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  Arms tightening in one final squeeze, he leaned back and stared down, starting the long process of cataloging the differences in a way that would let him recognize her the next time he saw her. “Too long. My senior year. God, girl. It’s good to see you.” A much younger Dana had been the highlight of his summers through high school. Coming in from LA to visit her grandparents, like clockwork she’d show up a few days before the town’s Independence Day festivities and stay for two weeks. Best two weeks of the year.

  The last time he’d seen her she’d been suffering through the final growing-out stages of her little sister’s revenge haircut, had a full set of braces and wires in her mouth, and barely carried the height of her age, coming up about midchest to him. Kinda like now. That Dana had been feisty and fun, always up for a run through the woods to the creek where they’d fish or scoop up crawdads. Flat as a board at thirteen, city-girl Dana loved the freedom to act as one of the guys. He’d liked her, more than he should have, given the age difference. Thirteen to his nearly eighteen seemed insurmountable, and he’d set aside any thoughts he might have had.

  She’d been a friend. His best friend. Those two weeks carried him through the year until the time spent with Dana rolled back around. Someone to joke around with. A best bud to help tackle toilet papering someone’s house over imagined insults. This Dana? Very different. Her lips were full and looked soft, and the arch of her eyebrows might signal the same fun-loving personality, but he suspected the fun she got up to these days was a fair sight different from back then. Still petite, she’d filled out impressively, and he found his fingers at her waist were stroking along some of the softest skin he’d ever touched, in a way he’d often dreamed of. How did I not recognize her?

  She didn’t respond, so he gave her a shake, telling her, “You’ve grown up.” Her eyes were shining, and he stared into the colored rings surrounding the dark of her pupils. Her eyes had flakes of gold there, and he was mesmerized by the gleam. So beautiful. A man could get lost in eyes like that. Add that to the hair and curves, and he held every man’s dream in his hands. The corners of those eyes crinkled, and he suddenly realized he was holding her close. Too close. So close she couldn’t mistake the effect she was having on him. Instead of jerking away, he gave himself selfish permission to trail a slow fingertip along her skin in one final caress before he stepped backwards, her hands in his. Kirby made a show of looking her up and down, then winked before telling her, “You’re pretty, Dana. You grew up good.”

  As he’d hoped, his heavy-handed joking set her at ease, settling them back into the routine of friendship they’d grown up with. “Jerk. You grew up nice, too.” She shook one hand free and cupped her fingers around his bicep with a tight squeeze. He humored her with a quick flex of his muscle, and grinned when she exclaimed, “Bam. That’s a gun show right there.”

  Head back and laughing, he barely flinched at the next strike of electricity arcing down from the clouds. “You’re wet,” he said, reaching for the zipper of her hoodie. “Come in, let’s get you dried off.”

  She complied with a laugh, taking over unfastening her jacket as she walked in front of him and freed her hands from the sleeves of wet fabric. She smiled shyly as she handed him the sopping garment. When she stopped with a gasp, he planted his feet, fingers anxiously bunching the fabric in front of him. Other than Oscar, this would be the first time anyone who remembered what the house had been before would see what he’d turned it into.

  “What do you think?” His voice came out nervous and slow, because Dana’s opinion mattered. Which didn’t make any sense. Fifteen minutes ago, I had forgotten her, and now I need her approval?

  “I think it’s amazing, Kirby.” His name from her mouth mattered, too, and he rocked in place as it resonated through him, igniting a fuse in his belly that burned hotter than the lightning outside. “I read the proposal, of course, but reality far outshines anything I could have imagined. This place,” she turned, gaze sweeping the visible part of the rooms, “it’s amazing. You’re going to do good here. I just know it.”

  Back straight, he looked again at what he’d done. More than an MC clubhouse, even if that’s what it would be underneath everything, the focus of this building was on healing, building up, and making men more than they’d been left in the aftermath of war. The foundation already had more than a hundred applicants, men who had been part of a club before they joined the military and wanted that for themselves again.

