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Andrew Pope Cody stood in Smurf’s kitchen counting seconds in time with the ticking of the wall clock. His brothers should have been back from the job by now. The one they’d cut him out of. Baz assured him he’d still get his share, but Pope didn’t give a shit about that. He was going stir crazy with nothing to do. He’d spent three years doing nothing every day. He was tired of it.
He flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to check the windows again. The front door crashed open, his muscles tensing at the sudden noise. Raised voices filled the air.
“Jesus Christ!” Craig’s voice was sharp with pain.
“Shut up and keep pressure on it.” Baz’s tone was commanding, tinged with irritation.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Deran.
Pope moved into the living room. Baz and Deran half-dragged Craig between them, his shirt dark with blood. Deran’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks streaked with tears. Baz tried to maintain a blank expression but Pope could see the fear hiding behind it. He stood back, watching, his jaw clenched tight. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Smurf rushed in, robe swirling around her, face falling when she saw Craig. “What the hell happened?” She moved toward them, hands fluttering as she took in the situation, tried to decide what needed to be done.
“Baz fucked up,” Deran said, voice breaking.
“I didn’t fuck up,” Baz snapped. “They didn’t stick to the schedule.”
“Well if you hadn’t—”
“Enough!” Smurf yelled as she tossed a blanket on top of the pool table. “Get him on the table.”
Craig groaned as they helped him sit, blood seeping between his fingers where he clutched his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ,” Smurf breathed, her hand resting over her throat.
Pope watched the chaos, watched them panic. This shit didn’t happen when he was in charge. “What the fuck happened?” he asked, his sharp voice cutting through the noise.
Everyone turned to look at him. Baz met his gaze. “Things went sideways.”
“No shit.” That told him nothing. Pope wanted details. Wanted to know how much shit he had to clean up. Some things never changed no matter how long he’d been away.
Craig’s face contorted in pain. “It fucking hurts, man,” he gasped. His skin was pale and slicked with sweat.
“Shut the fuck up,” Baz snapped. “She’ll be here in a minute.”
Smurf’s features sharpened, eyes narrowing. Her posture went rigid. “Who?” she demanded, voice quiet and angry.
Baz flicked his attention to her. “You know who.”
Pope looked between them, trying to decode their conversation.
Smurf’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Absolutely not. I will not have her in this house. Not after the funeral.”
His brow furrowed. Funeral? Julia’s funeral? They’d put her in the ground less than a week ago, his twin now just another corpse in the dirt. He hadn’t even been there to say goodbye. Three years in prison and he comes home to find out his sister was dead from an overdose.
“What are you talking about?” Pope asked. No one looked at him.
Craig moaned again. “Just fix me, man.”
“We need her,” Baz insisted.
Pope stepped forward. “Who are you—”
A knock at the door cut him off. Three raps, quick and quiet. Not the cops, they wouldn’t knock like that.
The room fell silent except for Craig’s heavy breathing and groans of pain. Baz’s eyes flicked from Smurf to the door and back. When she didn’t move, he strode across the room and pulled it open.
“He’s in here,” Baz said, voice softer than before.
Pope turned, unsure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t you. What the hell were you doing here?
You walked in carrying a medical bag, your eyes scanning the room until they landed on Pope. Your steps faltered. For a heartbeat, you both froze shocked by the other’s presence.
Pope forgot to breathe. You were here, in Smurf’s house, watching him with those eyes that had haunted his every thought for three years. The shock on your face mirrored what Pope felt stirring inside him. Your eyes widened, lips parting slightly.
“Andrew? You’re out.”
His name falling from your lips was one of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. One he thought he’d never have the privilege of hearing again. It was more an observation than a question but he found himself nodding anyway.
You looked different, harder maybe. You wore your hair different than he remembered. But you were still unmistakably you. You tore your gaze from him and stepped into the room and over to Craig. Pope’s eyes tracked the movement, noticing the confidence in your step, the practiced way you sat the bag on the table and opened it up. This wasn’t new to you.
You snapped on a pair of gloves and carefully prodded the wound in Craig’s shoulder. His breathing was labored, his chest heaving with the effort. Deran hovered nearby, fingers twitching nervously. Baz’s gaze darted between you and Smurf.
“Get out of my house.” Smurf’s voice was icy, her body rigid. Her gaze held nothing but pure hatred.
You turned your head to meet her gaze, lips pursed. Your eyes clocked everyone else in the room before you shrugged. “Whatever you say.” You grabbed your bag and took a step toward the door.
“No!” The word came from all three of his brothers at once. Pope said nothing, frozen in place. He was torn between relief that you’d be away from Smurf and a desperate need to keep you in sight.
“She stays.” Baz’s voice was firm as he reached out to wrap his fingers around your arm, stopping your retreat.
Pope felt his body react before his mind caught up. His posture stiffened, hands curling into fists at his sides. Something hot and possessive uncurled in his chest at the sight of Baz touching you. His jaw clenched and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“She’s the only one that can help. You know that, Smurf.” Baz continued, not noticing Pope’s reaction.
