“People in their right minds never take pride in their talents.”

---

As soon as I saw Simone leave the kitchen, I stood from the booth. I suspected her momma didn’t like the Wraiths being in the diner, and I knew without a doubt Daisy didn’t want her daughter interacting with their kind.

So before Simone reached them, I called out, “Can I help y’all with something?”

Seven sets of eyes—the Wraiths’ plus Simone’s—turned in my direction, but I was careful to keep my stare on Christine St. Claire. She would be the one calling the shots, which meant she expected to be the sole recipient of my focus.

Growing up, going to picnics with the other club members and their families, visiting the club with my daddy, fishing with Isaac and Drill and Catfish, I had no problem navigating their sub-culture and norms. It was a respect thing with these people. Club business had a strict order even as they spread chaos elsewhere.

But just because I could navigate their world didn’t mean I wanted to be a part of it.

“Beau.” Drill stepped forward, wearing a smile like a grimace, and extended his hand for me to shake.

I accepted the handshake, studying his expression, and reading something like, I tried to warn you.

“You know the fellas,” he gestured to the other members of his group, none of which gave me even so much as a nod of the head.

“Sure.”

“And Razor’s old lady, Christine.”

My attention moved back to the woman. She was watching me closely, like she was waiting for me to react in a certain way.

“Ma’am.” I tipped my head but made no move to extend a hand. Club members were particular about their old ladies. A guy could get a broken nose for glancing at another man’s woman without asking permission first. However, sometimes these fellas lent out their woman like a bicycle.

Regardless, Razor was a psycho. That tire fire of volatility didn’t require any additional fuel.

“You’re coming with us.” Christine’s voice was softer than I’d expected, and the way she searched my eyes struck me as peculiar. “We need to have a chat.”

I shrugged, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Sure thing. Lead the way.”

If my willingness surprised her, she didn’t show it.

But Drill was giving me a dirty look. My guess, he was irritated I’d caused him a heap of trouble over the past month just to acquiesce so easily now. The other fellas seemed to relax, clearly assuming their job was essentially done.

Truth be told, I was tempted to leave with them.

Shelly was safe in my car. I doubted their plans included keeping me indefinitely. My absence would be noticed. If they kept me for any length of time, Billy would throw a raging fit, as was his habit when situations involved the motorcycle club. And Billy was friends with people in high places.

Yeah, I was pretty well convinced to go with them, get it over with. The old lady wanted to have a word, and clearly she wasn’t going to leave me in peace until she had her say. Hopefully, it would be a quick conversation.

Sure, Shelly would be pissed.

She’d also be safe.

But then, as soon as we were out the door, Drill lifted his chin toward a bike I recognized as Razor’s and said, “You’ll ride with Christine.”

Other than a slight widening of my eyes, I was able to keep my expression clear despite the sinking sense of doom in the pit of my stomach.

Ride with Christine? On Razor’s bike? Uh, that’ll be a hard pass.

My plans took a real sharp U-turn. There was no way I was getting on Razor’s bike with Razor’s old lady. Seeing how things were going to be, I was hugely grateful to Shelly that she’d insisted we leave together.

“Ah, jeez. I left my wallet in the glove compartment. Let me grab it.” I walked backward away from them.

Isaac and another of the bikers stiffened, but then relaxed as I moved along the hood of my car toward the passenger side. I kept my eyes trained on them as I reached the door, opening it and bending into the car.

Only Christine was watching me, the rest were mounting their bikes and must’ve decided I couldn’t escape without sitting in the driver’s seat.

Then Shelly turned the engine.

The sound of my GTO coming to life cut through the night and the Wraiths looked up, visibly dumbfounded. I’d just shut my door as Shelly reversed out of the space, twisting the wheel and taking off quick as lightning.

“Seatbelt,” she said, not pausing at the edge of the lot before pulling onto the main road and speeding like a demon outta hell.

She shifted fast, much faster than I’d ever managed. Instead of using the brakes, she downshifted just as we approached the first turn. The engine roared as we flew around the curve, but the lower gear gave her the control she needed to clear it.

