Page 5 of Word to the Wise

I barely remember how I got to Los Angeles or to this apartment because time started skipping.

Everything after hopping on the bus in San Francisco is a blur. I remember shoving my driver’s license and cash into my back pocket before walking out of the apartment I share with Carter, but that was it.

The bus driver looked at me sideways. She didn’t ask why I was bleeding or crying, and I appreciated that. I hid in the back until we stopped in LA.

Logically, I know how I got here—to this apartment.

But how did I gethere—in my life?

My father raised a fighter. Not the weak girl I’ve become.

I was born and raised on the Twisted Kings motorcycle club compound. I learned how to fight when I was nine years old, and how to change a tire at ten. I’ve worked hard my whole life, and I’m capable of supporting myself. I can kill someone with a pocketknife if it comes down to it.

Still,I let him do this.

Another tear slips down my cheek, and I hate that I’m crying. I hate that he’s made me this person who no longer recognizes the girl in the mirror. I’m twenty-six and more lost than I’ve ever been. It’s pathetic.

Slowly, I make my way out of the bedroom, my head pounds harder as I move through the tunnel that is the hallway. I step into the living room, and it moves on its axis, flipping around like I’m on some funhouse roller coaster. I flatten my back to the wall and press my fingersto my temples, closing my eyes and trying to find my balance.

“Careful.”

I blink my eyes open to see Sage kneeling in front of me. I’m sitting on the floor, not remembering getting here.

Time is skipping again.

My vision is blurring.

I didn’t hear Mason and Sage stop talking, but the room is silent as my brother looks me over. A slow pulse throbs between my temples with my heartbeat.

How did I get here?

“Reed.” Sage tips my chin up, and I’m met with his dark eyes.

Every year, Sage looks more and more like our father. Or maybe I just think that because I don’t remember Mom outside of photographs. She died from breast cancer when I was two years old, so all I’m left with are the stories.

But Sage has Dad’s dark eyes and strong facial features. And as I glance down and see his new vice-president patch on his cut, he might as well be my father’s legacy come to life. He fought it for a while, but he found his way because it’s who he was always meant to be.

“Are you with me?” He scans my wounds, and I swear they hurt more when he looks at them.

“Yeah.” I press my lips together and try to find my center. “Sorry, you’re probably busy. You got here so fast.”

“I was downstairs at the shop when Mason called.”

“You didn’t have to leave work for me.”

Sage shakes his head, and he’s calm to the point of it being a little terrifying.

I know my brother, and while most people are familiar with his carefree side, that’s not the side of him that’s revealing itself now. This is his calm before the storm. Protective rage threatening to boil to the surface.

Every time his gaze moves to one of my cuts or bruises, I sense him on the verge of snapping, and I’m overwhelmed with guilt.

Sage went through so much when Lyla was taken when we were younger. He suffered for years, feeling like he had failed her. I didn’t want to add to his list of burdens. Which is why I hid Carter’s escalations from him.

It’s not Sage’s fault.

There’s nothing he could have done to stop it when I let this happen. But I don’t think he would agree as evidenced by the way he looks at me right now.

The truth is out in the open. There’s no more hiding.

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