Page 44 of The Heart We Guard
Wade chuckles. “In that case, I’ll make sure I go grocery shopping before you arrive and have plenty of toothpaste ice cream for you.”
“Mint choc chip is not toothpaste flavored.”
“Whatever, G. Look, if I’m not staying, I need to be leaving if I’m going to catch my flight. Are you sure you’re good?”
I nod. “I am. I will be. One foot in front of the other and all that.”
He taps on his phone. “Fine. Ride ordered. It’ll be here in a minute.” He stands and throws his laptop bag over his shoulder. But before he grabs his suitcase, he reaches for my hand, tugs me out of my seat, and pulls me into a hug.
I take a breath.
Then another.
“We’re going to be fine,” Wade says.
And I want to believe him with my whole heart.
Wade is the only friend I’ve ever had who stuck around. From the first day of med school, when he sat down next to me, to today. His strength has always been enough to prop me up when I wobbled.
But the difference between a hug from Wade and a hug from Butcher is clear. This one is polite, respects physical boundaries, and oozes comfort.
When Butcher hugged me, he pulled me in so tight, I could barely breathe. My breasts pressed up against his chest. His arms wrapped around me like I mattered. His hand fisted in my hair.
There’s the rev of engines, motorcycles. But I don’t look up.
My mind is torn between a paranoid response to hide, in case it’s the Rebels, and a desire to look on the off chance it’s Butcher. But it’s never been him. I’ve had to train myself to not look up because the Midtown Rebels have had a way of finding me. Of showing up where I don’t want them to. I’m too scared to risk it. So, I bury my face in Wade’s collar and stay in this moment where I’m getting some comfort from a friend.
“Thank you for coming to see me.”
“Technically, it was for a conference. You were the bonus. Be safe, yeah?” He smashes a kiss to my temple and heads for the curb.
Which means I have only one thing left to do before I follow him.
I need to talk to Butcher.
13
BUTCHER
The trip into Denver to see Big Daddy is the longest ride I’ve been on since the shooting. It was agony, even though it’s been forty-two days since I got shot. Greer sewed me up right. Nothing ever got infected, even after a doctor loyal to the club removed the stitches the day I got home. Gave him vague details. He arranged a proper follow up for me, and I was told I’m healing nicely.
But my abdomen has never quite been the same. I waited weeks before even trying my bike and failed, at first.
Now, raw pain cuts through me when we turn at the intersection. There’s a bite to the wind, one I’m not properly dressed for, but I push through until we hit the next set of lights.
At the stoplight, I reach back into my pannier to grab the gloves I keep in there. I tug them on and feel the aching throb in my shoulder start.
Just what I fucking need.
As I lean to close the pannier, my eyes scan the area.
Shoppers and businessmen flood the sidewalk bars and cafes. Some rushing fast, some daydreaming, some drinking cof?—
Greer.
I see the white-blonde hair and don’t need to see her face to recognize her. She’s wearing a black sweater that looks fine and soft, and she’s hugging a man way too tightly for my ego and heart to handle.
I can see the man’s face. He’s attractive in a traditional jock kind of way. Blond hair too, just a touch tousled, and he’s got his arms wrapped around her.