I knew better than to speak, or flinch, or make any movement other than holding on. I’d been in similar situations several times with Duane.

My attention cut between Shelly and the side mirror, and I kept waiting for any sign of pursuit. Thus far, there were no headlights, no sounds of motorcycles. Shelly, however, kept her eyes forward, never once looking behind us, her features an impassive mask of concentration.

We raced down the mountain road for a good while. Or at least, it felt like a good while. Abruptly, she downshifted and braked just before a switchback and I glanced at her in alarm. Our speed reduced to a near stop, Shelly turned the wheel, shutting off the lights, and taking us on a dirt road. I understood immediately why she’d slowed, kicking up dirt would be like shining a spotlight on our location.

But I was also concerned, because I knew the road. It led to a vacation rental—really, a fishing shack—owned by Mr. Tanner. The gravel drive was long and twisty with no offshoots. If they followed us, we were trapped. And if Mr. Tanner had tenants, they might not take too kindly to our parking in their drive. The kind of folks that rented from Mr. Tanner usually didn’t care much about comfort, and usually didn’t stay long.

Shelly seemed to know the road by heart; with no headlights and the darkness of the surrounding forest, it would’ve been easy to steer us into a ditch or a tree. She didn’t.

My siblings and I could see better in the dark than most folks. Cletus attributed this to our Yuchi ancestry on our daddy’s side, a Native American tribe that lived in the East Tennessee River Valley until the seventeenth century. But even I was having trouble following the line of the road.

Not twenty seconds after we pulled off, I heard the telltale sounds of motorcycles approaching. I held my breath, straining to hear, bracing. But then they raced past the drive, rumbly engines slicing through the night, close enough to give me chills. And then the sounds faded into the distance.

I blew out the breath, telling my heart to quit slamming into my ribs. Shelly was still coasting, rolling forward on momentum, and when we reached a certain point, she tugged the wheel just slightly to the right.

“She’ll go in the garage. If they come down this way, she’ll be hidden.”

Comprehension was slow to arrive. “You’re renting this place?”

“Yes.”

“From Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t like this fact one bit. Sure, it was on several acres, with a private slope on Bandit Lake. Launch off the dock was possible even though it was in severe disrepair. The location was ideal, but if memory served, the place was little more than a lean-to.

We rounded the main structure; calling it a cabin would’ve been too generous. Shelly flicked on the parking lights, illuminating a Quonset hut similar to the one on our property.

“I don’t remember this being here.”

“I added it.”

That had me looking at her. “Mr. Tanner let you add it?”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice.”

“How so?”

Her eyes darted to mine, and then back to the corrugated structure. “I didn’t ask.”

I chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

“It’s pre-fabricated. When I go, I’ll remove it if he wants.”

When I go . . .

I tensed at that, and for a moment I was struck dumb by the words. Before I could ask whether she meant When I move someplace else in Green Valley that’s not a shack, or When I return to Chicago, she’d placed the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, and hopped out.

It took me just two seconds before I unbuckled my seatbelt and exited the car to follow her. I heard her dogs barking from the direction of the house; clearly our stealth wasn’t stealthy enough for the giant animals.

By the time I reached her, she’d bent to unlock the thick-gauge padlock; the lock anchored a roller door to the ground.

Now wasn’t the time to question her about leaving, seeing as how the Wraiths might still double back and search private driveways. But something about how she’d said it, like leaving was inevitable, rubbed like sandpaper in my armpit.

Clearing my throat, I helped her lift the metal door, noting conversationally, “You know he’s the junkyard man, and he’ll probably use it for storage . . . when you go.”

She made a noncommittal sound, and then turned, jogging back to the car and slipping inside. Kicking a patch of dirt, I tried to curtail the impulse to mention the issue again.

I could wait.

I should wait.

We had plenty of time. I hope.

Distracted by this train of thought, I moved to one side, glancing into the interior of the semicircular structure, and started in mild surprise by what I found there.

