Page 20 of Crowbar

Crowbar’s toothpick didn’t move. His eyes locked onto mine, and something in his expression went through about four different stages in the span of two seconds. Surprise. Confusion. Something warm and dangerous. And then, underneath all of it, a crack in the armor so brief I almost missed it.

“What did you just call me?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“Pookie.” I beamed at him. “It suits you. Big scary biker with a tiny puppy and a toothpick addiction. That’s pookie energy. Own it.”

Deadeye had his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Holler had stopped recording and was just staring at me with his mouth open.

“I’m keeping that,” Drift said from somewhere behind me. “For the rest of his life.”

Crowbar exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man counting to ten in a language that only had words for violence. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Just once. A single crack in the granite.

“You’re never living this down,” Trent whispered to Crowbar as he passed, and I could’ve sworn I heard Preacher’s low chuckle from somewhere in the dark.

“I don’t care,” I announced to the yard at large. “He’s my pookie and Noodles is my baby and these ribs are my religion.” I leaned sideways until my head found Crowbar’s shoulder, my cheek pressing against the leather of his cut. He smelled like motor oil and sandalwood and smoke from the fire, and the combination was so warm and grounding that my eyelids went heavy immediately. “Also, I think I’m dying. In a good way. A cozy way. Like a sunset.”

“You’re not dying. You’re high.”

“Same thing, different aesthetic.” I nuzzled deeper into his shoulder. Noodles adjusted on my side, pressing closer to my hip. “Hey, Crowbar?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. For tonight. For the doctor. For not making me feel small about it.” My words were getting thick, running together at the edges like watercolors bleeding into each other. “People usually make me feel small.”

Crowbar’s hand came up and rested on the back of my head. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there, fingers threading through my hair in a slow, absent motion that sent tingles cascading down my spine.

“You’re not small,” he said.

“I’m five-four.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I smiled into his shoulder, and the warmth from the fire and the medication and the steady presence beside me pulled me under like a tide. The last thing I heard was Noodles snoring and the low rumble of Crowbar’s voice saying something to someone I couldn’t see.

“You’re staying here tonight. No condition to be alone.”

“Your shoulder is the best pillow I’d ever had.” My eyes were getting heavy. The fire popped and crackled, and the pain in my arm was a thousand miles away on someone else’s planet. “You’re really warm. Are all bikers this warm? Is it a requirement? Is there a thermostat test during initiation?”

“Go to sleep, Spencer.”

“Can’t. Too many compliments left to give.” I nuzzled deeper into his shoulder, and his arm came around me, settling along my back. “Drift’s beans were transcendent. Tell him I said transcendent. That’s a big word. I’m using big words. The medication is making me eloquent and honest, and I think your eyes are the most beautiful things I’ve ever—”

“Spencer.”

“Hmm?”

“Sleep.”

“I’m staying?”

Crowbar’s arm tightened around me. His chin rested against the top of my head, beard scratching softly against my hair. “You’re in no condition to be alone tonight. You’re staying.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, pookie.”

A rumble went through his chest. Not quite a laugh, not quite a growl.