlas, hell, anybody in this club would do that?”

“No,” I replied vehemently.

“That’s step one,” she declared. “Step two is to call Mitch Handley’s practice first thing Monday morning and make an appointment. Let him help you find the tools to heal.”

“Do you think I’d benefit from therapy?” I asked curiously.

“You’re not sleeping, Elise. Why do you think that is?”

My head stabbed painfully, and I rubbed at my temple. “Shit.”

Cara grinned. “You’ll be fine… eventually.”

“Shit!” I muttered again.

“Are you two still here?” my daughter called out.

Turning, I smiled, watching Sophie strut toward us. “Come on.” She motioned toward the parking lot. “It’s the last club run of the year.” She slipped her hand through the crook of my armand tugged me through the bar to the door. “The boys will be waiting.”

We walked outside, and the sun hit my eyes.

My head throbbed, and I lifted a hand to shield my eyes from the harsh brightness. A burning sensation seared my chest, and my breaths began to come hard and fast. The revving of the engines grated on me, and the grinding and popping of Harleys, usually birdsong to my ears, made the pain in my head intensify.

Fumbling inside my jacket pocket for my sunglasses, I quickly put them on, sighing thankfully when they provided instant relief. I peered through my dazed eyes at the long line of bikes to see John grinning at me.

My breath hitched.

His hair was messy where he’d been running his fingers through it, and his tan was golden from being out in the sun. He wore a tee under his club leather jacket, black jeans, and biker boots. His chest and back were broad under his clothes, his muscles rippling under them every time he moved or flexed.

He made me weak at the knees, and I couldn’t wait to curl up in bed with him later, and explore every ridged dip and curve of his body.

He held his arm out and shouted, “Come on, Duchess.”

Giving my man a wobbly smile, I began to pick my way over the forecourt in my spike-heeled boots toward him and the green bike he’d coveted years ago because the color reminded him of my eyes.

Placing my hand in his, he tugged me behind him, holding my fingers tightly as I threw my leg over the saddle and settled in comfortably behind him.

John grabbed my thighs, pulling me forward, and then he grabbed my new helmet from the handlebars and passed it to me.

A few days before, John and I had gone down to a bike shop in Grand Junction to buy new brain buckets. My shiny new peacock-blue one was all singing, all dancing, with built-in speakers and a microphone. It meant we could listen to music directly from his cell phone.

He craned his neck. “What tunes do you want?”

“Put on the playlist we listened to when we were decorating the other day,” I told him excitedly.

“The one that starts with Kings of Leon?” he checked.

I nodded.

He faced forward, playing with his phone briefly until the opening bars of ‘Use Somebody’ burst through the speakers. Then, he glanced left at Breaker—who had Kennedy plastered to his back—and gave him a chin lift.

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