I almost lost it when Tail and then Boomer, Brodie and Cole and Hunter turned up.
I jumped to my feet when Haines entered the room, and I reached out to clasp Shy’s parents’ hands without even thinking about it.
Hours later I was back in the uncomfortable chair beside Shy’s bed. Her monitors bleeped consistently.
She regained consciousness with a start. “Where is it!”
Reaching for her leg, she looked down, her eyes sharp and wild. “Where is it?”
“Shy! Shy . . .” I stilled her hands, taking them in mine. “You’re okay. The doctors saved your knee, baby.”
She huddled against me, her mouth howling open. “Oh, God. Oh, God! I thought it was gone.”
“Shhh.” I got as close to her as the wires and IVs would permit. “You’re doing good.”
She huddled against me, calming down slowly while I swept a hand up and down her back.
She peered up at me with wet eyes. Tired eyes. “I still feel it sometimes. Phantom leg, you know?”
I gulped to swallow down my own boiling-over emotions. “And I still feel all of you. Exactly as you are.”
****
Shy remained in the hospital for a full week.
It pissed her right off.
And being pissed off made her more determined than ever to get back on her feet. She made me bring in her laptop so she could keep up with paperwork and bills for the shop. She begged for physical therapy as soon as possible. She poured over fashion magazines with her mom so she could get a head start on ordering the next season’s clothes.
In fact, just about the only time she stood down was when I kissed, which I did often, reclaiming her lips as mine.
She started talking about getting released early—against Dr. Haines’s wishes—because she was so anxious to get back to Passion for Fashion I finally had to tell her I had it all under control.
“You have my store—a clothing store for women—under control?” She blinked unbelievingly at me.
I folded my arms across my chest. “What are you saying, baby? Think I can’t handle it?”
“Um. Well . . .” She blushed in a pretty manner. “You’re not exactly high fashion?”
“I think I’m insulted.”
Her blush heightened. “I’m not complaining about how you look! You know I love the way you—”
“Let me stop you before you dig that hole any deeper.” I smirked. “I’m just shitting you. I don’t know jack about the clothing shit. Brought someone else in.”
“You brought someone else into PfF?” Shy blazed at me.
“Yep. All taken care of.” I winked.
“By whom?”
“Whom? So proper, prep school girl.” I only goaded her because when she turned her fury on me it meant she was recovering.
She hadn’t been broken.
Her spirit was bright.
“Fuck you, Max. Who has the keys to my store?” She beaned a pillow at my head.
“Frankie.”
“Frankie?” Her pert nose curled up.
“Frankie the Tailor.”
Her eyes rounded wide. “Frankie Burelli! That Frankie?”
Of course they finally met. Days later. As soon as Shy was released. Frankie Burelli, former top NYC menswear designer who’d relocated to Charleston. He also just happened to be a fairly infamous former mob hitman who’d helped the MC out of a few scrapes.
The big, burly, expensively dressed Italian and the downtown elite hottie exchanged air kisses and got on like a house on fire from first sight. He swooned. And she fanned herself. But he was one hundred percent flaming gay, so it all worked out perfectly. At least I didn’t have to worry about his intentions.
I left them to their chatter about the fashion stuff because I had no clue beyond leather and boots.
****
Over the next few weeks, Hunter supplied us with steady updates about the case against Diablo and certain other members of Satan’s League. Their bail hearings had concluded—each set at a cool half million that wasn’t forthcoming.
It paid to have high-ranking legal connections with the DA’s office, AKA Thomas Lockhart and his good friend, Leland Chatham.
Charges ranged from rape to assault and battery to kidnapping.
The day we heard the court date had been assigned—with Shy and I as key witnesses—my girl slumped down on her sofa, blowing out a deep breath.
The news dredged up the bad shit barely held at bay.
Shy’s convalescence wasn’t just physical.
It was emotional.
And somehow that was harder.
Sex had been off-limits—Shy didn’t want to be touched too much, although she let me cuddle and kiss her. She reacted in a good way every time, but I never pushed the point.
She was more fragile than she’d ever been despite the brave face she put on.
Understandable.
So I was shocked when she set aside her phone after the latest conversation with Hunter and said quietly, “I need to tell you what happened.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to get angry again, Max.”
I clenched my jaw. “Can’t promise you that.”
“I have to get it out. And I don’t want to talk to a counselor.”