Craig moaned again. “Please. It hurts like a motherfucker.”
Smurf’s gaze flicked between you and her injured son. Finally, her eyes settled on Baz, cold and calculating. “If anything goes wrong it’s on you.”
Baz turned to Deran. “Get her out of here. We’ve got this.”
Deran moved toward Smurf, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”
Smurf shrugged off his touch, her eyes never leaving you. “I want you gone when its done. You aren’t welcome here.”
You sighed. “Well, J’s not coming here without me so I don’t know what to tell you.”
J? Julia’s kid? That’s what this was about? Smurf took a step forward and Pope prepared to intervene but Deran caught her arm.
“Jesus!” Baz snapped. “You already buried one kid this week. You want to go for two or do you want to let her do her job?”
A shadow passed over Smurf’s face, a brief flash of vulnerability that disappeared as fast as it came. Her features hardened, her familiar mask slipping into place.
Deran pulled at Smurf’s arm. “Let’s go. Let her help Craig then she can go.”
For a moment, Pope thought she would refuse but then she nodded once and let Deran guide her from the room. She paused at the door to look at you once last time with a venomous glare.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed.
You turned back to your patient. “It never is with you, Janine.”
Pope watched as Smurf left the room, Deran trailing behind. You put your bag on the table and went back to assessing Craig’s wound. Pope couldn’t tear his gaze away from your hands. He remembered those hands holding his or tangling in his hair. Thought about them late at night alone in his bunk.
“How long ago was he shot?” you asked.
“We called you within five minutes,” Baz replied hovering behind you.
You nodded, cutting away Craig’s shirt so you had an unobstructed view of the wound. “No exit wound. I need better light.”
Pope switched on the floor lamp next to the couch and angled it toward Craig’s shoulder. You glanced up, your eyes meeting his for a brief, electric moment before you returned to your work. He stretched his neck as heat flared up the back of it.
“Thanks,” you muttered.
He stepped back, watching you work, fingers moving with confidence. You’d always been steady when everything around you was chaos. It was one of the things that first drew him to you.
“This is going to hurt,” you warned, pressing around the wound. Craig hissed through clenched teeth. “I need to see how deep it is.
Gauze, forceps and antiseptic covered the table as you prepared to retrieve the bullet. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood mixed with the sharp scent of the alcohol and the acrid aroma of sweat and fear. Pope breathed through his mouth, fighting the instinct to flee the sensory overload.
You pulled a syringe from your bag, filling it with clear liquid. “Local anesthetic. I’ll numb the area but you’re still going to feel pressure and some pain.”
Craig’s eyes widened as the needle approached his skin. “Wait, wait. What about the good shit? Knock me out.”
You shook your head. “I don’t have the equipment to monitor you under full sedation. This is safer.”
Craig whined. “This is gonna suck.”
“Yes, it is,” you agreed.
The corner of Pope’s mouth twitched upward. You’d always been honest to a fault.
You administered the anesthetic then turned to Pope and Baz. “I need you to hold him down. He’s going to try to move and I can’t have that while I’m digging out a bullet.”
Craig laid one the table. Baz positioned himself at his head, hands on his shoulders. Pope hesitated then moved to his legs, gripping just above the knees. His eyes never left your face as you prepared your instruments.
“Ready?” you asked, looking at them in turn. Your gaze lingered on Pope a beat longer than necessary.
At the first touch against his skin, Craig’s hand shot out, gripping your arm, tightly enough that his knuckles were white. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Yes,” you said again. “But I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He didn’t release your arm. Something tightened in Pope’s chest, a hot coil of possessive anger flared. His jaw clenched as he watched Craig’s fingers pressing into your flesh.
“Craig,” Pope said, his voice low with warning. “Let her go.”
Craig blinked then released your arm. “Sorry, sorry.”
You glanced at Pope before turning back to the task at hand. “Deep breath,” you instructed and pushed the forceps into the wound.
Craig’s body jerked against their hands, a string of curses spilling from this mouth. His face contorted in pain. Pope held tight, muscles straining against his brother’s movements. His eyes remained on your face tracing from the furrow in your brow to the lip you’d pulled between your teeth as you worked.
“Got it,” you announced finally, extracting the forceps with the small misshapen bullet held in their grip. You looked it over before dropping the forceps to the table, bullet and all. “Bullet’s intact so the hard part’s over.”
Tension flowed from Craig’s body. “Thank fuck.”
You worked quickly after that, cleaning the wound thoroughly before stitching it up. Pope released his grip on Craigs legs, hands tingling as blood flow returned.
“This is IV antibiotics. Remove the needle when it’s done running. Infection is your biggest concern now.” You taped the IV in place then frowned at Craig. “Take it easy. No alcohol. No drugs for at least two days.”
Craig grinned weakly. “So much for my weekend plans.”
