Page 145 of Joker

On the hunt.

***

It’s late afternoon by the time I finally slow down enough to go back inside.

The clubhouse is louder now. Lived in.

The women are in and out of the kitchen. Music’s low in the background. Somebody’s laughing in the common room. A couple brothers are headed out on bikes, cuts on, boots heavy on the floorboards.

Normal life. It should feel ordinary.

Instead, it hits me sideways. Because while all of this has been happening, while I’ve been turning myself into a walking tactical map, Raven’s been here.

Living. Breathing. Letting Lexi laugh and color and be a little girl in a place that finally feels safe. And somehow, in the middle of all this shit, she trusted me enough to hand me the worst parts of her.

That thought lands hard enough to stop me halfway down the hall. It shouldn’t matter this much.

It does.

I stand there for a second, listening to the sound of Lexi’s laugh drifting faintly from the common room, and realize something ugly and honest all at once: I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that she chose me with that.

Not the sex. Not the flirting. Not even the way she crawled into my lap after talking to her father like some part of her body had already decided where safety lived.

No.

It’s this.

Trust.

Raw and bleeding and given anyway. That means more to me than I know what to do with. Which, unfortunately, means I owe her something in return.

Not because she asked.

Because she shouldn’t have to. Because she bared her scars. And if I’m going to ask her to keep building anything with me after this, then I don’t get to stand here and keep all my own locked behind my teeth like they don’t exist.

That realization sits mean and heavy in my gut for all of five seconds before I hate it.

Then I go looking for her anyway.

I find Raven outside on the back porch just before sunset.

Lexi’s inside with Amy, Casey, and Jason, apparently deep in some kind of sticker-based war that has turned the common room table into a glittering crime scene.

Raven’s got a mug in her hands and my sweatshirt on again, dark hair loose down her back, amber eyes fixed on the fading tree line like she’s thinking too hard.

She looks up when I step out. The second she sees me, something in her face shifts.

Softens. That look. That one. The one that keeps getting under my skin and setting up permanent residence.

“You okay?” she asks.

The question almost makes me laugh. Because no. But not in a way I can explain without sounding like I need to be tranquilized.

So I cross the porch, lean against the railing beside her, and say, “You got a minute?”

Her gaze sharpens immediately. That old tension flickers through her body before she catches it.

I hate that. Hate how quickly her nervous system still prepares for impact.