Page 159 of Roulette Rodeo
Corwin's the same. He still sees all his patients, still provides the medical care this town desperately needs, but he's not hiding in the clinic anymore. Not using other people's problems to avoid examining his own. He comes home for lunch sometimes now, just to see if Red's eaten, to make sure she's taking care of herself.
Hell, even I've changed, though I've fought it every step of the way.
The town's noticed.
No surprise there. In a place this small, every change is catalogued, discussed, dissected over coffee and gossip.
The whispers follow us everywhere:the Lucky Ace Pack and their new omega, the one who seems to have lit a fire under them to actually come home.
It's almost comical, but the reality is more than one person has said she's an omega who genuinely seems to like us.
Respect us.
Not our money, not our reputation, not what we can provide.
The distinction shouldn't matter as much as it does, but after Sophia...
Mrs. Henderson cornered me at the bank last week, her weathered face creased with what might have been concern or might have been nosiness.
"That new omega of yours," she'd said without preamble. "Red."
"What about her?" I'd kept my tone neutral, professional.
"She's different from the last one." A statement, not a question.
"Yes."
Mrs. Henderson had studied me with eyes that have seen seven decades of small-town dramas.
"Different in a good way. That girl looks at you boys like you hung the moon, but she also looks ready to take you down a peg if needed. Balance. That's what you've been missing."
Balance.
Such a simple word for something so complex. But she wasn't wrong.
Red balances us in ways Sophia never could, maybe never wanted to. She doesn't try to be our center; she just exists in our orbit while maintaining her own gravity.
She gives Shiloh softness, Talon focus, Corwin purpose.
And me?
She gives me hell, which might be exactly what I need.
Thunder crashes overhead, pulling me from my thoughts.
The coffee shop is just ahead, completely dark against the storm. My foot hits the brake instinctively, body reacting before my mind processes what's happening.
A car skids through the intersection in front of me, tires hydroplaning on the flooded road.
Shit!
It corrects at the last second, avoiding the ditch by inches.
A very familiar car.
A Maserati GranTurismo, black with custom green undertones that catch the light from my headlights. Only one person in three states has that particular combination of wealth and poor taste.
Luca.