It looked like a workshop, which wasn’t surprising. Everyone knew Shelly did metal work, engineering car parts and casting them on her own. But the source of my astonishment were the huge sculptures along the back wall. Metalwork, from the looks of it. The three figures were lined up, and each one must’ve been twelve or fifteen feet tall. They looked like birds.

Shelly pulled forward, casting more light on the shapes and I saw they weren’t birds, they were angels. My breath caught. Each had feathery wings made from what appeared to be silver. Strong male bodies, entirely nude.

Drawn to them, I walked into the hut without thinking, navigating past machinery I might’ve admired if not for the sculptures. As I drew near, I realized the wings were made from reclaimed utensils. One had forks, one spoons, and the last knives.

Barely aware that Shelly had cut the engine but left on the lights, I reached forward and touched the wing, found it was moveable. The metal fabric created by the reclaimed silverware bent and moved like chicken wire, plus the entire wing seemed to be on a hinge.

“Holy shit.”

“They’re for a plaza, in Berlin. Over time, the wings will soften.”

I glanced at her, startled to find her at my elbow. “You made these?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.” This time, I said the words to her. “You’re an artist.”

She shrugged. “My major was sculpture.”

“In college?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you go?”

“The Art Institute in Chicago.”

Wow. Impressive.

I turned my attention back to the angels and stared at the face of the one closest; he looked fierce, but not angry. “How long did these take you?”

“Three months.”

“Are the wings—”

“Made of silver, yes.”

“They must be—”

“Worth a lot.”

I huffed a laugh at her ability to finish my thoughts. “What are the bodies made of?”

“Copper. The bone structure of the wings is also copper.”

I thought about that, copper bodies and silver wings. Eventually both would oxidize, but neither would rust. The copper would turn green, and the silver black.

Absentmindedly, I said, “Unless they’re polished, their colors will fade.”

“Like a person.”

“Pardon?” I returned my gaze to her profile.

“People need to be polished, to be stroked, touched,” her tone was abstract, “and when they’re not polished, their colors fade. They fade, they change, warp, become something different.”

She overwhelmed me in that moment, her words, the enormity of her talent. Here I thought I was courting an auto mechanic with a few peculiarities.

Instead, this woman was an artistic genius. Picture pieces snapped together and Shelly Sullivan came further into focus.

“Incredible.” You’re incredible.

“Thank you.” She accepted the praise easily, assuming I meant the statues, her attention affixed to the right-most angel. “I’m not finished, but almost.”

“They look perfect to me.”

My eyes were drawn to the angel with silver knives for wings, a knot of unease in my stomach at the sight of the blades. She’d said she didn’t own any knives. I supposed maybe Shelly didn’t consider sculpting supplies actual knives. Plus, I saw they weren’t of the sharp variety. More like glorified butter spreaders.

The knot eased, leaving me with a sense of . . . unworthiness.

Yep. That’s what it was. I didn’t like it. I pushed it away, clearing the thought from my mind.

She was saved from responding by the hum of a lone engine in the distance. From the sound of it, the vehicle was still on the main road, and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a bike or a souped-up car.

We both jumped into action. Shelly made for the GTO, turning off the lights and withdrawing the keys. I jogged to the roller door, pulling it down halfway until she exited, then closing and locking it.

“Come with me.” Shelly reached out her hand and I grabbed it. She steered us to the side door of the shack. Once there, she unlocked it, and pulled me through.

The room was dark, but I could see outlines of furniture, the space much larger than I remembered. Soon, the sound of galloping paws and excited barks greeted us, followed by dark outlines of the beasts themselves.

“Brace for impact,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

She didn’t need to tell me twice. I turned to the side, spreading my feet apart, and opened my arms for whichever of the two mammoths pummeled me first.

One swirled around Shelly’s legs, wagging its tail excitedly. The other leapt on me and licked my beard and neck.

“Down, Laika.” Shelly reached for the dog around the chest and I tried to help, which allowed Laika to lick my face more fully.

“This dog has made it to first base.” I laughed, turning from the dog’s ardent attentions.

Shelly laughed too, wrestling with the canine. But as soon as Laika was within her grip, the other dog aggressively stuck its nose in my crotch.