  His men—and they would be his just as much as the MBMC members had been his grandfather’s—would be coming home in many ways, trying to dig deep and reach into the past to find the core of who they were. He’d bring them together for the club and then keep them whole with the rest of everything he would offer. Medical and psychological on-site care as needed, but the important part was the residential aspect of the house that would keep them embedded with like-minded men, all of them focused on moving forwards in healthy ways. Kirby and Oscar had worked with dozens of medical professionals and had expert consultants they could call on for prosthetic care, PTSD management, addiction counseling, and funding.

  The money.

  He'd found that no matter how much you had in the pipeline or socked away, there was a continual concern about steady funding. The ever-present shadow over everything would always be the money it all cost. With Oscar’s help, he’d secured enough for the first year, but even starting on a shoestring, the expenses were insane. Worth it, though, he thought as he surveyed his domain. Be worth anything to make this work.

  “Yeah,” he agreed softly, “I hope so.”

  Crooked grin pulling her lips to one side in a way he remembered usually preceded some kind of prank, she stalked towards him, her water-logged shoes making squeaky sounds on the floor. “Oh, I know so.” Dana stopped in front of him and tipped her head up, grin still in place. Balled fists on either hip, she told him, “I’m your new manager.”

  Kirby took a step backwards. “Uh, no you aren’t. That’s Oscar’s job.” He and his cousin had sorted all the details together. Kirby knew he couldn’t handle the stress of the day-to-day running of the MBMC Clubhouse. After Aleppo, he simply lacked the mental capabilities needed. That realization had been hard earned, the shame of it burned deep and unforgettable. Trying to keep track of a thousand and one tiny details wouldn’t work; there wasn’t enough list-making software in the world that would let him be what this place needed. Oscar, however, was perfectly capable and exactly the kind of person the place needed. His own military experiences meant he was perfectly suited to helping keep the dozen residents and members in line when they got caught up in memories or flashbacks. Not a buck-nothing tiny dynamo, even if it was Dana. Kirby shook his head again. “That’s Oscar’s job. Sorry, Dana, no can do.” Until his shoulders solidly slammed against the door, he wasn’t aware he was backing away from her. With a final headshake, he told her, “I’m not sure what Oscar was up to, but that’s not in the cards.”

  “Why?” Mouth still quirked to the side, her grin had lost some of its intensity, even as her eyes had darkened, those flecks of gold fading into swirls of whiskey-brown. “Why not? Tell me, Kirby-cat,”—He snorted a laugh at her dredging up his old nickname—“Why do you think I can’t do this job?” There was a trail of desperation in her voice, and he briefly wondered at it; then she pushed forwards and distracted him. “You think I’m not strong enough?”

  “Dana, this isn’t up for discussion. It’s a no from me, sorry. The foundation manager won’t be housed in some expensive California high-rise.” He tipped his chin towards the back of the building. “Office is here, on-site. But, this isn’t a pretty little co-ed fitness place. This is an MC club, working in lockstep with the foundation to provide extra services for men who’ve lost too much overseas and at home. I’m not going to let them down, and they need to know they’re safe here. Safe to talk about what happened, without having to worry about some civilian’s sensibilities. They have to know in their gut.” He knew
his mouth was running away from him, but the words were out there now and he couldn’t take them back. But I didn’t invite her to be part of my plan, he reminded himself. She’d invited herself, and friend or not, it didn’t matter. “I need things done my way here, and Oscar is my way. Sorry.”

  “Final word?” She was giving in too easy. The Dana he knew wouldn’t have backed away from something if she felt strongly about it. “That your final word, Kirby?”

  “Yeah, it is. Sorry. It’s good to see you, though.” He winced at the tentative olive branch he offered, hearing the lie in his own words. “Really good. I missed you.” That was better, because he had missed her. Dana had never been far from his thoughts, and through the years, he’d wondered what had happened to her, at least until he’d lost himself in his own head for so long.

