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At The Heart Of It : Part Twelve - Vasorum Collaterale

Gator Tillman x Reader

18+ | minors do not interact

Word Count: 15311

Summary: As Blackridge’s secrets unravel, Maggie pulls Gator into a dangerous late-night meeting with a biker gang, forcing you to confront the darker side of your family while realising just how deeply you’ve fallen for him

Note: Here it is, the finale and i'm posting early! Thank you all so much for reading this! If you get to the end you've officially read 166k words of my self-indulgent soft Gator! I hope you enjoy... surprise at the end.... Mimi <3

Masterlist

Vasorum Collaterale

Translation: Collateral Vessels

Side-by-side pathways. The body’s secret architecture.

You lay against the pillows in one of Gator’s hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, half-buried beneath the duvet despite the warmth of the room. Gator had gone to make tea maybe five minutes ago, though time had become strange lately. Slow and soft around the edges.

The last two days had mostly been spent exactly like this. Bundled up in bed together watching films on your laptop or talking for hours in the dim quiet between them. Sometimes Gator would stretch out beside you with one arm hooked beneath his head while you rested against his chest. Sometimes he would disappear long enough to make you tea or something to eat, before returning to your little bubble of peace.

The soreness had faded slowly. Your ribs no longer felt bruised every time you shifted and the ache in your chest had dulled into something manageable, surfacing only if you laughed too hard or twisted awkwardly in bed.

It should have felt frightening, the isolation and in some ways it did. You were effectively under house arrest without any real understanding of what was happening outside the ranch gates. But at the same time there was Gator and somehow he had made this whole bizarre little isolation feel easier than it probably should have.

You had barely touched your phone since Sunday. You hadn’t needed to. The only people you wanted to talk to were already here. Still, sitting alone now in the quiet while you waited for Gator to come back, you reached toward the nightstand and picked it up.

The group chat sat at the top of your notifications like a natural disaster. Three hundred and fifty-two unread messages. You let out a startled laugh under your breath; there was no universe in which you were reading all of that.

Underneath it, though, sat a separate message from Hannah sent Monday morning.

Hannah: Hey, mom said she saw u @ work last night. Is everything ok with u?

Hannah’s mom had worked at the medical centre for years now. Nurse, local gossip pipeline, unofficial auntie to about half of Stark County. If she had seen you there Sunday night, there was no chance Hannah hadn’t immediately started worrying.

Hannah had always been like that though. Gentle-hearted. Out of all the girls, she was the one most likely to message you separately just to check in. A little knot of guilt twisted in your stomach for leaving your phone untouched this long. You typed back quickly.

You: Sorry 4 late reply! Yeah im ok, just me being a drama queen. wtf is going on in chat?

The message barely delivered before the read receipt appeared underneath it. Then typing.

Hannah: u sure? Joe said Tucker and Walker arent @ school either?

You sighed softly through your nose. Joe was Hannah’s younger brother and played football with the twins. Of course people had noticed they were absent. Still, you knew Tucker and Walker wouldn’t have said anything. Maggie had made the cover story very clear Monday morning and nobody in this family was stupid enough to go freelancing after that. You typed back anyway.

You: Yeah, Ford is letting them break early for summer.

The lie sat awkwardly in your chest. But there was no reason to drag her into any of this or scare her more than she already clearly was. Three little dots appeared again.

Hannah: Chat is all Paige drama. Come 4 a smoothie soon and I will fill u in.

You: Sounds good. thanks 4 checking on me :)

Hannah: Always <3

You set the phone back onto the bedside table just as a soft knock sounded against your bedroom door.

“Come in.”

The door cracked open and Maggie leaned her head around it, platinum bob immaculate as ever.

“Baby,” she said, “I know you’re resting but I can’t open this file on my laptop and I’m about three seconds from throwing it out of the window.”

You laughed softly and pushed yourself upright against the pillows.

“Okay, let’s not assault the electronics. I’m coming.”

You shoved the blankets back and slid carefully out of bed before following Maggie out into the hallway toward her office.

You moved around the side of the desk and dropped into Maggie’s chair while she hovered behind you, one hand resting on the back of it.

“There,” she said, pointing sharply at the laptop screen. “That bloody thing.”

Her email inbox sat open. One message already selected. You barely read the contents at first, too focused on the attachment Maggie had evidently been trying and failing to open for the last several minutes. You double-clicked it once. Error message. Clicked again. Different error. Maggie made an aggravated noise somewhere over your shoulder.

“I hate computers,” she muttered. “Nothing good has happened since people stopped using filing cabinets.”

You smiled faintly to yourself and clicked through another menu.

“Patience.”

“That’s never been my strongest quality.”

“No,” you agreed absently. “I’ve noticed.”

Another click. A permissions window opened this time instead of an error and you adjusted the settings quickly before reopening the file. This time the file loaded properly, a spreadsheet filling the screen.

At first you only skimmed it, your eyes catching disconnected fragments of information without really processing them; site numbers, lease IDs, pipe routing maps, buyers, shipping allocations. Then your brain caught up to what you were actually looking at. Blackridge. Not just one or two sites either, but every single one of them.

Your eyes flicked rapidly down the sheet now, suddenly fully awake. North Dakota. Montana. Lease holders, transport routes, processing stations, private buyers. Every connected branch of the operation laid bare in neat little columns across the screen. Their entire network.

A strange little chill moved through you. Slowly, you looked back over your shoulder at Maggie.

“How did you get this?”

Maggie’s expression barely shifted.

“I have my ways.”

Which was not an answer at all.

She tapped your shoulder lightly and you stood, still staring at the spreadsheet as Maggie slid smoothly into her chair. As you stepped aside, movement in the doorway caught your attention.

Gator stood there holding a mug of tea.

He had clearly paused halfway in after hearing voices, broad shoulder leaning against the doorframe with his eyes on you. You nodded toward the mug, and he crossed the room, handing it over carefully, before his attention shifted toward Maggie.

“You two workin’ on somethin’?”

Maggie looked up from the laptop then, sharp-eyed and composed behind the glow of the screen.

“Your contact at the State Commission?”

Gator frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden question.

“Leland Gilltand.”

“Did he say how the audit of the Blackridge pads went?”

“Um… freeze was lifted, but last I checked the full report weren’t back.”

Maggie nodded once.

“What’s the likelihood he’ll find something?”

Gator gave a small shrug.

“Ain’t got m’hopes up. I was jus’ tryna hold ‘em off a bit. Dunno if there was actually a problem.”

Maggie leaned back slowly in her chair, one hand resting against the armrest as she considered the screen in front of her.

“And if I were to give him an incentive to find a problem?”

You looked at her properly then, your brow furrowing as the meaning landed. She was talking about bribing him. Gator barely reacted, gaze shifting briefly toward Maggie like this conversation was not nearly as shocking to him as it was to you.

“He’s got two kids an’ a gamblin’ problem.”

“Excellent.”

Before you could even process her response, she leaned forward to retrieve her phone from the desk, already unlocking it with brisk efficiency.

“I have a contact at the EPA,” she said, eyes fixed on the screen while her thumbs moved across the keyboard. “All I need is Mr Gilltand to make a contamination report.”

You stared at her in open disbelief for a second, waiting for the punchline that never came.

“Maggie? We can’t bribe government officials.”

She lifted her eyes from the phone and looked at you steadily across the desk before lowering it slowly into her lap.

“Baby, there are many things you know about me,” she said calmly, “And I think today you might learn a few new ones.”

Maggie gestured toward the armchair opposite the desk.

“Sit.”

Then she looked past you toward Gator.

“Gator, close the door.” Her tone stayed even. Controlled. “Take a seat.”

Gator closed the office door with a quiet click before crossing the room to the second armchair beside yours. The armchair breathed softly beneath his weight as he sat down, forearms resting against his knees. Behind the desk, Maggie closed the laptop slowly.

“The world isn’t black and white, or maybe it is for everyone else. But I don’t see it that way.” Her eyes lifted to yours. “There’s a little sliver of grey in the middle where I like to operate.”

Maggie tilted her head slightly.

“How much is the Hawthorn costing?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you blinked at her.

“What?”

“The Hawthorn project.”

“Oh.” You frowned faintly, mentally pulling up the figures. “Um… last report I saw, I think it was just over three million.”

“And where do you think that money comes from, baby?”

You looked between her and Gator uncertainly. Truthfully, you had never thought much about it before.

You worked for the Grace Foundation. You helped design shelters and housing projects and rehabilitation centres. You dealt with contractors and materials and layouts and permits and furniture samples and endless administrative details, but the money itself had always just… existed. Projects appeared and somehow everything needed to make them happen appeared too.

The permits were always approved. The funding was always secured. Problems dissolved almost as quickly as Maggie learned about them.

You swallowed lightly.

“I-I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess I just thought you, like… invested or something.”

A slow smirk pulled at Maggie’s mouth.

“Sure, baby. I invest. I invest my time, my temper, and my soul on occasion. But I also do a bunch of other shit I’m not exactly meant to do.”

Slowly, you lowered your mug onto the desk beside you.

“Like…?”

“I make good deals with bad people, sometimes I make bad deals with good people.” One shoulder lifted slightly as she held your gaze. “You think our building permits just fall out of the sky? That we never hit red tape because the government likes the name of a charity? No. They fall because I know whose mortgage is underwater, or whose kid needs a scholarship to Yale. So yes, I might test the limitations of the word legal now and then, but it protects this family, and I sleep just fine at night.”

