Page 8 of Falcon’s Forever

She holds my gaze a second longer. "Show up." It’s only two words. It’s not a demand, or a plea, it feels like someone rooting for me, which is worse, because now I've got one more thing I can fail at.

"I will."

I walk toward Vulture's office with the folder under my arm and my brothers behind me, Cara is twenty feet back, and the weight of the VP patch is heavier on my shoulders than it was when I put it on this morning. For the first time in weeks, I understand why. The club doesn't need me to stop hurting. Cara doesn't need me to become the man I was before all of this. They all need me present, and maybe that's where I start. Not fixing five years of damage in one day, and not chasing something I can't punch, shoot, or bury.

I start by walking into my president's office when he calls me. I start by taking my seat at Church. I start by remembering I've got brothers who'll carry the weight the second I stop being too stubborn to hand them some of it.

Vulture's behind his desk when I step inside. He points at the chair across from him.

"Sit down."

I shut the door behind me, and for once, I do exactly what I'm told.

Chapter 2

Cara

Mornings in the women's house start quietly. It’s not peaceful by any means. It feels careful. They are very different things. Peace feels open, like sunlight on bare skin. Careful feels like walking across ice and pretending you can't hear it thinking about cracking.

I move through the kitchen slow enough not to startle anyone, even though there's nobody to startle yet. The kettle ticks as it cools from someone being up during the night for a hot drink. Someone left a mug in the sink, there’s lipstick smudged on the rim, and as small as it is, that counts as evidence. Proof that a woman in this house chose an ordinary moment yesterday and didn't flinch through it.

I used to take mornings for granted. Coffee. Laughing at nothing. Falcon's arm heavy across my waist while he complained about getting up for work he loved.

I don't let myself finish that thought. Before is where hope lives, and hope is a fragile thing when you're still learning how to breathe on your own again.

By the time I get back to the house properly, breakfast at the clubhouse is over and Sarah's helping Emily pick through a mountain of donated clothes in the living room. It should look ordinary maybe one day it will. For now, I still notice things other people wouldn't. Sarah's chosen the armchair with a clear line of sight to both doors. Emily's sitting on the floor with her back to the wall instead of the sofa. Someone's left the curtains open only halfway, enough to see out without feeling seen.

There's a baseball bat tucked behind the bookcase. I noticed it three days ago and haven't moved it.

Safety doesn't arrive just because someone tells you that you have it. Your mind can understand there are armed men on the gate, and nobody gets through without being seen, but your body still won't believe it. Your body remembers locked doors, footsteps in hallways, and the sound a key makes when you know nothing good is waiting on the other side of it. It takes longer to teach your body the danger's passed. I'm still working on mine.

"Well?" Sarah asks, not looking up from the sweater she's folding.

"Well what?"

"Did you talk to him?" I don’t need to ask who she is talking about.

Emily's head comes up fast enough that I know she's been waiting for this exact moment since I walked in.

"Have you two considered minding your own business?"

"Frequently," Sarah says. "I'm not very good at it."

She adds the sweater to one of three piles on the coffee table. I've no idea what the piles represent, though judging by the purple sequined thing sitting on top of one of them, I'm hoping at least one pile is headed for a bin.

Emily holds up a tiny silver dress by two fingers. "Who donated this?"

"Someone who hates women," Sarah says, laughing.

The sound loosens something in my chest that's been sitting tight since I woke. A few weeks ago, Emily barely spoke above a whisper. Sarah wouldn't sit with her back to an open room, and she flinched at a raised voice outside. Now they're arguing about a dress while trying to get information out of me, healing doesn't always look profound. Sometimes it looks exactly like this.

"I spoke to him," I say, because they're not going to let it go otherwise.

"And?" Sarah asks, folding another item of clothing.

"And nothing." I don’t have anything to give them, our conversation was very short.

"That's disappointing."