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“Please.”
I watch as he fills a cup and then he and Charlie bring it to me. It’s a sight that makes my heart full, and breaks it, knowing what danger I’m putting them both in by being around them. It’s so selfish of me, but I don’t think I can fight it, either.
“Here,” he says, and hands me the cup as he sits beside me.
“Thank you.”
It’s strong, dark, bitter in a bracing way that I badly need right now. My body is still deeply comatose, as if still trapped in the post-orgasm sleep; though my mind is awake, the rest of me is still completely out.
After a few sips, I feel functional. Barely.
“We should talk about last night,” I say. It’s risky; I know I have to be careful in what I say to Hunter, and as tired as I am, I’m worried I’ll slip up and say something stupid, like mentioning Jay, but after the two of us have had sex, he and I need to define just what we are. I’ve heard stories about biker girls, about sweet butts or whatever they call them — everyone in town suddenly becomes an expert on MCs when a notorious one moves into the neighborhood — and I will not let indecisiveness define our relationship. “I’ll have you know that I’m not just some lay. I’m not a sweet butt.”
“A sweet butt?” Hunter laughs. Charlie does, too. Well, it’s more like a burp and a giggle, but he is only four months old. I’m just grateful he isn’t developed enough to understand what I said.
“Right. One of those girls that just throws herself indiscriminately at bikers.”
“Where did you hear a term like that?”
“Sophie.” It’s true. One biker from the Twisted Devils came into her coffee shop one day, and the next, she’d gotten a tattoo and went on a weeks-long fantasy where she was going to go into their clubhouse and become a sweet butt.
“Figures. What makes you think that you’re a sweet butt?”
“No, that’s why I mentioned it. I’m not. I don’t want to be your sweet butt,” I say. Charlie giggles again, and I can feel my cheeks going red.
Hunter's expression softens, and he shifts Charlie to his other arm so he can reach out and take my hand. "Emily, you're not a sweet butt. That's not even a term we use in the Reapers. You're..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "You're important to me. To us," he adds, glancing down at Charlie.
I feel a rush of relief, but also uncertainty. "What does that mean, exactly?"
Hunter takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm not great at this relationship stuff. My life's been... complicated. But I know I want you in it. Both our lives," he says, nodding at Charlie. "If you want that, too."
“I want that.” My heart races, and I take a steadying breath. It's what I want to hear, but I can't forget the danger I'm bringing into their lives. "Hunter, there's something you should know—"
Suddenly, my phone goes off, and the ringtone is so loud it’s like a gunshot. Hunter tenses immediately. His entire demeanor changes in an instant. As does Charlie’s — he starts to cry.
I look at the screen. It’s Maggie. It’s unlike her to call this early. She knows I stay up late, though usually it’s because I’m working on schoolwork and not because I’m with my biker-sort-of-boyfriend. Though, actually, after the talk we’ve just had, is he even a ‘sort of’ anymore? He’s close to real.
“I have to take this,” I say.
“And I have to take Charlie, calm him down,” Hunter says, picking up Charlie and carrying him to the room where he keeps the crib. Before I answer, I hear him hushing the baby and humming something that might, just might, be a nursery rhyme.
“Hey Maggie, what’s up?” I say as I answer.
“Emily, I need you to get to the store right away. Someone broke in last night and they hit the pharmacy hard.”
My stomach drops. "What? Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. I'm here now with the police. It's bad, Emily. Really bad."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emily
It looks like a war zone. Maybe. I’m not the leading authority on war zones, and I bet Hunter would say otherwise, but things are pretty nasty looking when I arrive at Ironwood Falls Meds & More. Glass is smashed and shards litter the parking lot like malicious hail. The contents of shelves inside the store are scattered through the aisles — greeting cards and toothbrushes and tampons strewn like debris from a raging storm — but the epicenter of the enmity is the pharmacy. Broken glass, busted computers, and a litany of graffiti — bitch, whore, slut, die, die, die — all sing my name.
“It was like this when I came in,” Maggie says, her hands on her hips, her voice a broken, breathless whisper. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. There are two officers from Ironwood Falls PD walking through the store, analyzing the scene of the crime. One I recognize as Officer Maya Alvarado, and the other is Burt Abrams, Jay’s closest friend. They’ve known each other since they were five, and he’s the reason I keep my voice low. “Though I think we both have an idea about who did this.”