You sat there staring at her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of you with the grandmother who kissed your head and spent hours debating wallpaper samples for women’s shelters because she believed traumatised people deserved beautiful places to heal. Did your grandmother just admit to being some kind of criminal? Your eyes drifted vaguely around the office.

“So you’re saying…” You gestured weakly around you. “All this? The house, the Foundation projects…”

“Some of it’s funded by property,” Maggie replied calmly. “Some by investments, some by donations, and some of it by things you’d rather not know about. But it all does some good. That’s what matters.”

You thought suddenly of all the things that had never quite made sense to you. The hushed phone calls behind closed office doors. The abrupt trips Maggie took for “meetings.” The way permits appeared impossibly quickly. The way men with important jobs always seemed eager to return her calls. Roy Tillman personally delivering paperwork to the house like a damn courier.

Things that had always felt unusual suddenly rearranged themselves into something else entirely. Not just social influence or wealth, but power.

“You okay with that, baby?”

You leaned back slowly into the armchair, trying to sit with the weight of it. The strange thing was, maybe you should have felt frightened. Maybe you should have been horrified. Instead, somewhere beneath the shock, you mostly felt… safer.

Like suddenly the shape of the world made more sense than it had an hour ago.

“Um… yeah.” Your voice came quieter than intended. “I guess I am. Why did you never--”

“Say anything?” Maggie finished easily.

You nodded.

“Plausible deniability.”

The answer came without hesitation. Then Maggie straightened slightly in her chair, all softness disappearing beneath sharp focus once again.

“Now,” she said briskly, “to the matter at hand. I’ve got my hands on Blackridge’s files. The attorney is already making a few of the land lease holders some irresistible offers, so at the bare minimum we’re about to put a hole in their finances. But if we can get the Environmental Agency to open an investigation, that hole becomes a crater.”

Maggie sat quietly for a moment after speaking, fingers resting lightly against the closed laptop before her attention shifted toward Gator.

“I also looked into that… thing you told me about.”

As she said it, her eyes flicked briefly toward you, deliberate in their vagueness. Before you could ask what she meant, Gator spoke first.

“Ain’t no need f'the secrecy,” he said evenly. “Y’can tell her now or I’ll tell her after. I ain’t keepin’ secrets from her.”

Your eyes moved to him automatically. Something warm unfurled quietly at the certainty in his voice. Across the desk, Maggie’s brow quirked slightly, though you caught the faint curl at the corner of her mouth a second later. Approval, in Maggie language.

Gator looked at you then.

“Told Maggie ‘bout them bikers,” he explained. “Ones watchin’ ya at the cake place.”

You frowned faintly as the memory surfaced again.

“Yeah. There were two of them. Kept staring.”

“Well,” Maggie said smoothly, “I found them. ‘The Hanged Men.’ Biker group operating out of a club called The Iron Pit. I’m still waiting on a few more details, but I’ve got reason to believe they’re providing security for the Blackridge crews. Hired hands, essentially.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” you muttered.

“On the contrary,” Maggie replied calmly. “It means they can be bought. My pockets run deep and my patience runs thin.”

“I know a deputy works organised crime outta Bismarck,” Gator said. “Can give y’his number. See if he can help y’with it?”

Maggie smiled then, slow and genuinely pleased as she leaned back into her chair.

“I always did like you, Gator. Your daddy never does give you enough credit.”

Something unreadable flickered briefly across Gator’s face at the mention of Roy, though it vanished almost immediately. Maggie reached for a notepad and pen from the corner of the desk and slid them across toward him.

“Give me his number,” she said, “and your guy at the State Commission. I’ll make some calls.”

Gator took the pad and started writing. While he did, Maggie’s gaze settled back on you, softer now than it had been during the rest of the conversation.

“I didn’t want you involved in the bad stuff, baby. I never did. I didn’t tell you because you do the good. You handle the Grace Foundation, and you do a damn good job at it.” Her expression held steady on yours. “I needed you to stay good for me. Let me be the one everyone’s afraid of.”

Beside you, Gator tore the page neatly from the pad and handed it back across the desk. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied nod and tucked it beside her phone. Then, just as quickly, some of the heaviness lifted from her expression again.

“Besides,” she added dryly, “someone in this family has to be able to walk into a church without the pews catching fire.” Her eyes flicked toward you. “That’s your job, Baby. Mine’s just making sure the church stays standing.”

A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“And performing acts of God apparently.”

Maggie chuckled softly.

“You’re giving me a little too much credit there.”

You looked between them both for a long moment before slowly pushing yourself to your feet. The truth sat strangely in your chest now. Heavy, yes. But clarifying too. All this time, you had kept your head buried in the sand because it had been easier that way. Easier not to ask questions. Easier not to examine the machinery underneath the life Maggie had built around all of you.

But you didn’t want that anymore.

“When all this is over,” you said carefully, “I want to know. All of it.”

For a second, her face searched yours like she was deciding whether you really understood what you were asking for. When you didn’t look away, she finally gave a small nod.

“Let me fix this mess,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”

You nodded back. Beside you, Gator rose to his feet too, falling into step at your side as the two of you left the office together and headed back down the hallway toward your bedroom.

Inside, the room still carried the soft warmth of the afternoon sun. The blankets remained tangled where you had left them earlier, your laptop abandoned open-faced on the bed. Gator crossed automatically toward the nightstand on the right side of the mattress, fishing his charger from the wall before plugging his phone in.

His side of the bed.

It was strange how naturally that had happened. A week ago you had barely let yourself think too hard about him at all. Now his boots sat beside yours near the door. His hoodie hung over the back of your chair. His phone charged beside your lamp like it belonged there.

This was happening fast. Maybe too fast. The last week had been so chaotic that you had barely stopped moving long enough to think about it properly. About what this actually was. About whether Gator even wanted all of this or whether circumstances had simply swept the two of you into something neither of you had paused long enough to question.

You had never really asked him, not properly. A strange nervousness tightened low in your stomach. Without saying anything, you crossed the room toward the porch door and stepped outside.

The afternoon air was cooler out there. You lowered yourself carefully onto the edge of the porch deck, bare feet against the wood as your gaze drifted out across the front pasture toward the gravel drive. The gate at the end of it was shut, you can’t remember the last time you had seen it closed.

A minute later the porch door opened again behind you. Gator stepped outside and settled beside you without speaking, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours briefly before he leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees. You kept your eyes fixed ahead.

“Thanks for that,” you said quietly after a moment.

“What’d I do?”

“You didn’t hide it from me, about the bikers.”

“Told ya,” he said. “I ain’t keepin’ secrets. Not from you.”

You looked at him then; he was already watching you. A small smile tugged faintly at your mouth before you turned your attention back toward the closed gate again.

After a moment, Gator spoke again.

“Maggie ain’t a bad person.”

“Oh, I know. Weirdly, I’m okay with it.” Your mouth curved slightly. “I think on some level I always knew she was sorta sketchy.”

Gator huffed a laugh beside you. Your tone turned teasing as you nudged his shoulder gently with yours.

“I mean… she does work with your dad.”

That got a proper laugh out of him, low and rough and warm enough to loosen something in your chest.

“And I know she does what she does to keep people safe,” you continued more quietly. “Everything with the Foundation… it’s about helping people. And she keeps us safe too. Just… I dunno. I’m kinda mad at myself for never asking.”

“I get that.”

Simple. He always did that. He never rushed to smooth your feelings over or tell you why you shouldn’t have them. Never tried to wrestle them into something smaller or easier to manage. He just met you where you were and stayed there beside you until you found your footing again. Just I hear you. You stared out at the gate again, thinking about how much you liked that about him.

The silence stretched comfortably between you for a while before you spoke again.

“Do you think… This is too fast? Us, I mean.” You swallowed lightly. “This has been a crazy week. I didn’t really give you a choice in any of it. I kinda just pulled you into the middle of the street in front of a speeding car and made you hold my hand. If you’re sitting there thinking this isn’t what you wanted, that it’s way too much… getting dragged into a stupid war…” Your fingers tightened together. “I’d understand. I really would.”

When you finally looked at him again, Gator’s brows had pulled together faintly.

“You’ve known me f’how long?” he asked softly. “I’m a Tillman. M’always in someone else’s war.”

There was no bitterness in the words. Just honesty.

“But this? With you?” A small shake of his head. “S’the first time I actually wanna be in the fight.”

Your breath caught slightly. Gator lifted one hand slowly, rough thumb brushing gently across your cheek before his palm settled there fully.

“I know how I feel ‘bout you,” he said quietly. “Ain’t been a week. I’ve felt like this f’years.”

A smile cracked softly across your face, his hand warm against your skin.

“Y’didn’t drag me anywhere,” he murmured. “M’exactly where I wanna be.”

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your chest. You turned your head slightly and pressed a kiss into the centre of his palm.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I really like having you around.”

Something softened in Gator’s expression then, subtle but unmistakable, before he leaned toward you and kissed you slow and sure, one hand still resting warm against your cheek while the wind moved quietly through the grass around the porch.

You and Gator stayed out on the porch until the sun started dipping lower behind the trees and the evening chill crept into the air. At some point Ford poked his head around the bedroom door to inform you dinner was ready. By the time you made it into the kitchen, the whole family had gathered around the dining table.

