Page 32 of Ravaged and Ruined
“That’s where you are wrong. He is a mess,” Emery says. “But you’re not. And this could be something solid. It’s what we’ve talked about ever since…” Her voice falters, and the light dims in her eyes. It’s just a flicker, but I catch it. She sinks into the memory without meaning to. What those men did to her never really goes away. But Emery doesn’t stay in the dark long.
“Picture it,” she says, her voice lifting again, chasing hope like a lifeline. “The front becomes a dining area again with long, communal tables. We can serve hot meals here every day, twice a day if we can.”
I nod, dragging my fingers over the chipped edge of the counter. “We’ll need permits. Upgrades. Fire codes.”
Emery spins toward me, a grin on her face, already a dozen steps ahead. “There’s a back room too,” she says, pulling me by the hand. She pushes open a swinging door to the right, “This could be our office.”
It’s small but cozy. A single window overlooking a brick wall. I let myself imagine papers scattered across the desk, us bickering over invoices, women laughing over coffee in the next room. Safe. Fed. Seen.
Emery turns to me, “I meant what I said. I know joining up with the Royal Bastards wasn’t part of the plan, and whatever’s going on between you and Aero is heavy. But I still need you here. And these women need someone who gives a damn.”
I bump her shoulder with mine, a small grin tugging at my lips. “You’re stuck with me. Messy love life or not, I didn’t come all this way to bail on you now.”
She smiles, and for a second, it feels like old times, before everything got complicated.
We linger for hours, drifting from room to room. Emery’s already sketching out layouts on the back of receipts she digs out of her bag, seeing potential in every cracked tile and empty corner. She paces out dimensions with long strides, arms wide as she visualizes where beds will go, where a play area could be, how to make the back office fit the both of us.
I take photos of everything, crumbling ceiling tiles, rusted vents, the old industrial stove in the kitchen that still smells faintly of grease and burnt toast.
The sun shifts outside, casting golden streaks across the dirty floors. Dust floats in the air, catching the light like fireflies. At one point, Emery finds a broom in the utility closet and starts sweeping. We crack a couple of the windows just to let in air that doesn’t taste like old fryer oil.
Somewhere between the fifth and sixth pass, we sit on the floor with sodas and chips from the vending machine next door, sipping flat Coke and laughing over bad paint colors and worse names.
I try to stay in the moment, really stay. Don't think about Aero. Don’t wonder where he is or why he left without a word. Not letting the weight of last night creep into this.
By the time we leave, the sun’s dipped low, casting long shadows across the parking lot. The sky’s gone that dusty pink, the kind that tricks you into thinking the day’s still got time left.
“Shit.” Emery stops short a few steps ahead and curses.”My purse. I think I left it on the counter.”
She spins around, already jogging back toward the building before I can say anything.
I hang back by the Bronco, my arms crossed against my chest, my eyes sweeping the lot. It’s mostly empty except for adelivery van and a busted-up Civic with no plates that probably hasn’t moved in weeks.
Movement catches my eye and two figures step out from behind the boarded-up vape shop. I notice the leather cuts first. For a second, I think they’re one of ours. Prospects, maybe sent to check in on us. But as they come closer, I see it. The patches aren’t the Royal Bastards. The curved blood-red lettering reads Bloody Scorpions. Something twists in my gut.
I straighten up, trying to keep my face unreadable as they close the distance fast.
The taller one’s got sun-leathered skin and a scar down his jaw like someone tried to carve their name into it. The other’s bulkier with hands shoved deep into his pockets.
I step back just a hair but it's only far enough to hit the car. There’s nowhere to go.
“Evenin’, darlin’,”
My mouth’s dry. I don’t respond. I’ve been with the Royal Bastards long enough to know The Bloody Scorpions aren’t our friends. I lift my chin instead, my shoulders squared in silent defiance.
The bulky one steps into my personal space, and before I can react, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. He doesn’t hurt me, not really, but makes it clear I couldn’t stop him if I tried. My pulse kicks hard under his grip.
“Your boyfriend’s makin’ reckless choices,” he says, wedging my palm open and dropping something into it. “You don’t wanna be standing too close when that hits.”
My fingers instinctively curl around something small and hard. Then, he drops my wrist and they walk off, like they didn’t just toss a live grenade into my day.
I unclench my fingers around the bullet. My heart’s pounding loud enough I swear I can hear it echoing in my ears. I jump at the thundering sound of the door slamming closed. Emerytosses the key into the lockbox and comes jogging back across the lot, her purse now slung over her shoulder.
“Of course it was in the last damn place I looked,” she says, grinning.
On instinct, I slip the bullet into my pocket. My hand shakes just once before I bury it deep.
“Ready?” she asks, breathless and completely unaware.
