Page 113 of Traitor

It's that fucking text, I just know it. It pushed everything over the edge. No. Fuck that. Bones is not sneaking into my head. Not now. Not ever again.

Am I too horny? Has it just been too long? Maybe it's just my body screaming at me that I need to get laid. Maybe this has nothing to do with Bones.

I need to call Griffin.

Or maybe I should finally call Dr. Monroe. I keep delaying it. I haven't been to therapy in almost two years. Maybe this is a sign that I need to start again, dig into whatever unresolved bullshit is still rattling around inside me. Because these kinds of dreams about Bones? They're not normal.

They can't be.

I force myself to breathe, slow and deep, forcing air into my lungs like it will exorcise the memories still clawing at the edges of my mind. Inhale, hold, exhale. Over and over again, until the panic stops bubbling under my skin, until I can finally unclench my fists, until the ache in my chest settles into something manageable. It takes forever.

But finally, finally, I force my mind to stillness.

I will not let this happen.

Bones has no place in my life.

Least of all my fucking mind.

My fiery Temper, the Romano deal was never more important than you. Consider it dead.

I love you because you used to put a drop of my cologne on your wrist just to sniff it when you were working and I wasn't near you. And you thought I never noticed. I noticed, Temper. I noticed every damn time.

I don't care! BLOCK!

My fiery Temper, I love you because you never let the world break you. Not them. Not me. You burned down every cage that tried to hold you.

BLOCK!

I changed my number. Twice. It’s been a month of these daily texts. How the hell does he keep sending them?

My fiery Temper, I love you because you don't need me. And that scares the shit out of me. Because I need you, Temper. I always have.

Why do I keep reading his shit? It's like I have a morbid fascination for what he might say. I can’t stop myself. There’s a dark need inside me that’s demanding to read his despair.

Still.

BLOCK!

I sit in my office chair, my eyes blurring from four straight hours of reviewing logo proposals. My mind is numb with exhaustion. I need a break.

So, I do what's become a routine since I ripped two dangerous MCs apart and handed them to the FBI: I scroll the news.

I skim headlines, looking for anything to distract me, when my world collapses.

Big. Bold. Brutal.

Gideon Williams, also known as Jinx of the Crimson Riders MC, who was sentenced to death in the case of the Roadside Butcher, was granted his appeal today for a new trial due to ineffective counsel.

"No."

The word barely leaves my lips before everything caves in. My pulse races, a violent pounding inside my chest. Memories swarm. Blood. Darkness. A blade against my throat.

Tears spill before I even realize I'm crying. I can't breathe. My grip on the desk tightens, wood biting into my palms, grounding me. Or trying to.

I stay frozen. Completely. Utterly. Frozen.

Distantly, I hear Amy's voice. Concerned. Muffled. Then something deeper. Rough. Dangerous. An angry growl.

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