Despite everything hanging over the ranch right now, it was… nice. How every night since Sunday the house had filled up for dinner and stayed full afterwards too. Movies in the living room, kids half-asleep against adults, bowls of popcorn passed around, blankets dragged out from cupboards. Even Logan had been coming up from the Cabin and staying for it all, stretched across the opposite end of the sofa trading sarcastic comments with Gator during movies like they were teenagers again.

Maybe it was because Gator was here. Maybe it was because whatever weird tension had existed between you and Logan for years had finally cracked open and aired out. Either way, you had found yourself enjoying his company again in a way you hadn't for a long time.

Brooks had started lingering too, staying for dinner instead of disappearing back to the Cabin afterwards. Noah less so, but Noah had always drifted at the edges of things even when everyone else crowded together.

Tonight had been no different. Dinner stretched long and noisy around the table before eventually dissolving into another movie night sprawled across the living room. By the time the credits rolled, Josie was asleep on Ford’s chest, Rhodes was out cold against Tucker’s shoulder, and Nicky had fallen asleep halfway off your side of the couch with one sock missing.

Eventually, though, you and Gator slipped away. The shower together had become another thing you had quietly started looking forward to every evening. Domestic in the same dangerous, intimate way everything else between you seemed to be. Warm steam, tired conversation, Gator’s hands settling at your waist while you stood beneath the water together.

By the time you returned to the bedroom, your skin still carried the lingering warmth of it. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed in one of Gator’s old t-shirts, slowly dragging a brush through your damp hair while Gator stood nearby in nothing but his boxers, roughing a towel through his own hair with absolutely no care whatsoever.

A gentle knock sounded against the bedroom door. Gator paused mid-motion. You glanced up and your eyes caught briefly on the outline beneath his boxers before you could stop yourself. Gator noticed, a slow smirk spread across his face as he lowered the towel strategically in front of himself.

You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your mouth.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Maggie stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. As she moved further into the room, her eyes landed squarely on Gator standing there half-naked. One perfectly shaped brow lifted.

“Thought I sent you home for clothes.”

Gator sheepishly reached down to grab a pair of shorts from the floor beside the bed.

“Leave him alone, Mags,” you said, laughing softly.

Gator pulled the shorts on quickly before stepping closer toward the end of the bed while Maggie leaned back against the dresser. The humour faded from her expression a moment later.

“Both your contacts came through, Gator,” she said. “I’ve got EPA moving on their sites.”

Gator nodded, attentive immediately.

“As for our friends on bikes,” Maggie continued, “organised crime didn’t have much. Couple members with convictions, nothing substantial. But I pulled on a few strings and managed to set a meeting with them.”

You lowered the hairbrush slowly into your lap.

“Is that… When?” You stuttered.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Where?” Gator asked.

“Their club.”

“Shouldn’t it be somewhere… neutral?” You frowned.

Maggie’s mouth curved faintly, calm and utterly unbothered.

“I’ll be fine, baby. I’ve got a plan.”

“Okay…” You set the brush aside fully now. “So what do you need from us?”

Maggie’s eyes shifted toward Gator then.

“From Gator, actually.”

Gator’s brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

“I need someone with me. Someone who knows how to read a room.” Maggie’s tone stayed calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s been made very clear to me that neither of my sons, nor our dear Sheriff, are capable of keeping their emotions in check or their egos under control. They’re useless to me in that regard. But you, you’ve got your wits about you, Gator.”

“Me?” Gator asked in disbelief.

“I ain’t your daddy, Gator. I’m asking, not telling. If you say no, that’s fine, I’m not barking orders. You’ve got the choice. But yes, I’d like you with me.”

For a moment he didn’t know what to say, stuck somewhere between disbelief and something warmer he did not quite know how to handle. Maggie Heaton trusted him. Wanted him there specifically. Not Brooks. Not Roy. Him.

Most of Gator’s life had been spent with people expecting the worst from him long before he’d opened his mouth. Roy especially. To his father, Gator was tolerable when he was obedient, embarrassing when he wasn’t, and rarely much else besides. Even now, at nearly thirty, some part of him still braced instinctively for criticism before praise.

So hearing Maggie speak about him like that did something uncomfortable to his ribs.

But uncertainty followed quickly behind it.

Because this wasn’t some harmless favour. Maggie was talking about walking into a biker club tied to Blackridge crews and sitting down across from dangerous people neither of them knew. Things could go wrong fast in places like that.

And then there was you.

His mind drifted once again, back to the kitchen after the bar fight, to you standing between his knees cleaning blood from his face while frustration and worry trembled beneath every careful touch. You’d looked at him like he was something worth being angry for. Worth protecting. Told him he was always throwing himself into reckless situations without thinking what happened afterwards and he didn’t want to be that man, not for you.

Maggie was still watching him patiently.

“It’s your choice, Gator.”

Slowly, he turned his head toward you where you sat cross-legged on the bed watching him.

“M’not doin’ it unless you’re okay with it.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You told me t’stop bein’ reckless. T’actually think ‘bout stuff. M’thinkin’. An’ if you don’t want me goin’, or y’want me here with you instead…” He shrugged faintly. “Then m’not goin’.”

And he meant it.

Sure, there was a part of him that liked hearing Maggie say she trusted him. Liked being chosen for something other than his last name or his willingness to throw himself into ugly situations. But that feeling faded pretty quickly when weighed against you.

At the end of the day, there was only one person in this room, on this earth, whose opinion actually mattered to him.

Both Maggie and Gator were looking at you now, you suddenly felt very aware of how quiet the room had become.

Truthfully, you didn't know what the right answer was.

Some strange part of you felt almost proud that Maggie had picked Gator. Out of everyone she could have chosen, she trusted him. Trusted him to keep his head, trusted him to stand beside her if things got dangerous.

And if you were honest, there was something else warming quietly beneath that too; the fact Gator had listened to you. Really listened. What you had said to him that night in the kitchen after the bar fight had stayed with him enough that now, standing here, he was stopping to think before charging headfirst into something.

But none of that changed the fact this was dangerous. Neither of them truly knew what they were walking into tomorrow night. Maybe that was exactly why Gator needed to be there.

Slowly, you stood from the bed and crossed the short distance between you. Your fingers found the edge of his hand first, tracing lightly along his knuckles before curling gently against his palm.

“I don’t like it,” you admitted quietly. “I hate the idea of you in that club. Either of you. But Maggie’s right. You’re the only one I trust to keep it together and come back in one piece.”

His hand rose slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing warm against your skin.

“Y’sure?”

You looked back to where Maggie was still standing by the dresser.

“You’ll keep him safe?” Your voice tightened slightly despite yourself. “You both come home in one piece?”

For the first time since stepping into the room, something in Maggie’s expression softened completely. The sharp strategist disappeared for a moment and all you could see was your grandmother understanding exactly what you were asking her. Not about the meeting. About him.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Gator before returning to you.

“That’s the plan,” she said quietly, and you believed she meant it.

You held her gaze another second before finally nodding.

“Okay.”

The moment the word left your mouth, Gator stepped forward and pulled you into him. Your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you firmly enough that some of the tension sitting beneath your ribs eased. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady.

Behind you, Maggie pushed herself away from the dresser.

“I’ll let them know we’re coming.”

You felt rather than saw Gator nod. A second later the bedroom door opened and closed quietly again, leaving the two of you alone. Only then did Gator loosen his hold enough to look down at you properly.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly. “Y’not worried?”

A tired little laugh escaped you.

“I’m terrified. But I think I’d worry more knowing Maggie was there alone.” You looked up at him steadily. “I know you’ll keep her safe.”

“Course I will.” His hand slid up and down your back once before stilling. “Jus’ don’t want y’gettin’ yourself into a stress. Y’scared the shit outta me the other day. Need you t’be okay. If anythin’ happens to you…”

You cut him off gently by rising onto your toes and pressing a soft kiss against his mouth.

“I’ll be okay.”

He kissed you again, one hand settling at the back of your neck while your arms looped around his shoulders. And as you held onto him, you tried very hard to ignore the small uneven jump your heart kept making every few beats.

・❥・

The Hellcat tore down the empty highway, fields blurred black beyond the windows, broken only by the occasional wash of headlights from passing trucks or the distant glow of farmhouses sitting alone against the dark prairie. The engine growled constantly beneath them; Gator could feel it through the floorboards.

Maggie drove like a woman with absolutely no fear of death.

One hand rested lightly at the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped sharp acrylic nails against the leather in time with some unheard rhythm in her head, expensive heels digging into the gas pedal of eight hundred horsepower.

Gator had never been in a vehicle with Maggie before, he was beginning to think that had been intentional on God’s part. He kept one hand braced against the passenger door while trying not to visibly react every time Maggie took a corner ten miles faster than any sane person should.

His thoughts kept drifting back to you. To your face in the doorway of the Big House when he and Maggie left. You’d tried so hard to look calm, but right before he climbed into the car he’d glanced back and caught your thumb already finding its way to your mouth, worrying at the edge of your nail in that nervous little way you did.

The image had stayed lodged in his chest ever since. Part of him was still wondering if this had been a mistake, not because he thought Maggie couldn’t handle herself. After the last few days he was half convinced Maggie Heaton could probably overthrow a small country if she felt motivated enough. But this still had the potential to go sideways fast, and if it did…

He scrubbed one hand briefly over his jaw. You’d told him it was okay. Told him you wanted him there with Maggie. Wanted him keeping her safe. And he was gonna do exactly that. Assuming Maggie’s driving didn’t kill them both first.

