Page 57 of Nicoletta
“Whatever you want, babe.” Bolt anchors his arm around my shoulders.
Smoke whips out his phone. “I’ll let Marisol know you’re doin’ good, we’re on our way, and you want her special fish tacos.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say. “Not at this time of night.”
“Shit, she lives for this stuff. For her, somebody requesting her food is the best compliment ever. She’ll have them made and ready when we get there.”
“Can you make it out to the Escalade?” Bolt asks.
“I think so.” The longer I stand, the stronger I feel.
Bolt holds out his hand to Ezra. “You always come through for me, man.”
The two men shake, their faces serious, then Ezra breaks the mood. “What would I do without you?” He looks at me and winks. “This guy keeps me in business. And I've kept him in one piece. We have an arrangement."
"Is that what you call it?” Bolt laughs.
"It's what I call most things."
Bolt angles me toward the back door, but I stop and turn to Ezra.
“Thank you.” My throat tightens. I want to say more, but the words won’t come.
He takes my hand in his strong, callused palm and gently shakes it. “You’re very welcome. Take care of yourself. Or at the very least —" his eyes cut briefly to Bolt, "let someone help you do it."
“Thank you” seems not enough, seems foolish and insignificant, but the look in Ezra’s eyes tells me he got it. Tells me he’s seen this kind of gratitude before and knows “thank you” is all that’s needed.
As we head out the door, I don’t miss the wad of cash Smoke presses into Ezra’s palm.
We all troop out to the SUV, and Manny’s head shoots up. “Everything all right?”
He must’ve stayed outside standing guard.
“Yeah, she’s good,” Bolt answers, and I realize Manny was asking about me.
Smoke calling Marisol about the food, then paying Ezra, Manny’s concerned question. Diesel sacrificing his t-shirt that was now in the waste bin in Ezra Callahan’s office. Blood, still and silently observing the whole time, on-point and ready to act at a moment’s notice.
When Bolt talked about the club a few days ago, he’d mentioned family, and for the first time, I actually get it. Family isn’t blood relations; it’s a feeling, a closeness, a willingness to act no matter what.
Outside, the alley smells like the ocean and old rain.
I stop walking and just stand for a moment, gazing up at the black star-studded sky, my hand resting lightly against the fresh dressing. Bolt stops too.
"How long has he been back there?" I ask.
"Seven years."
"And before that?"
"Cedars-Sinai,” he says. "Trauma surgery. One of the best in the state."
I shake my head. "And now he sews up outlaws on a pool table."
"And now he sews up outlaws on a pool table." Bolt's voice is even, but something underneath it is not. "The world runs on arrangements like that. You just don't see them until you're standing on this side of things."
I look up at Bolt, seeing him differently. This man who has a doctor on call in a Long Beach bar. Who carries a medical kit in the cargo hold like other men carry jumper cables. Who lives by his own code, with his own version of every institution the straight world takes for granted. Clark Williams and all my friends in L.A. take for granted. Bolt is a man who values loyalty over paperwork.
These last few weeks, I thought I stepped outside my world. Only I’ve just stepped into a different one.