“And this one has made it to third.” I struggled to push its head—which was as big as a horse’s—away.

Shelly was laughing so hard she snorted. And then she snorted again, presumably finding the first snort hysterical.

Of course I was laughing too, and I almost forgot about the sound of the engine that had spurred us inside until the dogs suddenly grew stiff and alert. In the quiet, our eyes locked and I was certain we’d both heard the same thing.

An engine, coming up the drive. Shit.

Laika and the other dog were barking again in earnest, adding a snarl or two, and running for the front door.

Shelly started after them, but then there was a thud as some part of her connected with a piece of furniture. “Shit!”

“Hey, hey,” I whispered, coming to her side. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I just stubbed my toe.”

“Where are the lights?”

“Should we turn on the lights?” Her face was directly in front of mine, our mouths two or three inches apart. Despite the situation, my body took note of her closeness. And the dark.

The sound of the engine cut—or at least I thought it did. It was hard to tell with the dogs causing such a ruckus and my mind turning to more agreeable matters.

“You’re right. I don’t want you answering the door.” I slid my arm around her waist, bringing her tighter against me . . . for her safety. Yeah. That’s why I did it.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Laika and her friend kept barking and snarling. I doubted anyone outside could hear us.

“They might’ve seen you behind the wheel when we left.” Best we ignore them and make-out instead. “Let the dogs handle it.”

These dogs sounded terrifying. No one owning sense would dare enter with those two beasts making such a ruckus.

I could just decipher the lines of Shelly’s face, the movement of her eyes. She searched the darkness, her brow furrowing.

“You sound different.”

I slid a hand up her arm, over her shoulder to cup her jaw.

Her eyelashes fluttered. “There might be a man with a gun outside, and you want to kiss me?”

“I always want to kiss you.”

Shelly shivered and she turned more completely against me. “Beau—”

“You driving my car was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I lowered my head, pressed the flat of my tongue against the junction of her shoulder and neck, and swirled it against her skin, giving her a small bite.

She shivered again, twining her arms around my neck. Shelly tilted her chin, offering more access even as her shoulder lifted in an automatic reflex.

“That feels good.” Her voice was breathless. “Do not stop doing that.”

I skimmed my fingertips down the other side of her neck, to her chest, cupping her breast over her dress. “Can I do other things?”

“Yes. All the things. Do all the things.” She was pressing herself against me. The barking dogs, the potential danger outside now forgotten.

She smelled heavenly, like lavender and gardenias and sugar. I took another soft bite of her neck, loving the way her nails dug into the back of my head, loving how she arched and rubbed against me, like she couldn’t help herself.

She groaned, her breath hitching as I tugged on the center of her breast through the fabric.

“Beauford Winston! I know you’re in there.”

I stiffened, my eyes flying open, because I would know that voice anywhere.

“Duane,” Shelly whispered, though she didn’t move.

“Come on, Beau. I saw your car in the garage out back. Open the door and call off Cerberus.”

“I’m here, too,” Jessica hollered. “And I have pie.”

---

My twin glowered at me. I was used to his surly moods. His glower didn’t affect me any. Plus, truth be told, I wasn’t too happy with him either. His nosy self had just interrupted a moment. And now, instead of making out with Shelly—or more than making out with Shelly—I was on the receiving end of my twin’s tremendously unsexy frown.

When he was done glowering, he turned softer features to Shelly. “Mind if we come in?”

“Yes. Please come in.” Shelly waved them forward, still looking a little hazy from our earlier encounter.

Before opening the door, she’d put the two dogs in the bedroom. They were still barking, but were no longer snarling.

“How many dogs do you have in there?” As they entered, Duane sent a wary look toward the bedroom door. “Twenty?”

Jess huffed at Duane and then turned her smile to Shelly. “I’m Jessica.”

Shelly stiffened, and I witnessed her panic war with frustration.