Maggie glanced toward him briefly before returning her attention to the road.

“You nervous?”

Gator thought about it honestly for a second. He’d been in rooms like this before. Rooms full of men looking for reasons to start throwing hands. Roy had dragged him into situations like that since he was damn near still a kid. He wasn’t sure that made him feel any less nervous though.

“We’ll be fine, I don’t walk into any room without knowing I’ve got the upper hand.” Maggie’s eyes flicked toward him again. “Just let me do the talking.”

A short huff escaped him before he could stop it. Yeah. He knew that line. Roy used to say the exact same thing before meetings, backroom deals, and intimidation runs all across the county. Gator already knew his role in rooms like that. Two steps behind. It was all Roy ever really wanted from him anyway; Gator knew his place. He was there for the badge, the name, to look mean. A six foot deputy with a chip on his broad shoulders.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. M’two steps back ‘til someone makes a move.”

“No.”

The answer came sharp enough that he looked over at her. Maggie met his eyes only briefly before focusing back on the road again, headlights streaking pale across her face.

“If you’re coming with me, you stand with me, not behind me. I told you already; I ain’t your daddy and you’re not a child. I didn’t ask you to come because you’re a bit of muscle. I didn’t ask because you wear a badge. And I certainly didn’t ask because of whose son you are.” A dry scoff left her. “God knows that name’s more liability than asset most days.”

Gator stayed quiet but his eyes stayed trained on Maggie.

“I asked you because I trust you,” Maggie said simply. “You’ve got eyes. You read a room before most people have even found the light switch. I don’t need a guard dog, Gator. I need somebody looking for the shit I miss.”

For a second he genuinely didn’t know what to do with that.

Nobody talked about him like that. Hell, most days Gator figured people barely saw him at all underneath the Tillman name and the badge and the reputation attached to both.

But a compliment? Coming from Maggie Heaton? That meant something.

She could’ve brought anybody tonight. Roy. Brooks. Ford. Logan. Noah. One of the security guys she’d hired. Half the damn county probably would’ve shown up if Maggie snapped her fingers hard enough. But she chose him.

Maggie’s gaze flicked toward him again.

“Need you watching all of it,” she said. “You’re not my shadow. You’re my eyes. Got it?”

He nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Got it.”

The Iron Pit appeared out of the dark gradually. Maggie turned the Hellcat off the highway onto a long dirt road. A battered sign leaned crooked near the entrance.

THE IRON PIT HANGED MEN MC

One of the bulbs had burned out long ago, leaving half the lettering swallowed in shadow.

There was a parking lot off to the back side of the club house. The lot itself was crowded with motorcycles packed tightly together in uneven rows, chrome and black paint gleaming beneath the lights. The only vehicle among them was an old Chevy truck sitting crooked near the edge of the fence line, rust creeping along the wheel arches.

Maggie eased the Hellcat into a space near the edge of the lot and killed the engine. She leaned over the chair to reach her purse from the backseat and as she pulled it free from between the seats she looked at him.

“Leave the glock in the car.”

Gator’s eyebrows knitted. There was nothing casual in her expression. No humour either. Slowly, he reached behind himself and pulled the .22 from the back of his waistband before leaning forward to slide it carefully into the glove compartment. The lid clicked shut softly between them.

Maggie’s hand was already resting on the door handle.

“Ready?”

Gator nodded.

The evening air hit cool against his face as they stepped out of the car. At first the place seemed empty, but the second they rounded the side of the building and entered the main yard, he felt attention settle onto them from every direction.

The yard was enclosed on two sides by buildings; the clubhouse and opposite a mechanic garage, the rest of it was walled by chain-link fencing. The place was full of men.

Big bastards too. Heavy across the shoulders, leather cuts stretched over thick backs and tattooed arms, the same skeletal insignia stitched across nearly every jacket in the yard. The whole place smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke and sweat.

Above them the sky had darkened into deep bruised blue, the yard illuminated by lights mounted above the garage bays. Despite the hour, the mechanic shop was still running. One man crouched beside a stripped motorcycle with grease blackening both hands while another worked beneath a car raised high on a hydraulic lift, boots visible beneath the undercarriage.

Conversation had not stopped when Maggie and Gator entered the yard, but it had shifted. Eyes tracking them openly. Maggie either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Gator assumed it was the latter.

She walked straight through the middle of it in towering heels that pressed cleanly into the packed dirt, platinum hair shining beneath the industrial lights and an expensive handbag resting lightly against her wrist like she was arriving at a dinner reservation instead of a biker clubhouse in the middle of nowhere.

Beside her, Gator kept his attention moving constantly without appearing to. Faces. Hands. Exits. Distances.

Maggie walked straight up to the man guarding the door without slowing. The guy was well over six feet with shoulders like a damn refrigerator, huge and broad with a thick beard spilling down the front of his leather cut. A black bandana sat low across his forehead and tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves all the way down to his knuckles. He stared down at Maggie like most men did when they underestimated her for the first time.

Maggie didn’t so much as blink. Gator let his attention drift briefly back across the yard. The men in the garage still appeared occupied with their work, but he knew better than to assume that meant relaxed. Nobody had stopped watching them since they arrived.

His eyes tracked upward. Two cameras mounted outside; one positioned above the garage bays and another pointed directly toward the entrance road. When he turned back toward the clubhouse, he spotted a third fixed high above the metal door, angled to cover anyone entering or leaving.

“You wanna let your boss know I’m here?” Maggie asked calmly.

The big man grunted but didn’t move. Maggie tilted her head slightly.

“Hurry it up, honey. My time is significantly more expensive than yours.”

The man’s stare hardened a fraction, though whether from irritation or amusement Gator couldn’t tell. Without taking his eyes off Maggie, the biker reached back and hammered a heavy fist against the metal door behind him.

A second later it swung inward and the guy moved aside.

Gator glanced through the doorway first. The entrance opened directly into the main bar area, dimly lit and mostly empty except for a handful of men wearing leather cuts gathered near the back of the room. One sat alone at a table while the others lingered standing around him.

Gator looked once toward Maggie and gave a small nod. She stepped inside, heels clicking sharply across the hardwood floor while the smell of smoke and stale beer settled thick in the air. Gator followed behind her and heard the heavy door slam shut at his back. Before Maggie could reach the table, two men moved to block their path.

“Search ‘em,” the seated man said.

The voice was rough and low, carrying easily through the quiet room.

One of the bikers stepped toward Gator, shorter than him by a few inches but built thick through the chest and shoulders. A worn name patch reading HARLAN was sewn onto the front of his leather cut above the pocket.

Gator looked at him steadily.

Harlan tapped lightly against his shoulder in silent instruction and Gator simply lifted his arms, letting the man pat him down. At the same time, another biker moved in front of Maggie and began patting her down too.

Something ugly flickered instinctively through Gator’s chest watching it. Some grease-covered asshole with dirt beneath his fingernails running his hands over her. But Maggie remained completely unbothered. Calm and still with an almost humoured look on her face, like she was letting children play out a routine.

Once the searches were finished, both men stepped back and looked toward the figure seated at the table.

“They’re unarmed,” Harlan said.

The man at the table chuckled softly.

“Not sure if that’s brave or stupid.”

Gator studied him properly. Older. Maybe mid-forties, long dark hair pulled back into a thick braid and a goatee framing a mouth that looked more amused than threatened. A faded black leather cut hung over a black vest, old tattoos disappearing across his chest and down both arms. Heavy silver rings wrapped nearly every finger. Similar name patch read BRIGGS.

Unbothered by the little performance surrounding her, Maggie stepped forward.

“I don’t need a gun to prove my point,” she said smoothly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be decomposing.”

For the first time since they entered, Briggs gave a genuine laugh. Beside the table, Gator reached down and pulled out a chair for Maggie. He waited until she sat, placing her handbag carefully beside her chair before taking the seat next to her.

Gator let his eyes travel slowly around the room while the silence settled across the table.

The place looked exactly like he expected a biker clubhouse in rural North Dakota to look; dark, stale and worn half to death. The hardwood floors were scuffed deep from years of boots dragging over them and the bar running along the far wall had cigarette burns scattered across the lacquer. Neon beer signs buzzed faintly overhead, one flickering every few seconds like it was on the verge of giving up. It was industrial, dirty, barely functional.

The two men who had searched them drifted toward the bar and perched on stools near the table without fully sitting back. Harlan stayed broad and still, arms folded heavily across his chest, while the other man lounged looser beside him. PIKE. Gator read the name off the worn patch sewn onto his cut.

He watched them both quietly while Maggie spoke, paying more attention to how they moved than what they looked like. People told on themselves in their movements long before they did with words.

“You need to work on the hospitality,” Maggie said smoothly. “The gargoyle on the door could do with some manners.”

Briggs snorted.

“We don’t keep ‘im around for ‘is manners.”

“Must be his shining personality then.”

The sarcasm in Maggie’s voice was dry enough to peel paint. Across from them, Briggs leaned back further in his chair like he was trying to occupy as much space as physically possible.

“I gotta say, I heard rumours of the infamous Maggie Heaton. Thought you was smart.” His eyes slid briefly toward Gator. “Walkin’ into the lion’s den with just a pup for protection. Bold move.”

“You suggesting I need protection?” Maggie asked lightly. “Thought this was a conversation.”