  “You’re going to be disappointed then, Kirby. Because the only way these doors open”—head tipped to one side, she gestured behind him—“is with my hand at the helm.”

  ***

  “What do you mean she’s telling the truth?” Kirby pushed away from the desk and rolled his neck, trying to stretch out muscles still tense from the encounter a few hours ago. Dana had left not long after her final pronouncement, easing past him and out the door as soon as the rain had slackened. It had taken longer for Kirby to calm enough to call Oscar, and he’d made it past the panic methodically unpacking his things into the smallest room upstairs, a windowless one he’d reserved for himself. “No. She can’t be. Oscar, we had this all worked out, man. You cannot bail on me now.”

  “Not bailing. I told you about this change, Kirby.” Oscar’s gruff tone signaled Kirby was nearing the end of his patience. They’d been on the phone for an hour and had cycled through this argument a dozen times. So far. Kirby rubbed his pounding forehead, trying hard to not let the pain drive him farther than he should go. I just want things how they should be. “The city planning committee wanted someone in charge who had experience and a stake in how things go down from the town’s perspective. That’s how we can afford the counseling, with those tax waivers. City’s calling this one single shot, and Dana’s the best option there is, brother.”

  “Man, I don’t have any notes about this. Something this big, I’d have written it down so I’d remember. I don’t remember, and I can’t do this. It’s too big, Oscar. You can’t saddle me with her.” Adding Dana to the mix felt overwhelming. She was too much of the here when mixed in with old memories of Pops. Kirby’s head still felt muddled from the fleeting feel of her in his arms. “I need you. You and me know how it needs to be. I don’t want her. I want you.”

  “And I’ll be there. In two days. I’m still part of it, and I plan on riding herd on her, so you don’t have to worry about things not being in your control. What you want is what we’re going to do. Promise.” There was a sigh, then Oscar told him something Kirby already knew, “I’m on your side, Kirby. Always.”

  “Okay.” God, this sucks. “Okay, Oscar. I know you are. Sorry.” Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Kirby accepted what seemed inevitable, hating the rush of relief evident in his cousin’s heavy sigh at his words. I’m such a pain in his ass. “I’m sorry. But this doesn’t change anything, right?”

  “No, Kirby. It doesn’t change anything.” Oscar paused, then softly suggested, “Write it down, brother. Make it real in your head. That’ll help. You know it will.”

  “Yeah.” His grunted word wasn’t a graceful acknowledgment of his shortcomings, but Oscar knew what had been taken from him, what Kirby had lost. “I’ll do that right now. See you soon.”

  He disconnected the call and stared at the wall, not seeing anything except the curvy woman who’d caught him unawares on his doorstep. Dana Currier. She didn’t know it, but he’d been sweet on her all those years ago. More than sweet, if he were being honest. She wasn’t but a baby. His head repeated the rationale he’d told himself, a tiny voice whispering an answer. She’s no baby now.

  Elbow to the desktop, he leaned forwards and tugged his wallet free from his pocket. Inside, folded and tucked into the back, was a picture that had been around the world a dozen times, always accompanying him on his tours and missions. Creased and stained with sweat and blood, the image that looked up at him was how he wanted to remember himself. Carefree and happy, forever young. Dana was standing beside him, arm around his waist. She was looking up at him with an expression on her face he’d never been able to decipher, while he’d stared at whoever was behind the camera.

  Phone in hand, he pulled up the reminder app he liked best and set a daily note naming Dana the manager. He considered the default settings, then extended the task by an extra week and added a lock-screen notification that would be sure to get his attention first thing in the mornings. The method wasn’t foolproof, but it helped to have a mental prompt like that, one of a dozen coping mechanisms he used to fill in the gaps where his brain refused to populate new memories. This is important. Glaring at the device, he sighed in frustration and changed the frequency to twice a day. Fuckin’ hate my own damn fucking head.

