Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

CONNOR

This morning, the diner was a mix of blustery cold and warm comfort, thanks to the window guy fixing the glass. Occasionally, a gust of wind would sneak in, but nothing was moving me from my early morning connection to caffeine and one of Noah's breakfast sandwich surprises. The surprise this morning was that there was more bacon than bread, which made me smile.

I was in my usual spot, my back to the wall but at the front—a habit ingrained from years of training and knowing exactly where everything and everyone was at any given time.

"More coffee?" Merle asked when he was already pouring it.

I smiled and thanked him. A man of few words, he didn't start talking to me, which I was grateful for, given that I had so much on my mind.

Well, I had Neil on my mind.

My phone rang, and when I saw who was calling—my former CO, Oberon Walters—I had this bad feeling he wasn't calling to chat.

"Are you somewhere private?" Oberon asked without the usual banter that marked our infrequent phone conversations.

"Hang on," I answered, grabbing my coffee and heading up the stairs to my apartment. I nodded to Merle out of habit as I passed him, but my mind was already far away, trying to brace for whatever was coming.

Once inside, I shut the door behind me, taking a deep breath before answering.

"Go on," I said. The familiar view from my window stretched out over the road, but it didn't offer comfort. I could feel the tension knotting in my chest.

"You're on speaker. Trick's here too."

Was this a team conference call? The only person missing was Lee ‘Donnie' Donovan, and I knew.

I knew.

That knot tightened. "Where's Donnie? What happened to him?"

Oberon's voice softened as if that would make it easier. "Car accident."

Grief and shock floored me as the words hit hard. My breath caught in my throat, and I stared out of the window, trying to process what I'd just heard.

"When's the funeral?" I asked, thinking ahead.

"His fiancée doesn't want us there," Oberon said. "We have to respect that."

"She didn't want us at their wedding either," Trick reminded us, although I hadn't forgotten.

I'd met Deborah, or Deb as Donnie called her. It was a brief meeting at last year's reunion. She was a sweet, shy schoolteacher who wasn't comfortable around us—his old team, the ones who'd fought beside him, who'd seen Donnie at his best and his worst. I guess we were a reminder of the life he'd led before her, a life forged in fire and violence, and no matter how much we tried to clean up, to be presentable, that darkness clung to us like a shadow.

I couldn't blame her for not wanting us at the wedding. Maybe we'd been too rough, dark, or wrong for what she'd been trying to build with him. When a person lived through what we had, it changed them. We carried it with us, and no amount of time or distance could shake it off. I guessed she saw that in us, in me, and she didn't want it near the wedding. I couldn't fault her for that.

But stopping us from attending the funeral?

Damn, it hurt to be cut off from someone who'd meant something.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the frustration and grief mixing into a bitter cocktail.

"Okay," I murmured. "Okay."

"We'll mark it somehow," Oberon said, and I nodded even though he couldn't see me.

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of everything we'd lost pressing down on us. Donnie had been one of the good ones, the kind of guy who made the worst situations bearable. And now he was gone, like so many others.

The grief hit me out of nowhere, sharp and relentless, as I imagined Donnie's face and heard his laugh in my mind. I tried to push it away, tried to focus on the here and now, but the pain of his loss—and the loss of the others who were gone—was always there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to remind me of what was gone.

"Good kid," Oberon sounded choked. "Always had a way of making us a unit."

"It won't be the same without him," Trick agreed.

Oberon huffed a laugh. "God, do you remember that time in the UK when Donnie ate all the candy the Brits had?"

A faint smile tugged at my lips despite the grief. This is what our team did—we processed loss through memories. "Donnie always knew how to push the SAS guys' buttons, stealing their candy stash."

Trick's laugh was genuine. "All those candy people in one go. What were they called again?"

"Jelly babies," Oberon said, chuckling. "Sick little baby-shaped things with heads and everything."

"Donnie always knew how to make an impression," Trick added, the humor in his voice fading. "I'm gonna miss him."

"We aren't the same team we were ten years ago," I murmured, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks.

Oberon sighed. "So many team members gone, and now it's just us three."

"Yeah," Trick said, and for a moment we were quiet.

"To Donnie," Oberon said, his voice low and filled with sorrow and respect.

"To Donnie," Trick echoed.

I raised my coffee in salute, though it felt like such a small gesture for someone who had meant so much. "Donnie. "

"Forever team," Oberon added.

We ended the call, promising to meet up one day, though we'd made that promise so many times before and never saw it through. Once in the last five years wasn't enough, but lives moved on. I'd spent so long trying to find Natalie and track down anyone connected to the cult, and then I'd joined Quinn's security, and then I was here in Whisper Ridge. Oberon and Trick did their own thing, but I missed the guys and the camaraderie that had made us closer than brothers.

I needed to go out, drive, walk, or do something . I returned to the diner with the empty mug and got a refill, taking my usual seat and staring into the coffee. The hollow feeling only grew, and I didn't know how to shake the emptiness in my chest. Another friend lost.

I'm feeling stupidly lonely.

The door to the diner opened with force, and I was startled, not aware of my surroundings at all. I tensed when Neil walked in and sat opposite me without asking. His presence was like a storm cloud, full of tension and barely concealed frustration.

I swallowed any hint of grief, forcing it down so deep it felt like I was choking on it. The heaviness in my chest wasn't going anywhere, but I couldn't let it show. Not now. Not with Neil sitting there, watching me, all wise and shit. I'd spent years perfecting the art of hiding how I felt, and this was no different.

I forced a smirk onto my face, the kind that usually got a rise from Neil, and slipped into the casual banter that had become our routine. "Sheriff," I said. "Back so soon? What's the matter? Miss me already? "

It took effort, more than I wanted to admit, to keep my voice steady and pretend everything was fine. But I knew if I let a crack of what I was feeling show, it'd all come spilling out, and I wasn't ready. Not here, not now. Not with Neil. Burying the grief was like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but feather pillows—ineffective at best, destructive at worst. But I couldn't let it out, not yet. So, I kept the banter going, kept the smirk in place, even as the ache in my chest tightened with every word.

Neil raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me. For a second, I thought he might have read my expression or seen through the mask I was wearing.

Dangerous.

"Abraham isn't pressing charges," he said, his voice tight.

"Of course, he isn't pressing charges," I replied. "It was all on him. I defused the situation."

Neil scowled. I smiled, and we sat silently, the air crackling with tension. Neil started to stand, but I grabbed his hand to stop him. His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked around us, but no one could see us through the window at this angle. I tugged him closer, making him bend over the table.

I wanted to feel something other than grief and loss.

"When will you give in and kiss me again?" I asked, my voice low and intense. "I want more."

Neil's expression shifted—a heady mix of shock and need flickering across his face before he moved back. "Not happening."

Only I could sense doubt in his voice, so I struck while I could. "How about we get a beer?" I asked .

Neil stiffened, his resolve hardening. "I don't mix personal and professional," he said, his voice firm.

I grabbed onto that. "So, you're saying we have something personal?" I deadpanned.

He snarled, pulled his arm away, and left the diner without glancing back. I watched him go, the grief straight back as soon as he'd left.

And then I followed him because…

Well, I didn't have anything better to do.