Gator barely reacted to the comment. Men like Briggs always did the same thing first; chest puffing, little dominance games, seeing who flinched earliest. Instead, he kept scanning. Pike caught his attention, the guy’s eyes kept shifting toward the back room every time Briggs spoke, subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t notice but frequent enough to matter. Nervous, possibly. Waiting for approval maybe. Or worried someone else was listening.

Gator’s gaze drifted back toward Briggs.

The man sat cocky. Legs spread wide beneath the table; one arm hooked lazily over the back of the chair. Every inch of him screamed practiced intimidation. Gator’s eyes moved over the patches on the front of the leather cut. BISMARCK over the left breast above the name patch, while the right side carried two more titles in black and dark red thread. FIRST 9. VICE PRESIDENT.

Gator’s brow furrowed slightly. Vice President. Not the man in charge. And judging by Maggie’s posture, she hadn’t clocked it yet.

“Not sure we’ve got much to talk about,” Briggs said.

“You can cut the crap. You know why I’m here.” Maggie leaned back slightly. “Blackridge. What do they want?”

“Never heard of ‘em.” Briggs shrugged lazily.

Under the table, Gator nudged the back leg of Maggie’s chair lightly with the heel of his boot. When she glanced sideways toward him, he tapped twice against the right side of his own chest without fully looking at her, subtle enough the others would miss it if they weren’t paying attention. Then he brushed imaginary lint from his shirt and resumed scanning the room like nothing had happened. A second later Maggie laughed softly.

“Okay, I’m not playing games with the help.”

Briggs’ face darkened instantly, Maggie continued before he could speak.

“Alright, I’m done with the children. Why don’t we let the grown-ups talk before your Vice President here gets himself into a situation he can’t unfuck?” She said, voice carrying louder now through the clubhouse.

Briggs shoved his chair backward hard enough that the legs screeched against the floor. Gator turned instantly, assessing distance, hands, angles. But before Briggs could say a word, the door behind him creaked open.

“Sit down, Briggs. You’re giving the lady a headache.”

The voice rolled through the room rough as grinding stones. Every biker in the room straightened.

The man stepping from the back room was older than Briggs and carried himself cleaner. Still broad, still dangerous looking. But deliberate where Briggs was loud. Bright white hair combed back at his temples and his beard was trimmed neat instead of wild. His leather cut carried only one patch across the front. PRESIDENT.

He dragged a chair over for himself and sat at the table without hurry. Gator watched him closely; calm eyes, controlled movements, no wasted energy. This was the actual threat in the room.

“Are we done with the dramatics now?” Maggie glanced around the clubhouse. “Feel like I’m sat in community theatre.”

The man smiled slightly.

“My apologies, ma’am. My Vice President sometimes forgets how we speak to guests.”

He shot Briggs a warning look sharp enough that Briggs immediately sat back down without argument. Interesting, thought Gator. There was tension there.

“I’m Cal,” he said. “Presuming you’re Maggie.” His eyes flicked to Gator. “Who’s the boy?”

“Gator,” Gator grunted.

One corner of Cal’s mouth twitched.

“Interesting name.”

“Great,” Maggie cut in. “Now we’re all introduced, are you going to give me some answers?”

Cal leaned back slightly in the chair.

“Well. That depends what you wanna know.”

“Blackridge.” Maggie folded one leg neatly over the other. “What do they want?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to tell you that.” Cal shrugged lightly. “See, I was paid to do a job and keep quiet about it.”

Gator looked toward Maggie then and caught the slight curl at the edge of her mouth. Not angry. No, this was… satisfaction.

“I want it on record, Cal, that I tried to do this the neighbourly way.” She gestured lightly around the room. “I sat here. I entertained the posturing. I’ve been patient and polite. I really do try to lead with the carrot. But sometimes people are just too stubborn to see what’s good for them.”

She reached into her handbag then and withdrew a thin manila folder. Gator watched every biker in the room track the movement. Maggie slid the folder across the scarred tabletop until it stopped directly in front of Cal’s folded hands.

“So,” she said softly, “let’s introduce the stick.”

Cal looked down at the folder, then back at Maggie, searching her face carefully for a bluff. Apparently he didn’t find one. He opened it and Gator watched as his eyes move across the pages.

“What’s this?” Cal frowned slightly. “Land leases?”

“I spent my morning buying up the ground beneath your feet, Mr Calvin Dorsey.”

That got a reaction, Cal’s eyes lifted immediately at the sound of his full name. Maggie smiled politely.

“This clubhouse. The garages. The bar in Dickinson. I own it all.” A slight tilt of her head. “Every square inch of dirt you’re currently occupying… it’s mine.”

To Gator’s left, Briggs visibly tensed. The man started to speak, but Cal lifted one hand slightly without even looking at him. Briggs shut up instantly. Cal never took his eyes off Maggie, his face gave away almost nothing, but Gator could still see it. The moment the balance shifted.

Maggie had won.

“So here’s the reality,” Maggie continued evenly. “You can keep your deal with Blackridge. Stay quiet, keep cashing their checks. And by Monday morning I’ll have sold this place to a developer who wants to tear it down and build a strip mall. A king with no kingdom, Mr Dorsey.”

Gator watched Cal’s hands then, not his face, the hands told the truth first. Knuckles tightening slightly against the edge of the folder.

“Or,” Maggie continued, “you can give me the answers I’m looking for, cut your ties with Blackridge and come work for me. You see, I’m a much better friend than I am an enemy.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the file.

“According to this, we’re business partners now. And I do like when my businesses thrive. You want those garage books full? Want the bar filled every night? Want to…” her gaze swept the clubhouse, “spruce the place up a little? I can make that happen. Or you can keep playing foot soldier for the other team and I can liquidate the whole lot and buy myself a nice new purse.” Her eyes locked onto Cal’s. “Choice is yours.”

Cal closed the file carefully and slid it back across the table using a single finger. For the first time since sitting down, some of the ease had disappeared from his face, his jaw tightened slightly as he turned his head toward Briggs.

“Out. Take them with you.”

Gator watched Briggs’ expression harden for half a second before he pushed himself away from the table. Pike and Harlan followed after him without argument, stools scraping against the floorboards as all three men moved toward the front door. A second later the heavy metal door swung open and slammed shut behind them.

Cal’s eyes returned to Maggie.

“I was warned about you, Ms Heaton,” he admitted. “Seems I shoulda listened. What d’you wanna know?”

“I want to know what you know,” Maggie replied calmly. “Who they are, what they want, and why they’re hiring bikers to stalk my family.”

Cal exhaled once through his nose before standing from the table. He crossed toward the bar without hurry, reached over it for three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then carried them back. The glasses clinked softly against the tabletop as he poured.

“They started small, over in Montana under a different name. Logistics mostly. Trucking.” He slid one of the glasses toward Maggie and another toward Gator. “But they weren’t moving much oil back then.”

The whiskey bottle knocked lightly against the table as he set it down.

“They were moving weight. Coke. Crystal. Smack.” A shrug. “Hell, probably all of it. Oil was just camouflage. Half a truck full of crude, half a truck full of drugs.”

Maggie’s expression remained unreadable.

“So why move the operation here?”

“Access.” Cal rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Montana’s fine until border crossings start tightening up. They were having trouble moving product.”

“So why are they attacking my sites?”

“They got a tip. Some informant told ‘em about the boom in the Bakken.” He took a sip of whiskey. “So they rebranded, got themselves a new name and started setting up shop here. They run fleets of tankers across the border, no questions asked. Nobody’s checking for heroin in the middle of an oil shortage.”

The room fell quiet for a beat.

“But then Blackridge started seeing the numbers.” Cal’s mouth twitched slightly. “An’ what’s that saying about money an’ evil?”

“The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”

The verse left Gator’s mouth automatically, too many Sundays spent trapped in church pews as a kid. Cal looked at him with faint amusement.

“Don’t look like the bible bashing kind, Gator.”

Gator didn’t answer. Just held the man’s gaze steadily until Cal looked away first, taking another sip of his whiskey. Maggie and Gator’s glasses remained untouched in front of them.

“So Blackridge started as a front,” she said, “and now the front’s become the business.”

“Essentially. They run twice the number of trucks now; twice the oil, twice the drugs, twice the money.” Cal rolled the whiskey glass slowly between his fingers. “We were told to put the pressure on you and your guys, get you to back off, cause you issues that would pause your output and have Blackridge overtaking your spot as the Bakken’s supplier. Guess they hadn’t factored in your… tenacity.”,

Maggie smiled.

“And this informant? Who was he?”

“Never got a name.” Cal shrugged. “Guy got himself buried in drug debt and needed a way out. Had industry contacts, knew the oil business. Opened the door for ‘em.”

Slowly, Maggie lifted her whiskey glass at last and downed the entire thing in one smooth swallow before setting it back onto the table.

“Here’s how this goes,” she said calmly. “You and your boys cut the cord with Blackridge tonight. You block their numbers, burn the burner phones and get rid of every connection you have to them.”

Cal stayed quiet.

“You stop touching my crews. You stop touching my sites.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “And you don’t so much as breathe in the direction of my family again.”

“They’re gonna notice when their security disappears,” Cal pointed out. “And I’ve taken their money.”

“Keep it. By tomorrow, getting a refund from you will be the least of their problems.”

Maggie folded her hands together neatly atop the table. Gator watched Cal carefully while she spoke. The man looked wary now but interested too.