But before Shelly could say anything, Jessica continued, “Duane told me not to try to shake your hand, so don’t worry about that. Honestly, I hate shaking hands. I never know how long to hold a handshake. And then, who does the shaking? What if no one shakes? Then I’m just standing there, holding some stranger’s hand. It’s the worst.”

One of Shelly’s almost smiles made an appearance as her gaze moved over Jessica.

Finally, she said, “I’m Shelly.”

“Yes. I know.” Jessica beamed at her, then held up her pie. “I brought pie.”

“You said that already.” I squinted at my brother’s girlfriend.

She was acting funny. Sure, she’d always been a little zany, but this was different. Jess looked excited and nervous; it reminded me of how she used to act around me when we were kids, when she had a crush on me and struggled to string three words together.

“Did I?” Jess continued to smile, her attention never leaving Shelly’s face.

“Come into the kitchen, I have plates.” Shelly waved my brother and Jess forward, flipping on a light by the door.

I didn’t follow. I could hardly believe my eyes. The interior of Mr. Tanner’s shack had been transformed. It was still small, but it was no longer shabby.

The room where we stood, because the front door opened onto a room, was lined with bookshelves. She’d placed a brown leather couch and ottoman in the center of the room along with a lamp. Furniture was sparse, but it was nice furniture. It looked comfortable, definitely high quality.

A console table stood directly opposite the front door with a large, brass tray on it. I spotted screws and bolts and other various and sundry widgets scattered on its surface, along with a thick brown wallet.

The place used to have visible pipes and electrical wiring; that was no longer the case. The walls not lined with shelves were covered with drywall and fresh white paint. The installation looked brand new. Upon the walls hung a collection of captivating paintings, drawings and prints—all framed and precisely aligned.

“In a minute,” Duane called to Shelly. “I need to speak with my brother.”

“Take your time,” Jess called back, sounding giddy.

Meanwhile, I was dumbfounded by the transformation of the place. It was unreal how much different—better—it looked.

“Looks nice.” Duane was now standing at my elbow and had closed the door while I gaped like an idiot at Shelly’s place.

“It’s completely different.”

“She must’ve done a lot of work on it.”

That pulled my eyes to my brother. “You think Shelly did this?”

“Well, old-man Tanner didn’t do it, and he didn’t hire anybody either.”

I nodded, slowly at first, then faster as I decided Duane was right. She must’ve done it all herself. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she could also perform brain surgery.

“Hey, why’s Jess acting like that?”

Duane wiped a hand over his face. “Oh, good Lord.”

“What?”

“She found out who Shelly was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess Shelly is some famous artist or something? I don’t really know.”

“Jess knows who she is?”

“Yeah, that’s why she’s been pestering me about us getting together. After seeing her at the bar, she looked her up.”

“Huh.” I let that sink in.

After seeing her sculptures in the hut, and knowing the one there was going to Berlin, it wasn’t too farfetched to comprehend that her art was famous.

What did surprise me was that Shelly hadn’t brought up the fact that she was both an artist and world famous.

If we hadn't stumbled across her statues earlier, would she ever have told me?

“Listen.” Duane stepped farther into the room, his hands coming to his hips as he peered at me. “I got a call from Simone Payton. She’s in town, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Yeah. We saw her at Daisy’s. How’d you know where Shelly lives?”

“Cletus mentioned she was staying here a few weeks ago, it was on her application paperwork. When Simone called, told me what happened, I thought y’all might come here.”

“What did Simone say?”

Duane’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “Simone called in a panic, saying you were at the diner. Then the MC shitheads ganged up on you, tried to get you to leave with them. Then she said you and Shelly got away and the Wraiths set off in pursuit.”

“That’s right.”

Duane’s peering intensified and I got the sense he was trying to control his temper. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Why would I?” I asked honestly, then immediately winced.

Damn. Dammit, damn, damn.

Duane reared back, and his control on his temper slipped. “Why would you? Are you serious with this shit? The Wraiths come after you, they come after all of us.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “What I mean is—”

“Handling them on your own is going to buy you nothing but trouble.”

“Okay, fine. If you would—”

“Remember last year? You were the first person I told when they came after me.”

