Page 90 of Lone Star

He nodded toward the doors to the ER. “Your husband’s here.”

“Shit.” She knew about the scene at Pacer’s place – Fox had just been filling her in – but she’d thought dealing with Cantrell would occupy most of Candy’s afternoon. She hadn’t thought he’d show up here.

She turned, and looked, and there he was, frozen just inside the doors. People were having to step around him.

He was staring at her. Actually slack-jawed, totally gobsmacked. She felt like Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, or some other fictional entity that no one expected to encounter in real life.

She stood frozen, like an idiot, and then his expression firmed, and he came toward her.

“Oh, shit.”

“You’re not afraid of him, are you?” Fox asked, offhand, as Candy stalked toward them. “Because if you are, I could always kill him for you.”

She shot him a fast, startled glance – quick, but enough to see that he was deadly serious. He loved his club, and his brothers, but he would cut it all away for certain people. Knowing she was one of those people left her dizzy, even if a part of her had always suspected.

“No,” she hissed, and then Candy was in front of her, looking caught between thunderstruck and furious. “Hi, baby. I’m so sorry about Pacer.”

At another time, she would have laughed at the complicated array of expressions he cycled through: brows going up, then down, then up again, his frown twitching. He opened his mouth to say something, and leaned forward, hand moving toward her arm–

Fox slid neatly between them.

Candy pulled up short.

“Let’s keep it civil, alright?” Fox asked, tone brisk, disinterested. But Michelle could read the tension in his body. If Candy said or did anything he didn’t like, civility would be the last thing on his mind.

It was shocking, honestly: him getting between them – thinking he needed to in the first place. Inserting himself in a husband-wife, and brother-old lady situation. It flew in the face of all sorts of MC etiquette.

It also brought something into sharp focus for Michelle.

As Candy stared at her uncle, absolutely dumbstruck, his expression blank, she realized she’d let things go way, way too far.

She put a hand on Fox’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Uncle Charlie, I’ll take it from here,” she said, and sought to steer him away.

He resisted a moment, glancing back over his shoulder at her; gazed at her a moment, reading her expression, then nodded and slid away. He didn’t go far, lingering in her periphery as she stepped into the place he’d vacated and tipped her head all the way back so she could look at Candy. Showing him her throat on purpose; she’d been showing him nothing much besides the stink-eye for a few days, now, and it had to stop, for both their sakes – for the club’s sake.

He studied her a moment, expression darkening; she could see – in the tic of the muscle in his cheek – that he was trying to figure out how he wanted to phrase things.

She touched his wrist. “Let’s go outside.”

“I–” he started.

“Mrs. Snow?” A doctor – a young intern, Michelle suspected – had appeared, scrub cap secured tightly over her hair. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

“Okay.” In an undertone to Candy: “It’s about Jinx.”

He hesitated a moment before falling into step behind her. “Wait, what happened to Jinx?”

~*~

Axelle added an extra packet of sugar to her coffee, though she didn’t need it, or the caffeine given the way post-rush chills were cycling through her body. The break room was blessedly empty, save an older guy in scrubs eating an apple and reading a book in the corner. Her hands kept twitching, sore from the way she’d gripped the steering wheel so tight.

She heard footsteps behind her, the heavy tread of a biker boot, but the light step of someone who knew how to move quietly despite that. She knew who it would be before she turned, and when she spotted Albie, it wasn’t with the usual, nervous, schoolgirl fluttering of late that filled her stomach. It was a relief that left her weak in the joints, the same that she’d felt out on the road when she’d realized he and his club brothers were riding to the rescue.

He walked right up to her, hurrying, face creased with worry. He’d looked more confident out on the street, and even in the waiting room, but now, the worry shone through, and it warmed her.

“Hey.” He reached to tuck a lock of her hair back behind her ear, and touched her cheek with a gentle stroke of his thumb – gentle, but not hesitant. He didn’t hold back with his body, either; pressing into her space, and with her welcome.

She set her coffee aside so she could grip the front of his cut in both hands. It was an automatic movement, wanting to make contact, but she realized a beat later, with a start, that it was the first time she’d willingly ever touched the thing. This piece of leather that stood for so much she’d hated for so long.

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