“You work for me now. My offer stands,” Maggie continued. “We clean those garages up; I’ll make sure the bar is the only place in the county where the law doesn’t come knocking. You can have legitimate, thriving businesses.”

For a second nobody spoke, then Cal slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her. Maggie clicked hers gently against it.

“But there’s a price for my friendship,” she added before drinking. “When the time comes, I’m going to need you signing testimony for the state.”

Cal sets his glass down, his face now visibly concerned.

“You want me talking to the feds? That’s a death sentence.”

“You underestimate me, Cal.” Maggie’s tone stayed perfectly even. “I’m going to bury Blackridge so deep they’ll forget what the sun looks like. We’re friends now. Business partners. And you’ll learn quickly I’m a very good friend to have.”

Gator sat there quietly watching her and honestly, he felt a little awed by it. The control she had over a room was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Roy ruled through intimidation, through fear and noise.

Maggie never raised her voice once. She didn’t need to. Her power sat quietly beneath every word she spoke, elegant and terrifying all at once. She walked into rooms already holding enough information to bribe, blackmail or bury every person inside them and somehow she still managed to sound polite doing it.

A small twitch pulled briefly at the corner of Gator’s mouth. Maggie pushed herself smoothly to her feet, clearly satisfied she had everything she came for. She slid the file back into her handbag before looking down at Cal once more.

“I want the name of that informant,” she said. “Then you cut the cord with Blackridge. I’ll be back Monday and I want every file you’ve got on your businesses waiting for me. I want a list of what’s working and what ain’t.”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “I can do that.”

“But if I see any of your boys near my family again,” Maggie warned, “the deal’s off and I’ll wrecking-ball this place myself.”

By then Gator had already stood, moving instinctively alongside her as she headed toward the door. Then Maggie paused and turned back once more.

“And Cal?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Teach your boys some damn manners.” Her mouth curved sharply. “I’ll overlook the disrespect today, but that Vice President of yours tries swinging his dick in front of me again and I’ll cut it the fuck off.”

Without another word, Maggie turned and headed for the door. Gator overtook her in a few long strides to pull it open for her and followed her back outside into the night air.

The yard had changed while they were inside. The mechanic bays were shuttered now and the floodlights buzzed harshly against the darkness overhead. Further down the building, Briggs and the others stood smoking against the wall, conversation stopping briefly as Maggie passed them. She didn’t spare a single one of them a glance, just kept walking across the packed dirt toward the waiting Hellcat.

Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat; Gator slid into the passenger side beside her and buckled himself in while the engine roared back to life. The Hellcat rolled out of the lot in a spray of dust and loose gravel before Maggie turned them back toward the highway.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Gator kept thinking about the meeting, replaying pieces of it over in his head while the dark fields streaked past outside the windows.

“You really gonna fix up their businesses?” he asked eventually.

“Technically they’re my businesses now,” she corrected lightly. “And yes. I am.”

“Dad woulda just burnt the place down. Probably with them still in it.”

Maggie gave a quiet hum of amusement.

“Well, your daddy’s always been a fool. His way of doing things is incredibly inefficient. Junior thinks if you beat a head long enough, eventually you own the mind inside it.” She shook her head faintly. “That’s not how people work.”

The highway lights flashed intermittently across her face as she drove.

“You keep beating,” she said calmly, “and eventually all you leave behind is a broken man plotting revenge.”

Gator stared out through the windshield quietly. Once again, Maggie was right. Everybody feared Roy. But nobody loved him. Nobody respected him either, not really. They pretended to because they were scared of what happened if they didn’t, but that wasn’t the same thing. Roy had spent his entire life demanding obedience through force and intimidation while Maggie achieved more than he ever could by simply walking into a room and letting people realise she was already ten steps ahead of them.

That was why Roy always needed her. Why even he listened when Maggie spoke. She didn’t have to raise her voice to command a room. The room just naturally quietened around her.

Beside him, Maggie spoke again.

“You did good tonight, Gator. That catch with the patches? I wouldn’t have spotted it. Thank you.”

Something tightened unexpectedly in Gator’s chest at the words. Pride. It felt stupid almost, how much that simple bit of praise affected him. Nobody had ever really told him he’d done a good job before. Definitely not Roy. Hell, half the time his father only noticed him when he’d fucked something up. But hearing it from Maggie, that meant something.

Maggie’s mouth curved slightly as if she could see the effect it had anyway.

“Now,” she said, settling back more comfortably behind the wheel, “let’s get you home to your girl, huh? Bet she’s chewed a hole clean through her thumb by now.”

The image of you waiting back at the ranch rose immediately in his mind. Curled up somewhere in one of his hoodies, anxious and trying not to show it, probably still awake despite the hour.

Maggie pressed harder on the gas pedal and the Hellcat surged violently forward down the highway, Gator grabbed the door handle and honestly, he was just hoping he survived the drive home.

・❥・

An uneasy feeling had been sitting low in your stomach since the moment you woke up that morning. At first it had been manageable, just a quiet kind of anxiety. But by the time Maggie and Gator were actually leaving the ranch, the feeling had worsened to something sharp and restless beneath your ribs.

You had tried not to let either of them see it. You stood in the doorway of the Big House while Maggie climbed into the Hellcat and Gator lingered long enough to kiss you goodbye, his hand warm against your cheek while he quietly promised he would be back before you knew it. You kissed him back, told him to be careful.

You had smiled, you had waved, you had held yourself together right up until the Hellcat vanished through the front gate and the sound of the engine disappeared into the distance. Then you stepped back inside the house and the hold slipped immediately.

You had been in your room ever since. At some point you had curled yourself into the pillows of the bed.

Dinner had come and gone a while ago, but the thought of food had turned your stomach so badly you nearly felt sick. You had told Ford no through the door and listened until his footsteps disappeared again.

Your phone lay beside you on the bed, lighting up every few minutes as you checked the time despite already knowing exactly how long they had been gone. Texting Gator was pointless, his phone sat abandoned on the bedside table where he had left it.

Every few minutes your fingers found your pulse point, checking and rechecking your heart rate until you no longer trusted your own judgement of it. Sometimes it felt normal, other times it seemed too fast, or uneven, or just wrong somehow.

The drive to Bismarck would take roughly an hour and twenty minutes, maybe less with Maggie driving. Then however long the meeting itself lasted. An hour maybe. Two if things got complicated. Then another hour and twenty minutes back to the ranch. Close to four hours total. Unless something had gone wrong.

By the time the clock crept past midnight, you had worked yourself into such a state that you barely trusted your own body anymore.

You were still sat upright against the headboard, not remotely comfortable despite the mountain of pillows behind you. One knee was drawn tight against your chest while your thumb stayed trapped between your teeth, worrying relentlessly at the torn skin around the nail until the metallic taste of blood spread across your tongue.

Your other hand remained pressed against the side of your neck. Checking. Always checking. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump. There. That skip again.

You pressed harder against your pulse point and started counting over from the beginning, breathing shallow without meaning to while you focused entirely on the rhythm beneath your skin. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump.

Wait. Was it getting faster?

Your fingers shifted slightly.

thumpthumpthump^thump

Okay. That definitely felt wrong. Panic crawled sharply up your spine as you squeezed tighter against your neck, already preparing to count again when a soft knock sounded suddenly against your bedroom door.

The door cracked open before you answered and Ford leaned his head around it.

“Baby?” His voice stayed gentle. “Just wanted to check on you. You’ve been super quiet.”

The second he saw you sitting there with your thumb in your mouth and your fingers pressed anxiously against your neck, his expression changed completely.

“Baby…”

Worry etched in his face as he crossed the room quickly and sat down on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping carefully beneath his weight.

“Baby? Shit, you’re bleeding.”

He reached carefully for your hand, tugging your thumb gently away from your mouth so he could inspect it properly. The skin around the nail was torn, but you barely cared about that. Instead you grabbed Ford’s free hand and pressed it against the side of your neck.

“Does this feel weird to you?”

Ford looked at you, for a second concern sharpened his features, but then his fingers settled properly over your pulse point while he concentrated. You watched his face anxiously while he counted silently, after a moment he lowered his hand.

“Feels normal,” he said calmly. “Little quick, but you’ve got yourself into a state so that’s to be expected.”

“Felt weird.”

“Probably because you’ve been checking it every two minutes.”

Your brow furrowed. How did he know? The faintest flicker of amusement slipped from Ford despite the worry still lingering in his eyes.

“I know you, baby.”

Ford gave your injured thumb another look before pushing himself upright from the bed.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Kids are asleep. Let’s go get your thumb fixed up and we’ll wait on the couch together till they get back.”

You let him pull you to your feet and he kept hold of your hand the whole way out of the bedroom, your chewed-up thumb lifted carefully between his fingers while he guided you toward the kitchen.

Ford hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you up onto the counter beside the sink. He switched on the tap and carefully guided your hand beneath the stream of cool water. The skin stung, but even that hardly registered over everything else spiralling through your chest.

“Has Maggie text you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But you know she doesn’t text and really, the last thing we need is Maggie texting and driving. Woman’s already lethal behind the wheel.”

A weak little smile pulled at your mouth. He shut off the water and reached for a dish towel, drying your hand with exaggerated care. His large hands stayed impossibly gentle while he wrapped a band aid neatly around your thumb.

“They’ll be home soon, I promise. C’mon, kid.”