“I know that.” I ground my teeth, my frustration mounting.

“You should have called me, or texted if you needed a driver.”

“Shelly got us away, and she did a damn fine job, too.”

Duane pushed his lips together, his glare darting over me. “Shelly drove?”

“Yes.”

“She drive the GTO?”

I nodded. I was still recovering from how incredible she’d been. How competently and expertly she’d navigated the tight switchbacks, knowing when to turn, when to downshift. As in other aspects of life, she was a tactical, clever, self-possessed driver.

“She as fast as me?”

“Maybe faster.” And a lot sexier.

Duane nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Well that’s good. I’m glad she was there.”

“Me too.”

“Now you want to tell me why you got the Iron Wraiths after you?”

“No,” I said through clenched teeth, growing tired of his questioning.

The previous tension—plus heaps more—returned and his eyes flashed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean what I said. No. I don’t want to tell you.”

Duane looked truly shocked, and his eyes lost focus for a moment, like he was trying to figure out my motive for keeping information to myself.

Abruptly, his stare cut back to mine. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not really.”

He threw his hands up. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing—”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying to rein in his temper, and lowered his voice. “For weeks now you’ve been giving me the silent treatment.”

“I’ve been giving you the silent treatment? That’s hilarious.”

Our entire life had been one giant episode of Duane giving everybody the silent treatment interrupted by short bursts conversation, mostly initiated by me.

“Ain’t nothing funny about it, Beau. You’re acting like me leaving next month means I’ll cease to exist.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“No. Hell, no.”

I laughed, exasperated. Why the hell is he giving me such a hard time? He’s the one who is leaving.

“Yes. Hell, yes. You’re going halfway around the world, and who knows when we’ll be seeing you again. Not anytime soon. Why would anything going on with me be your business?”

Duane’s eyes widened to their maximum diameter and his face grew red as I’ve ever seen it. He charged at me, keeping his volume low even as his tone was enraged. “Because I’m your twin brother, you fucking asshole!”

His sudden vehemence had me snapping my mouth shut. When he was like this—lost in a fit of temper—the best and only thing to do was let him wear himself out.

Crossing my arms, I braced my feet apart and prepared to wait.

“Don’t fucking do that.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“Do what?”

“You know what. Like I’m throwing a temper tantrum.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. No, Beau. I’m not. I’m trying to tell you something, and you don’t want to listen.”

“Just say it.”

“My leaving has nothing to do with you.”

I winced despite myself, despite years of practice weathering Duane’s surly moods.

“I’m very clear on that.”

“Dammit, I didn’t mean it like that.”

I shrugged, giving him a blank stare. “It doesn’t matter.”

Duane made a frustrated grabbing motion with his hands—like he wanted to wring my neck—then paced away. “What would you have me do? Hmm? Break things off with Jess? Tell her to go without me? You’re acting like I’m a traitor for being happy and it’s pissing me off. I’ve never spent more than a few days away from you, dummy. Yet you think leaving y’all is going to be easy for me?”

We stared at each other, and I saw his torment. It hadn’t occurred to me that leaving us, leaving his sister and his brothers, might be hard on him as well.

Duane was more than my brother.

He was literally the other half of me.

“No.” I cleared my throat because I had to. “No, of course not.”

“Then stop.” His anger diffused, becoming desperation. “Stop telling me the shop ain’t my business, and stop cutting me out of things that matter.”

I glanced to the left, to where Shelly had placed several bookshelves. They were overstuffed, and most of the spines were blue, but I didn’t really see them.

What I saw were snapshots of my past. I saw having somebody, the someone I never had to explain shit to, my someone who just knew. He knew it all. And I also saw someone who had needed me, someone I’d cared for and took care of, from birth to now.

“He’s your responsibility,” my momma had said. “I’m counting on you.”

And then I saw the future, and him leaving, and nothing ever being the same.

“This sucks,” I said to Shelly’s blue books.

“It does.” Duane’s reply was rough, his voice like sandpaper. He also cleared his throat, adding in a steadier voice, “So don’t make it harder by being an asshole.”