Page 22 of Psycho

“Someone who wasn’t wearing Psycho's shirt.”

I paused mid-chew. Arrow came up beside me and draped his arm across my shoulders.

“This is Bobbie,” he said, his voice loaded with meaning.

Understanding dawned on Bruiser’s face. He cast another assessing glance my way and made a noise I couldn’t interpret, sipping his coffee.

“You’re that crazy chick he couldn’t stop talking about when he got out of the loony bin,” Bruiser said.

Arrow growled, baring his teeth. I coughed a laugh and left the last two ribs in the container, sliding it down to Bruiser. He caught it with one hand, lifting his chin with a grateful nod.

“Well, you don’t sugar coat things, do you?” I said.

“I swear he was raised by fucking wolves,” Arrow grumbled.

He shot a menacing glare at Bruiser. But Bruiser didn’t seem to give a shit as he eagerly ripped the ribs apart and sucked the meat off the bones.

On one hand, Bruiser’s bluntness was refreshing. So many people treated me like glass when they discovered the truth about my mental health and my disorders. It was exhausting sometimes, and I didn’t want to be handled with kid gloves. I wanted to be normal, like everybody else.

On the other hand, I couldn’t deny there was a slight sting to the label. I wasn’t cute, or pretty, or the funny one. I was that crazy chick. And sure, I was used to the stigma that crazy carried by now.

But it left a sour taste in my mouth to realize that I was simply known as the crazy girlfriend.

As if he could read my thoughts, Arrow squeezed my shoulder and kissed my temple.

“Ignore him, okay?” he said. “Bruiser doesn’t know when to shut his big mouth. Did you get enough to eat? Are you still hungry?”

I contemplated the stack of containers in the fridge, but then I thought better of it. As tempting as it was to eat my fill, I didn’t want to take Arrow’s food.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “I was just looking for a little midnight snack.”

Arrow narrowed his eyes for a split second, skeptical of my response.

“I’ll warm up the beef stew and make you some toast to go along with it.”

Bruiser scoffed, smacking his lips.

“Are you sure you can manage that? I've seen you burn cereal before. You're a hazard in the kitchen."

Arrow flipped him off without even sparing a glance in his direction. I slid out of my chair and crossed to Arrow’s side, standing at the counter.

“Hey, it’s late,” I whispered. “And you’re exhausted. You shouldn’t be cooking for me. You should be going back to bed.”

“This isn’t my cooking,” Arrow replied. “I’m just warming it up. Ironside and Jenny are the ones who keep stuffing leftovers in my fridge. Most of it goes to waste, because I can’t finish it all. You’re actually the one doing me a favor here.”

My heart clenched to hear that these people took care of Arrow, cooking homemade meals for him, making sure that he never went hungry. That’s what a family was supposed to do for each other.

I watched him with a pang in my chest as Arrow turned on the stove, pouring the beef stew in a pot. Reaching out, I trailed my hand up his bicep, over his shoulder, and down his back, proving to myself that he wasn’t just a dream.

But he was warm to the touch, solid, real.

Arrow took my hand and kissed the scar on my palm, holding my gaze with his steady gray eyes.

When I took a breath to speak, the roar of motorcycles split the stillness of the night. A moment later came a barrage of gunfire.

Glass exploded around me in stinging shards.

“Get down!” Bruiser bellowed.