He slipped an arm around your waist again and lifted you back down from the counter before steering you gently toward the living room with his arm draped around your shoulders.

When you reached the couch, he dropped heavily into the corner cushion and tugged you into his side. You let yourself fold against him bonelessly, your head tucked beneath his chin while he reached for the remote.

The television flickered on. Ford scrolled aimlessly through channels for a minute before eventually settling on a rerun of Friends.

The bright apartment colours blurred together while the canned laugh track echoed through the room. Your mind kept drifting, circling, spiralling. Without thinking, your hand started lifting toward your mouth again.

Ford caught it halfway there. He grabbed both your wrists gently, pulling your hands down into your lap before wrapping his arms more securely around you.

“Stop chewing or I’m gonna put you in one of those cones they put dogs in at the vet.”

“Sorry.”

Ford loosened his grip on your wrists slowly but kept one arm looped tightly around you, his other hand drifted up into your hair. He smoothed it back from your face in long absent strokes.

“They’ll be home soon,” he repeated quietly.

His fingers continued moving through your hair while you tried to focus on that instead of the panic still crawling restlessly beneath your skin. After a while Ford spoke again, his voice lighter this time.

“I hope you would’ve been this worried if Maggie had taken me as her bodyguard.”

You let out a small laugh against his shoulder.

“She never would’ve taken you. Doesn’t look very professional if your bodyguard has a black eye.”

Ford gave you a gentle poke in the ribs.

“Still got jokes, huh? Don’t you think it makes me look rugged? Little mysterious. Dangerous, maybe.”

You tipped your head back enough to look at him.

“Ford, you are a forty-year-old father of five. I don’t think you need to look dangerous.”

“You’re mean when you’re worried.”

You shoved lightly at the side of his head and tucked yourself closer into his side again while your eyes drifted back toward the television. Onscreen, Monica, Rachel and Phoebe sat crowded together in wedding dresses inside Monica’s apartment while the laugh track played over the top of them.

Ford managed to keep you distracted for a while. Every now and then he laughed quietly at something happening on the television and nudged you until you half-smiled too.

But when you see headlights seep through the front window and hear the familiar pop of tyres over gravel, your entire body reacted before your brain did.

You shot upright off the couch so fast Ford barely had time to move out of the way before you were across the living room. You yanked the front door open just as Maggie and Gator stepped out of the Hellcat. The cold night air rushed against your skin as you bolted across the yard.

“Jesus--”

Gator barely got the word out before you collided with him full force. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs locked around his waist while he caught you with a low grunt, both arms hooking securely beneath you to stop the momentum from knocking you both sideways.

Behind you, Ford had wandered out onto the porch in time to witness the entire thing. Maggie glanced toward him while shutting the car door.

“Don’t you run at me like that,” she called dryly. “Not a chance I’m catching your big ass.”

Ford snorted.

“Thanks, Ma. So glad you’re home.”

Your face stayed buried against Gator’s neck while he adjusted his grip beneath your thighs and started carrying you back toward the house across the gravel.

“Miss me?” he murmured, voice rough with amusement close to your ear.

“Mhm.”

The answer came muffled into the side of his throat. Gator huffed softly through his nose and pressed a kiss against your temple.

“M’back now,” he said quietly. “S’alright.”

Gator carried you all the way up the porch steps and through the front door without putting you down, one hand spread securely against your lower back while he rounded the corner toward the kitchen. Only once he reached the counter did he finally ease you down onto it. Even then he stayed standing between your knees, your arms remained looped stubbornly around his shoulders like letting go might somehow make him disappear again.

Ford and Maggie followed in a moment later.

The kitchen lights flicked brighter overhead and Ford moved toward the kettle out of pure habit, switching it on before Maggie walked past him, reached over, and clicked it back off again, opting for the bottle of wine in the fridge.

Ford laughed quietly under his breath and reached up into the top cabinet for a wine glass. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied hum before pouring herself a generous amount.

“I’ve got a few calls to make,” she said after taking the first long sip, “but all in all I’d say it was a rather successful evening.”

Ford leaned back against the island.

“Yeah?”

“Our new biker friends gave us enough information to do a great deal more than simply push Blackridge off our land.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I’m wiping them off the map. By Monday, that company won’t be able to buy a gallon of gas in this country, let alone drill for it.”

You still had your arms around Gator’s shoulders, but you smiled softly at Maggie across the kitchen.

“I’ve also acquired a few new businesses that I’ll be needing your help with, Ford.”

Ford barked out a laugh.

“Trust you to walk into a thieves’ den and leave owning part of the treasure.”

“I like to seize opportunities when they present themselves.”

Ford just shook his head fondly while Maggie took another drink of wine. Then her attention shifted toward Gator.

“I can’t take all the credit tonight though. Gator was… impressive. He’s got a knack for finding the rot in a room. Saved me a great deal of time and a fair amount of breath.” A small smile touched the edge of her mouth. “I think we’re going to make quite the team, Gator.”

Gator felt the heat rise into his face, a small, crooked smile on his face as his eyes dropped briefly to the kitchen floor. Impressive. Not a word he was used to hearing about himself. Your arms tightened gently around his neck in a quiet supportive squeeze, like you understood exactly what the moment meant to him.

Maggie drained the last of her wine and set the empty glass down onto the counter with a soft clink.

“Right,” she announced. “I’m gonna go make these calls. See you all in the morning.”

“Ma, it’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Ford frowned.

“I like to skin my corpses while the flesh is still warm, Ford.”

As Maggie passed, she gave Gator a brief pat against the arm, he moved aside, watching as you leaned toward her and wrapped your arms briefly around her shoulders.

“Glad you sorted it,” you murmured. “And that you’re home in one piece.”

For a second Maggie’s expression softened completely, every inch of the cold, calculated person he had just witnessed in the clubhouse disappearing as she hugged you back.

While you embraced, Gator drifted quietly closer to Ford near the counter. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“She alright?”

Ford’s expression changed instantly, the teasing ease slipped away, replaced by something heavier.

“Stayed locked in her room all night, refused to eat, torn her thumb to shreds. I managed to pull her into the living room about an hour ago, but honestly she was borderline catatonic when I went to get her.”,

“Shit.”

The word left Gator before he could stop it. Guilt hit him hard and immediate now, sinking low in his chest as his eyes flicked instinctively back toward you on the counter.

“Thought she’d be alright. She said it was okay t’go.”

Ford looked at him for a long second, not accusing, just tired and understanding.

“She was scared. It’s been a fucking insane week,” he said simply. “And she loves you, Tillman.”

Gator looked at him properly then. You had already said the words to him yourself, but hearing somebody else say it so casually, like it was obvious enough for everyone around you to notice, sent something warm and almost dizzying through his chest.

Ford caught the expression and smirked.

“God knows why,” he muttered. “Really should’ve raised her with better taste.”

A quiet laugh escaped Gator. When he looked back toward you, Maggie had slipped away and you were watching them both with narrowed eyes like you already knew they had been talking about you.

Gator crossed the kitchen and scooped you straight back into his arms. Your arms returned to his shoulders; legs hooked instinctively around his waist. You could have walked yourself but that wasn’t the point. Gator simply wanted you as close to him as physically possible.

You murmured a quiet goodnight to Ford over Gator’s shoulder as he carried you out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward your bedroom.

The second the bedroom door shut behind you, Gator kissed you. Deep and immediate and almost desperate in the way his mouth found yours while he still held you against him, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers tangled into the hair at the back of his neck.

And just like that, the panic dissolved. All the spiralling thoughts, the counting, the sick dread that had been sitting in your chest for hours seemed to finally loosen and fall away the second his lips found yours.

Gator broke away slowly, his forehead resting against yours while both of you breathed the same air for a moment.

“Hey,” he murmured softly.

“Hey,” you smiled weakly.

Still holding you easily, he carried you over to the bed before finally setting you down gently on the edge of the mattress. Then, instead of stepping away, he crouched down in front of you. Your chest tightened slightly at the sight of him there between your knees, big hands carefully taking yours while he looked down at the band-aid wrapped around your thumb.

“Ford says y’didn’t eat,” he said quietly. “Been holed up in here all night.”

Guilt sat heavily in his voice.

“I didn’t want y’worryin’ like that.” His thumb brushed lightly over the bandage. “If I’d known… If you’d told me not t’go, I wouldn’t’ve gone.”

The distress in his eyes made your heart ache. You reached out, hand settling against his cheek while your thumb brushed softly through the roughness of his stubble.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “You’re back. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

Gator shook his head slightly and leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“I don’t like it when y’get like that. Don’t want y’panickin’ over me an’ chewin’ yourself t’pieces when I ain’t there.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours. “I love you too much t’be the reason you’re hurtin’ yourself.”

“Well,” you murmured softly, “I love you too much not to worry about you.”

A dry little laugh escaped him then, tired and fond all at once, and he lowered his forehead briefly against your knee.

“Guess we’re jus’ fucked then?”

You smiled for real this time and leaned down enough to press a soft kiss against the back of his neck.

“But at least we’re fucked together.”

Gator laughed quietly beneath his breath and stayed there for another moment while your fingers stroked slowly through his hair. Eventually he pushed himself back to his feet and kissed you again.

He only stepped away long enough to change out of his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before crossing to his side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet and climbed beneath it before leaning across the mattress toward you where you still sat near the end of the bed.

