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Fair.
“The girls?”
“Kaleb.”
Good, that’s good.
Daniel walks farther into the cell. “You need to rest.”
“I’m okay.” I brush off his concern.
“They can take you for questioning any time. Sleep while you can,” he insists.
My brother approaches the two bikers sitting on the lone cot. “Move,” he orders.
They look at each other but quickly move. Tension fills the cell. A few feet away, the cops remain oblivious to what’s happening in the secured cell. Looking at one of the computer screens that faces us, I roll my eyes.
I guess solitaire is more important than keeping their prisoners safe.
Daniel sits on one end, the metal groaning as it takes his weight. He gestures for me to take the rest of the bed.
Together, all five bikers move to the other side of the cell, none willing to get too close to us.
Shaking out of my jacket, I ball it up, lying down with it under my head near Daniel’s thigh. My long legs hang off the end, but it’ll do. Anything is better than standing all night. Not a second later, another jacket covers me.
“Sleep, Mikey. I got you.”
The words from our past, spoken in a voice that is no longer that of a child’s, cracks my chest open.
“Still?” I whisper.
A heavy hand lays on my chest, over my heart.
“Always,” he swears.
I feel my eyes filling.Fuck!
Turning to my left, I face the back of the cell, blinking fast. Tucking my legs up onto the cot, I get comfortable. Now is not the time to be emotional.
The hand I just dislodged by turning adjusts his jacket.
Twenty years after joining the Cromwell family, I’m no longer that terrified seven-year-old boy, but Daniel is still here, tucking me in.
“Did Cooper cry?” I whisper.
“Too busy being unconscious,” Daniel replies, the smile in his voice clear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Michael
By the time I wake several hours later, Daniel has stretched his legs out in front of him, taking up more than half of the cell’s floor plan. The bikers are spread out on the floor, looking cold and uncomfortable.
Sitting up, I groan; pain ripples up my neck. I’ve never felt older. My body suddenly thinks it’s fifty-seven, not twenty-seven.
Dragging my body up, I spot my dad on a bench in the waiting area across the room.
Seeing that I’m awake, he approaches. His usual pressed shirt is wrinkled, his tie discarded on the bench. His face is etched in worry, and his eyes assess me as he draws closer. You’d think I’d been here days,not hours, but I love that he’s here, and he cares. He always has.