“Your plans involve lying down and not dying of sepsis, thank you very much.”
As you packed away your supplies, Craig lunged forward wrapping his uninjured arm around you in a clumsy hug. “Thank you,” he said against your shoulder. “Seriously.”
Pope’s entire body went rigid. He watched Craig’s arm encircle your waist, watched you pat his back with a laugh and that possessive urge surged again. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms. The pain was grounding. Necessary.
You extricated yourself from Craig’s hold. “Just follow my instructions. I don’t want to have to fix you again.”
“I’ll make sure he behaves,” Baz said stepping forward to pull you into a hug as well. “Thank you. We owe you.”
Pope watched Baz’s hands on your back, his face close to your ear as he whispered something that made you nod. The world around Pope receded, narrowing to the point where Baz’s body touched yours. His vision tunneled, edges darkening. He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips, in his throat, in his temples.
Baz finally released you and turned to Craig. “Come on, let’s get you settled in your room.”
Craig nodded weakly, allowing Baz to help him to his feet. He held the IV bag above Craig’s head. “Let me get him squared away and I’ll get your payment,” Baz said over his shoulder as they shuffled toward the hallway.
Then they were gone. The quiet in the room was deafening. Pope remained still, watching you gather the last of your supplies. Blood colored your skin where Craig had grabbed your arm. You looked up, catching Pope’s stare and straightened.
The air between you seemed to thicken with three years of unspoken words. Pope could hear his own heartbeat, too fast and too loud. You were here, standing in front of him. He opened his mouth though he had no idea what to say.
Before he could speak, you tilted your head, gaze narrowing as you looked him over. “You’re upset,” you said. “What’s wrong?”
The question almost made him laugh. What wasn’t wrong? His sister was dead. Smurf was keeping secrets, as usual. You were here when you were supposed to be safe and far away. You looked at him like you could read every thought running through his head.
“I don’t like it when they touch you.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your brows rose, surprise flashing across your face before it hardened into something else. Anger, maybe. Or hurt.
“Why do you care? You didn’t even let me know you were out.”
Pope kept his expression neutral as he stepped toward you. He closed the distance until he was close enough to smell your shampoo. “You were supposed to get out,” he said, voice low and intense. His eyes never left yours. “You were supposed to be safe if I wasn’t here.”
Your expression shifted, softening around the edges. “Is that what you thought?” The anger had drained from your voice, leaving behind a gentle tone that made Pope’s chest ache. “That’s why you never wrote me back?”
Pope swallowed. You had written him once a week for three years. Letters describing the world around you and mundane details of your life. Letters that he had read until they began to tear at the creases. He still had every one bundled together in the drawer of the nightstand that had your picture standing on top of it.
Letters he never answered, no matter how much he’d wanted to. He gave a small nod, unable to voice his thoughts beyond that.
You sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes closed at the gentle touch as he leaned into it. God, he’d missed you. Ached for you.
“How long have you been out?” you asked.
“A couple of days.”
“Why didn’t you come home?” Your tone was still gentle but Pope heard the pain beneath it. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled your hand away.
His brow furrowed. “They sold my house.” They’d framed it as being easier than maintaining it when he was going to be gone for so long, but Pope wasn’t stupid. He knew Smurf wanted to make sure he had nowhere to turn except to her.
A soft laugh escaped you, the sound settling something in Pope’s heart. He studied you, looking for any sign of what had amused you.
“They did,” you confirmed, your eyes sparkling in that way they did when you were particularly proud of yourself. “I knew Smurf would never sell it to me, so I had a friend buy it. They signed it over to me. I wouldn’t let you come home with no place to go but here.”
Pope swallowed hard. For three years, he’d pushed you away, convinced that his absence from your life was the best thing he could do for you. And all that time, you’d been preparing for his return, ensuring he had a home to come back to that wasn’t dependent on Smurf.
He blinked, feeling tears unexpectedly well in his eyes. “You kept it for me?” he asked, voice rougher than he’d intended.
You nodded, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Of course I did.”
The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment as Baz appeared in the doorway, thick envelope in hand. His eyes moved between the two of you, taking in your proximity.
“Here,” he said, handing over the payment. “You better go. Smurf is still pissed.”
You tucked the envelope into your pocket without counting the money. “She’ll get over it.” There was a confidence in your voice that Pope admired. You had never been afraid of Smurf, even when you should have been.
“Will she?” Baz asked, his tone saying he doubted it.
“She will if she wants to see her grandson.” With that you turned and grabbed your bag. Pope watched you, suddenly afraid you would leave and he would lose this small, rekindled connection.
You slid the bag onto your shoulder and headed toward the front door. Each step you took away hollowed him out a little further.
At the threshold you paused, looking over your shoulder. Your eyes found his and you smiled. “Come on, Andy. Let’s go home.”
You held your hand out toward him, palm up in invitation. Pope stared at it. At the smudge of his brother’s blood still visible on your skin. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he crossed the room and took your hand in his.