Instead of answering, Colton flips to a new page in his notebook. “While we’re on the subject of the club, I’d like to ask about some recent activities of the Devil’s Rejects. There are a few things that I find concerning.”
I cut him off before he can continue. “Any questions about the club need to go to Atlas,” I say firmly. “I’m sure you know he’s the president.”
“I’m asking you,” Colton says, his voice hardening slightly.
“And I’m telling you to talk to Atlas.” I push off from the counter, drawing myself up to my full height. “We’re done here, deputy. Unless you’re arresting me, I’d like you to leave. I’ve got work to do.”
For a moment, I think he might push back. Then he snaps his notebook shut, tucking it back into his jacket. “This isn’t over, Sullivan,” he says.
“It is for today,” I reply.
He gives me one last hard look before turning and walking out. I watch him go, unease still churning in my gut. Amara Hammond. Why is Colton asking about her now? And what does she have to do with any of this?
I don’t have time to dwell on it. I have an appointment coming up in twenty minutes, and after that, I’ll try Morgan’s place again. Maybe today will be the day Kayla finally agrees to see me. Maybe today I’ll finally get a chance to beg for forgiveness.
My last client has left, and I’m cleaning up my station when the bell above the door jingles once again. I glance up, ready to tell whoever it is that I’m done for the day.
“Roman Sullivan?” The guy standing in my doorway is wearing khakis and a polo shirt, looking completely out of place in a tattoo shop. He could be an accountant or an insurance salesman with his clipboard and too-wide smile.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, standing up and walking towards him. “What do you want?”
He reaches into a messenger bag and pulls out a thick envelope. “You’ve been served,” he says, thrusting the envelope at me.
“What?” I take it automatically, confusion giving way to a sick feeling in my gut. “What is this?”
“Have a nice day.” He turns and walks out, mission accomplished.
I stare at the envelope for a long moment, then tear it open. The legal language swims before my eyes, but certain phrases jump out at me: “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage” and “Kayla Marie Sullivan, Plaintiff” and “irreconcilable differences.”
“No,” I whisper, the word strangled in my throat. “No, no, no.”
Divorce papers. She’s actually filing for divorce. The reality of it hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My legs suddenly feel unsteady, and I have to grab the counter to keep from staggering.
I scan the documents again, praying I’ve misunderstood, but there it is in black and white. Kayla wants to end our marriage. Not just a separation, not just time to think, but a complete, legal severing of the ties between us.
Something snaps inside me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m moving toward the door, papers clutched in my fist. I don’t even take the time to lock up. My shop can burn down for all I care. Nothing matters except getting to Kayla, making her talk to me, making her understand that she can’t do this. Not like this.
I tear out of the parking lot; the wind whipping at my face. I blow through a stop sign, nearly clipping a minivan. I don’t care. Nine days of being shut out, nine days of showing up at Morgan’s only to be turned away, and now this? No, it ends today.
Morgan’s house is a small bungalow on the north side of town, painted a cheerful yellow that feels like a mockery of my dark mood. I’ve been here so many times in the past week that I could find it blindfolded. I’ve stood on that porch and argued with Morgan, begged her to let me see Kayla, even threatened her once when desperation got the better of me. She hasn’t once budged.
I slam on the brakes, my bike skidding slightly as I pull up to the curb. I’m off it in seconds, storming up the walkway to the front door. The divorce papers are still clutched in my hand, crumpled now from my tight grip.
“Kayla!” I pound on the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Kayla, I know you’re in there! We need to talk right now!”
I pound again, my fist connecting with the wood in a rhythm that matches my racing heartbeat. “Open the damn door! I’m not leaving this time!”
I’m about to pound again when the door swings open suddenly, and I nearly fall forward with the momentum. But it’s not Morgan standing there with her usual unimpressed scowl. It’s Kayla.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of her. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a sweater and leggings. She looks tired, with dark circles under her blue eyes, but she’s here. She’s real. She’s standing in front of me, close enough to touch for the first time in weeks.
“Sunshine,” I breathe, relief and love and desperation all tangled together in my voice.
Before I can think better of it, I reach for her, driven by the overwhelming need to touch her, to hold her, to feel her warm and alive in my arms. My hands find her shoulders; my arms pull her into an embrace. Her body is warm and soft against mine, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel like I can breathe…
The pain explodes between my legs so suddenly that I don’t even see it coming. One moment I’m holding my wife, the next I’m doubled over, gasping as agony radiates from my groin through my entire body. My knees buckle, and I drop to the porch, the papers fluttering from my hand.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Kayla says, her voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. “You lost that right.”