Without warning, both his arms wrapped around your waist. You let out a startled squeal as he hauled you bodily backward up the mattress toward him, laughing softly against your shoulder while you squirmed uselessly in his grip.

He settled you securely against his chest, your back tucked into the solid warmth of his body while one arm draped heavily across your waist beneath the blankets, his breath brushing softly against the back of your neck and for the first time all day, you finally relaxed.

・❥・

By the next afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Big House had shifted completely. Not normal exactly. But the suffocating tension that had been hanging over the ranch for days had eased.

You sat cross-legged on the living room rug with Josie settled happily between your legs, helping her with one of her shape sorter toys while the television played quietly in the background. Every few seconds she would grab a brightly coloured block and attempt to jam it violently into whatever hole happened to be closest. Most of the time unsuccessfully.

Behind you, Gator and Ford occupied opposite corners of the sofa, half watching the television while talking over the top of it. Gator’s socked foot rubbed absently against your hip every now and then where you sat on the floor between them.

Upstairs, the sound of the kids thundered intermittently through the ceiling.

The twins had been surprisingly good all week about keeping Nicky and Rhodes occupied while they were off school. Video games, movies, wrestling matches that inevitably ended with Tucker being bundled on the floor. The younger boys had barely left Tucker and Walker’s orbit since Monday, following them around the ranch like devoted little shadows.

At your knees, Josie made an increasingly furious sound as she repeatedly tried shoving a square block into a triangular hole.

“No, Josie-jo,” you laughed softly. “Wrong one.”

She scowled at the toy as you reached around her and rotated the sorter slightly, so the square opening faced her instead, not that it seemed to help much. You barely noticed Maggie entering the room until the television abruptly changed channels and Ford let out an offended noise from the couch.

“Ma,” he complained, “I was watching that.”

But Maggie ignored him completely, her attention fixed on the screen while a news channel replaced the documentary.

A helicopter shot swept across the television screen showing County 22 from above, but instead of the usual slow crawl of oil traffic and tanker routes, the roads were clogged with armoured BearCats and blacked-out federal SUVs stretching in a line across the valley. Men in olive-drab tactical gear moved between the vehicles carrying rifles across their chests.

Maggie turned the volume up so you could hear the reporter.

“…massive coordinated enforcement action is currently underway against Blackridge Extraction in what appears to be a multi-agency operation led by the DEA. We’re hearing reports of federal indictments and involvement in racketeering and Schedule One narcotics trafficking.”

The footage switched suddenly to Dickinson. Blackridge headquarters stood surrounded by police vehicles while shattered glass glittered across the pavement outside the building entrance. Federal agents swarmed the site while another smaller video frame appeared in the corner showing suited executives being marched out in handcuffs earlier that morning.

“…sources close to the investigation suggest that the oil giant has been operating as a front for a multi-state narcotics distribution network. Federal agents spent the morning breaching Blackridge sites across the Bakken region and there have already been dozens of arrests, including company CEO Lukas Donovan…”

Maggie lowered the volume again as she rounded the couch and sat down beside Ford like she had merely switched on the weather report.

“Ain’t ever seen a strike team move that fast,” Gator muttered. “Takes ‘em months of red tape usually.”

Maggie crossed one leg neatly over the other.

“Well, it only takes about…” she said calmly, glancing at her watch, “…eight hours if you happen to have the Regional Director’s personal cell phone number.”

You looked between Maggie and the television in disbelief. At this point you genuinely were beginning to wonder just how many terrifyingly powerful people Maggie Heaton had on speed dial.

“But won’t this screw Brooks over too?” you asked. “What if they padlock the whole valley while they investigate? He’ll lose access to the shared pipelines.”

And the last thing Brooks needed right now was more financial damage while federal agents squeezed the entire oil region into paralysis. But Maggie only waved one dismissive hand lightly through the air.

“I already handled it.”

Of course she had.

“The Blackridge sites along the 22 are being cleared as low-risk assets. State wants production operational again as quickly as possible to avoid an energy crisis in the county.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Which means they’re currently searching for a reputable local operator willing to manage the seizure sites under temporary receivership.”

“And let me guess,” Ford chuckled, “you’ve already got Brooks’ name sitting at the top of their list?”

“I’ve already drafted the intent to buy. While Blackridge are busy hiring criminal defence attorneys, we’ll be purchasing their most profitable leases for pennies on the dollar. All while maintaining the cleanest books in the country. Work smarter, not harder, Ford.”

Ford barked out a laugh.

You sat there looking at Maggie in quiet disbelief. Because somehow, impossibly, she always won. Only now you were finally beginning to understand why. All these years you had thought Maggie’s power came from money. But that was only part of it. The real truth sat deeper than that.

Maggie Heaton was a viper wearing designer heels. Everyone underestimated her, too busy looking at the shine of her scales to notice the length of her fangs.

Everyone sat watching the coverage for another few minutes. Eventually the segment ended and shifted into the local weather report, the screen now filled with a smiling meteorologist.

“So,” Ford said, “no more house arrest?”

“You make it sound like Guantanamo, Ford. Privileged problem to be on house arrest in a multimillion-dollar ranch in rural North Dakota.” A faint smile curved at the edge of Maggie’s mouth. “But yes, you’ve got early release for good behaviour. Make sure you stop by the gift shop for a souvenir on your way out.”

Ford snorted a laugh. On the rug, Josie had apparently grown bored of even trying and was now repeatedly slapping the shape sorter against the floor hard enough to make plastic blocks scatter across the rug. You scooped her up beneath the arms and passed her backward toward Ford. He settled her bouncing on his knee as you shifted on the rug to face Maggie.

“And what about the bikers?”

“Actually,” Maggie said, “I wanted to ask you about that.”

You frowned faintly.

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with their president, Cal, on Monday, we’re going to go over everything they have and what needs work. I was wondering if you would like to work on it, lead the project. You can liaise with Ford about the construction, work with Cal and his crew to make a plan.”

You stared at her for a second. Maggie wanted you in on this? Sure, you had worked on Grace Foundation projects for years. But this was different. These were actual profiting businesses. A corporate portfolio.

“You want me…” You blinked slightly. “To lead it?”

“Can’t think of anyone better. I’ll come with you Monday and make introductions,” Maggie said. “We’ll assess what we’re working with and I’ll help however you need me to. But I think it’s time you took the reins on something. You in?”

You kept looking at her for another second, still trying to process the fact she was offering this to you so casually, like she had no doubt you could do it. Slowly, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, a little breathless. “Yeah… I’d love that.”

Maggie smiled faintly and leaned back against the couch cushions again, looking entirely unsurprised by your answer.

“Good.”

Beside her, Ford reclaimed the remote from Josie’s sticky hands and switched the channel back over. The nature documentary somehow managed to pull all of you; one minute the television was background noise and the next all four of you were silently watching two lions stalk a zebra through tall grass while a softly spoken British narrator explained the brutal social hierarchy of the Serengeti.

Josie had fallen half asleep across Ford’s chest by then, one small hand still clinging loosely to the television remote while Gator’s fingers drifted absently through the ends of your hair where you leaned back against the sofa between his knees.

Then Maggie’s phone pinged, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled the phone free, unlocking it with one hand while her attention shifted to the screen. Ford glanced over lazily.

“Plotting more hostile takeovers, Ma?” he teased. “You make these lions look friendly.”

Maggie barely looked up, her eyes moved steadily across the message.

“No. It’s Cal. I asked him to do some digging into Blackridge’s informant.”

“Informant?” Ford frowned.

“Yeah,” Gator answered before Maggie could. “Some little junkie led ‘em our way.”

“Cal said whoever it was had oil knowledge, basically pinpointed on a map where to set up shop.” Maggie elaborated.

Ford shifted slightly beneath Josie’s weight.

“So what’s he saying now?”

“He’s got a name,” Maggie read from the screen. “Max Porter.”

“Max Porter?” Ford shook his head slightly. “Never heard of him.”

“Me neither,” Gator muttered.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed faintly at another notification appearing.

“Hang on, he says he’s got a photo.”

You all waited while the little typing bubble flickered on Maggie’s screen, then another message came through and suddenly Maggie went completely still.

You watched the colour drain from her face so quickly it was almost comical, her eyes locked onto the screen.

“Ma?”

Maggie didn’t answer. The silence stretched, all you could hear was the hushed narration from the television.

“What is it?” Ford asked again, quieter this time.

Slowly, Maggie turned the phone around toward the rest of you.

The photo was grainy. Clearly taken from a distance and probably without the subject knowing. A young man stood in the open doorway of a truck somewhere beneath harsh daylight, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, faded denim jacket hanging open over a plain white t-shirt. His face looked tired, drawn. But it was unmistakable.

Noah.

Your heart lurched so violently it almost hurt.

“That’s…”

Beside you, Ford stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

“This can’t be right,” he mumbled.

Nobody moved, nobody even seemed to breathe. Then Maggie quietly took the phone back into her hand and rose smoothly to her feet. Her face had gone unreadable again now, every trace of emotion locked back down.

“I need to make another call.”

Note II: So this was supposed to end in a neatly wrapped little bow, like all of my fics and when I started writing it, it did, I had the ending planned. But as I wrote it I just fell more and more in love with these characters and wanted to explore them all more, SO, this ends here, on a cliffhanger. But Part Two is already planned and half-written, another 12 part series of Baby x Gator! The catch is, i'm on vacation for two whole weeks, so be patient with me- it's coming, you'll just have to wait a little bit....

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