Cyrus (The Henchmen MC 9)

Dead phone.

My stomach, though it seemed impossible, sank further.

By the time I saw Daya flicking on the lights inside, even though it was still technically closed, I was fit to be tied.

I jumped out, knocking so hard that the pain shot up my arm, making Daya jump, then almost run toward me, likely being able to read the desperation on my face.

She barely had the door open before I launched into it. The donation. The apology. The sweetness. The declining of his coffee date. The agreeing to an ice cream one.

Then the shooting.

And the unanswered calls and texts.

"Okay, Reese, you need to breathe," she commanded, voice firm in response to my hysteria. "You know how these things go," she went on. "I mean, with your brothers," she added. "Every time there was a news story about a Third Street shooting, did you fly off into freakout-mode like this?"

Honestly, I was barely even aware of the world around me those years. Those many, many years. Paine alone, that was a decade of my life. And then Enzo had reign for a few years after Paine left as well.

In all those years, unless it was on at someone else's place, I didn't hear a news program. I got push alerts for certain things sent through on my phone, but nothing local. And, as much as she liked to pretend it didn't impact her quite as much as it impacted me, Kenzi made sure she never stayed on a news station for more than a couple seconds when she flipped through the channels.

We simply didn't want to know.

We didn't want to worry.

Until we knew something bad went down.

I buried deep in fiction, only surfacing a handful of times.

Like when we got the news that Enzo was shot.

By Paine.

Like when we got the news that Paine was out for good.

Like when Enzo was beat-out as well.

Aside from those events, my mother made sure, and then as adults, we made sure that we just didn't feed into it, that we didn't let it make us sick. Because it would. If we let it, it would make us all physically ill every single moment of every single day for a decade.

So, no.

I didn't go into freakout-mode like I currently was.

I just pulled a ostrich.

But there was no way to stick my head in the sand now, now that I knew there was actually something to worry about.

Why wasn't he picking up?

He always picked up.

Even when I called once somewhat early on a Friday night, not realizing he was in "church," he picked up to tell me he was busy, that he couldn't talk, but he would get back to me the second it was over.

And he did.

Day, night, weekday, weekend, he always answered.

This was not normal.

It was pointing to something not good.

Suddenly, I wished we hadn't tried to keep our friendship a secret, that we had met each other's family and friends, that we had ways of getting in touch with someone who might have the inside scoop if we ever needed it.

Because this was...

"Thank God," Daya said just a second before the door chimed as it opened.

My head snapped over.

And I swear, I almost fainted.

Seriously.

I had never been a fainter, but I darn near did it right then. Out of pure and utter relief.

Only twice in my life did I feel something akin to it, the way the weight immediately lifted from the shoulders, and a cool, soothing wave of calm seemed to move through the system from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

When Paine was out.

When Enzo was out.

And, now, when I realized Cyrus was okay.

Because there he was, right inside the doorway, dressed in the same clothes from the night before, looking like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep judging by the dark smudges under his eyes, and the puffiness to the lids.

But alive.

Unhurt.

And, well, I flew at him.

I didn't slow, just hit him bodily, my arms going around his shoulders, immediately holding on for dear life.

His body jolted back a step, but his arms didn't even pause in going around me, holding me just as tight as I was holding him.

His chin came down on the top of my head as my face buried in his neck, taking a deep breath because - though I had never told him such a thing - I was strangely comforted by the scent of the oil he put in his beard. It was something herbal and fresh, something that was unique to him, that I hadn't ever smelt mixed together before, that would always make me think of him.

Even after a full day where he had likely not reapplied, I could smell it there, strong as ever. And I breathed it in like someone who had been starved for oxygen did when they could get air again.