  A nearby filing cabinet mocked him with a label of Management Staff, and he was up and out of the chair in an instant, yanking open the drawer. Sure enough, there was a folder inside on him, Oscar, all the professionals who’d be coming in and out of their doors, and Dana. He grabbed it and retreated to the desk, taking his time before laying it open on the surface. Then he dug in to figure out the Dana from today, the one who’d faced him down in that room tonight, never flinching from his anger.

  Chapter Two

  Oscar’s head lifted, the movement catching Kirby’s attention, and he studied his cousin’s reaction curiously. There was a quizzical expression on Oscar’s face for a second, then a broad grin split his features, white teeth shining in the middle of the bush he called a beard. A moment later Kirby felt it and then heard the unmistakable sound, the vibration and rumble that was a pack of bikes approaching. Experienced through the soles of his feet and in the center of his chest, a thrumming beat that brought him to his feet to turn and stare at the door. “They’re here.” Oh my God, it’s happening.

  “Yup.” Oscar’s response was laconic, and Kirby grinned at the wealth of emotion held in that single grunted word. This was what they’d both been laboring towards for two years, and Kirby reached out to grip Oscar’s wrist, pulling him close to pound his back.

  “They’re here.”

  On the surface, it shouldn’t matter who the managing director was as long as their credentials were in line, and from Kirby’s research, Dana’s were extensive. Even Oscar admitted he’d dreaded the idea and would never have the patience to do the kind of schooling she’d taken on to have built the résumé Dana had, and Kirby knew how much Oscar liked tackling challenges.

  In the week since he’d first run into her, Kirby had quickly learned how deep her hooks already went into the foundation and club he and Oscar had envisioned and built with their dreams and strength of will.

  Dana would likely be a huge asset to the club and foundation, but Kirby didn’t know if he could get past the sense of betrayal he still felt when he thought about how she’d gone about everything. From the records he’d found so far, she’d begun attending the open meetings about opening the foundation early on, working her way into the heart of the town to ensure her name was first on everyone’s lips when it came to a vote. Neither he nor Oscar had given the votes much thought, because they were both homegrown boys, families twined with the history of the town itself, named after their grandfather. Dana had been from off, a summertime visitor, but in person, she was a persuasive little minx. Kirby had struggled with how much he still liked her, paired against how pissed he’d been with her little ambush.

  Day two she’d shown up at the house and hadn’t even knocked, just barged in on him in the kitchen in his skivvies, wanting to talk. Wordlessly, he’d shoved a mug full of coffee in her direction and leaned back on the edge of the counter, his own cup of java in hand. Her curves called to
him, and Kirby let himself remember the feel of her skin under his fingers and deliberately hadn’t done anything to curb his imagination, with all the expected results.

  It had been a short-lived discussion, with him only offering single grunts in response to her questions, and her trying her hardest to not look at the growing erection tenting his boxers. Eventually, she’d whirled and told him she’d come back later, stalked towards the door only to turn and rush back to set down the mug of still-steaming coffee.

  Day three had been her coming in while the prosthetic technician was in the house, and the expression on her face had churned Kirby’s gut into an acidotic mess. He’d flinched when the door had flung open but clamped down on the edge of the table tightly, holding himself in place while concentrating on his breathing to pull back from the adrenaline abyss that waited inside him. The look on her face as she surveyed the assortment of compression sleeves for multiple types of amputations tore at him. The way her gaze skipped across the metal and plastic limbs arrayed on the counter in the med room told him everything. She might have thought she knew about combat-wounded veterans and what they’d lost, but when shoved in her face like that, she hadn’t been prepared. It had been another encounter where she’d beaten a wordless retreat.

  Day four had started much better, with uninterrupted early morning coffee and a media room video conference call with a potential sponsor. Oscar had conducted most of the talking during the meeting, but Kirby had managed to pull his weight, following the tightly constructed script he and Oscar had put together for his portion of the pitch. Kirby wasn’t one to shout his own achievements from the rooftops, but if it garnered donations for the foundation, he’d bare his soul every day and damn the cost.