I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Since when was any of this safe?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she finished her drink and stood. “Let’s get some air,” she said. “All of us.”
Vin followed, still clutching his notebook. Moab hauled me up by the shoulder.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but the street was a river of neon and oil.
Scarlette walked ahead, hands jammed in her pockets. I caught up, matched her stride.
“You’re going to help me?” I asked.
She didn’t look at me. “I don’t know.”
We walked in silence to the edge of the lot, where the city lights flickered like old dreams.
“You think she’s still there?” Scarlette asked, voice barely a whisper.
I nodded. “I feel it.”
Scarlette looked at me then, really looked. “You know if you do this, you might not come back.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I already didn’t.”
She laughed, sharp and sad. “You’re a fucking lunatic, O’Toole.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I keep my promises.”
Behind us, Moab and Vin argued about logistics—how to get from Lexington to Dublin, what to pack, whether a bulletproof vest worked against seventeenth-century musket balls.
I didn’t care. I had everything I needed: a name, a promise, and a friend crazy enough to try.
Scarlette put a hand on my arm. “Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
I nodded. “Tomorrow.”
When the others caught up, we headed back inside, one unit. Not whole, not healed, but hungry for answers.
I didn’t know what the future held, or if I’d ever see Catherine again. But I knew this: I wouldn’t stop until I tried. And if the universe wanted to fuck with me one more time, it better be ready for a fight.
Toolie
The Royal Bastards MC clubhouse had all the windows shut against the rain, so the inside was an aquarium for smoke and the long, slow rot of spilt whiskey. I sat at the corner table, same seat I’d taken every day for the past month, elbow propped so I could see the front door and the back hallway both. The glass in my hand was half-full, same as I was.
Moab stood by the jukebox, leaning on it like he was waiting for a song that would never come. His arms folded, gaze on the door, the veins in his neck standing out as if he could will the night to end early. Canon was a statue beside him, hands behind his back, like he was set up for a mugshot or a firing squad. He’d worn his black tee, the one with the bleach stain across the belly, because he knew it bothered me.
Scarlette had the bar to herself, cleaning a blade beneath the counter with a red shop rag. Her boots were up on the rail, soles scuffed white. She didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tensionrolling off her in sheets. She was pissed about something, but that was Scarlette’s baseline.
Vin was hunched at the table’s edge, scribbling notes into a battered Moleskine. Every so often, he’d pause, nibble at the cap of his pen, then write again, fast and jagged. I’d bet my left nut he was cross-referencing my bullshit dreams with the club’s own cargo manifest. Guy loved a good spreadsheet.
The only sound was the hum of the fridge behind the bar and the wet, animal growl of Moab’s breath. I sipped my whiskey, kept the glass to my lips as long as I could.
Then the door exploded open, kicked wide with more drama than the RBMC usually managed on a Tuesday. Mama Celeste strode in, skirts snapping around her calves like angry silk, a trail of incense curling off her shoulder like an afterburn. She filled the entryway with a force that shoved the air out ahead of her and made every head in the place swing to watch.
Her hair was black as carbon, silver streaks shining in the club lights, and her eyes were two chips of obsidian that made you want to apologize for shit you hadn’t even done yet. She walked straight for me, not bothering to shake the rain off her shawl. Every step of her boots rang out, sharp and steady.
Vin was the first to move, popping to his feet with a nervous cough. “Celeste. Didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Of course not.” She smiled, all teeth. “Men rarely expect what’s necessary.”