Mary glanced at the clock, and then her eyes widened at the time. She quickly returned to plating the rest of the pastries, scurrying around in her rush to make sure the front of house was ready for customers.
I shook my head fondly and started boxing up the muffins to take to Elkin Lake later that day. It’d be better for my sanity if The Kid wasn’t there, but a stubborn, traitorous part of me couldn’t help but hope I’d get to see him again. Even if he wanted nothing to do with me, he sure was easy on the eyes—and surely it couldn’t hurt just to look…
2
Heath
I woke up and took a slow, deep breath, stretching as fully as I could on the sheets. Finally, after two weeks, I wasn’t in immediate pain upon waking. My ribs were still a little tender, aching if I moved too quickly in certain ways, but it was manageable.
It had only been two weeks since I’d watched Crave hold a gun to Jazz’s head—since I’d tackled Crave off Jazz and gotten my ass beaten for doing so.
I had no regrets, none at all, but it sure felt like more than two weeks past, though. Since then I’d been patched in as a full member of the club, and moved from my shitty, tiny apartment near campus into a room in the clubhouse. It felt real, now that I was living in the clubhouse. Plus, I had my own en-suite bathroom—and that was a very welcome change from my previous apartment.
I crawled out of bed and shuffled into said bathroom to examine my injuries. The dark navy fabric of my boxers made my already pale skin look even paler, and the nasty bruise on my ribs had faded to a broad green smudge, like I’d rolled shirtless in a freshly mown lawn. In a few more days, it’d be gone. I sighed and prodded it carefully, and was happy to find it hardly hurt at all. And even though I hadn’t been able to work out since the attack, there was still a hint of firm muscle over my ribs, instead of just skin and bones, like it used to be.
Training with Jazz had paid off. Not only had I learned more than a few moves—actual usable moves, not the stuff I’d learned when I was younger that didn’t work for people my size—I’d also toned up a little. I wasn’t big, by any means, and I was still the smallest guy in the club, easily. I had an inch on Jonah, but he was toned like a dancer, whereas I was just narrow all over.
So I couldn’t help doubting myself sometimes, even though I’d spent two years prospecting and gotten patched in earlier than I’d ever expected. Despite all the work I’d put in at Custom Ankhs and in club duties, part of me was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, halfway expecting Blade or Gunnar to reveal this was all a big joke, and I was never going to be strong enough or tough enough to be a real member of Hell’s Ankhor.
But I was. I’d proven myself, and I’d gotten my patch. Even if it felt like a dream—even if I knew my brothers would still find some way to laugh if they knew—I allowed myself to be proud of it.
I got dressed quickly and shrugged on my club leather before heading downstairs. It hung a little loose on me—it’d felt like a costume when I first got it, but now I liked the way it hung off my shoulders casually. It looked… cool. Downstairs, some of the guys were already up and making breakfast. Tex and Jazz were lingering near the stove, and Raven, Gunnar, and Blade were on the back porch with the door propped open to let in the cool summer morning breeze.
“Yo, Heath,” Jazz said as I descended the stairs. “Glad to see you’re finally up. How are you feeling?”
Jazz was like a brother to me now, and he’d taken it upon himself to monitor my healing with a laser focus. Every morning, he checked in, and this morning, he was scrambling what looked like a full dozen eggs.
I grinned at him as I poured myself a mug of coffee. “Pretty good. No pain.”
“That’s our Kid,” Tex said over his own mug of coffee. “Tough as nails.”
“Kid’s up?” Blade called from the porch. “Morning, Kid!”