Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The nights following my downtown mugging blurred by in a fit of restless dreams and panicked awakenings.
I tossed and turned all night, tangling my sheets around my legs.
My body tensed at every creak as the house settled around me, and the echo of imagined footsteps made my heart race.
In the dark, shadows seemed to shift in the corners into the shapes of men and monsters.
My mind replayed the moment over and over. The stranger’s grip on my purse, the punch to my jaw, the sharp sting of my palms scraping across the pavement. The paralyzing helplessness.
Eva and I met up at a local trail to go for an easy run with Hawk. The morning air was already thick, and the scent of dewy grass and wildflowers tickled my nose. Mockingbirds chirped in the trees, and the distant hum of traffic was a reminder that life drove forward despite my nightmares.
We slowed to a walk after a mile or so to give Hawk a rest. “You look tired,” Eva commented as she took in the dark circles around my eyes.
My instinct was to make a joke, to turn this bruised, haunted sleeplessness into something lighter for Eva’s sake. But I knew she’d see right through it.
I sighed. “Every little noise wakes me up. I don’t know why. It’s not like anything happened at home. But they have my purse, which means they have my driver’s license. They have my address.”
Eva handed me Hawk’s leash so she could rustle around in her purse. With a rubber band, she pulled her hair off her sweaty neck and into a ponytail.
“Maybe you should get a dog. A big one. The shelter’s always looking for fosters.”
I laughed as Hawk caught sight of a squirrel and pulled at the leash, jerking me forward. He let out a small yip in frustration.
“Maybe. It would be nice not to be alone at night.”
Eva bumped my shoulder. “I can think of other ways to solve that problem, based on the looks I see Hatchet throwing your way.”
I laughed, but it was hollow. “We’re friends. That’s all. I’m not ready for more. I told him that.”
“Sorry I keep pushing,” Eva said with a sad smile. “I know you and Alec were together for a long time. But he wouldn’t want you to be alone. You know that, right?”
I glanced away, pressing the emotion down and swallowing the lump in my throat. “I know. But I’m not ready to move on. I’m not over it.”
Eva squeezed my arm. “I don’t know that you’ll ever get over it. You can make space for someone else without losing what you had with Alec.”
Her words settled over me. But the thought of opening my heart again, of letting someone in, was terrifying. The mugging had only made it worse—reminding me how fragile my safety was. I stayed silent for a beat before shifting the topic. “Maybe we should take a self-defense class or something.”
Eva scoffed. “As if our personal bodyguards will let anyone get close enough for us to need to use it.”
It was true. Zen, a new prospect, trailed us from a respectful distance, far enough away that he couldn’t eavesdrop, but close enough that he could protect us if needed. Sweat streamed down his brow, and for a moment I felt bad making the poor guy jog behind us in his boots.
I stopped as an idea tickled my mind. “What if the club hosted a self-defense class for women?” Hawk pressed against his collar again, and I handed his leash to Eva.
She raised a brow. “Good idea. Not every woman in Houston has bikers shadowing their every move.” She glanced back at Zen with a grin.
“Exactly. And the guys know how to fight. Merrick told me that’s how he used to make money.”
Eva raised a brow but didn’t comment on this revelation. “I bet there would be a lot of interest with the uptick in crime downtown. I’ll run it by Thane tonight when he and Rhetta come over for dinner.”
I smiled as a flicker of hope sparked in my chest.
I couldn’t control the world, but I could do something to help others—and maybe, in the process, ignite strength within myself.
Within hours of submitting my adoption application to the shelter, my phone rang.
“Good afternoon. This is Jolene from the animal shelter. The dog you were interested in just got adopted, but we have another that’s about the same age and size. Would you like to meet him?”
I jolted to attention. “Yeah, of course. I’m definitely interested.”
“He’s a lovely Dutch Shepherd. About nine months old. This breed doesn’t do well in shelters, so we’d like to place him as soon as possible. He doesn’t seem to have any behavioral issues. The owner surrendered him because the new place she’s moving to doesn’t allow dogs.”
“I can be there in about an hour.”
I hung up the phone and rushed to my vehicle with a grin. The idea of not being alone at night, of having a dog to keep the nightmares at bay, eased my anxiety and filled my heart with hope.
After a quick stop at the pet store—where I filled a cart with plush toys, treats, and a soft bed—I pulled into the shelter parking lot. Barking echoed from inside the building, and I could smell the faint scent of industrial cleaner mixed with an undercurrent of wet fur and feces.
The disinterested receptionist barely looked up at me as I walked in. “Are you here to adopt or surrender?”
“Adopt. I just spoke to Jolene.”
“Take a seat. She’ll be out shortly.”
I waited on the edge of a plastic chair, flipping through pamphlets about kennel cough and the importance of crate training.
Finally, the door swung open, and a leggy brindle-coated dog bounded toward me with a wagging tail.
“You must be Kenna,” the petite blonde said. “I’m Jolene, and this is the dog we just got in. We haven’t even named him yet.”
I ran my hands over his thin, wiggling body. He tried to lick me and then nibbled on my arm.
“He’s a big boy. Is he going to grow more?” I asked, laughing as he pawed at my knee.
Jolene chuckled. “He’ll probably fill out a bit more as he matures, but he shouldn’t get much bigger.
If he does, you might need to name him Clifford.
” She handed me a clipboard. “Once you fill out this paperwork, you can spend a bit of time with him in the yard to make sure he’s a good fit. Then you’re good to take him home.”
As I signed the forms, Jolene explained what to expect with a shelter dog.
“The first three days, he’ll need space and time to decompress.
During the first three weeks, you’ll want to focus on building a routine and starting basic training.
And it could take up to three months for him to trust you and feel fully comfortable in your home. ”
I nodded. The responsibility felt daunting but also exhilarating. I’d never had a dog. My mother had insisted that their claws would destroy her furniture. And, before moving to Texas, I’d spent too much time at the office to have a pet at home.
On the drive, my dog lay on the back seat like a gentleman.
He rested his head on his paws as he watched the world go by and then supervised me as I assembled his crate in the living room.
His ears perked up at every sound, but he’d yet to bark.
When I handed him a squeaky toy, he took it gently before flopping onto his new bed.
As I watched him, a sense of calm settled over me. For the first time, the house didn’t feel empty. Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid of the dark anymore.
I snapped a picture of him flopped on his back, paws in the air, inviting belly rubs. I sent it to Eva.
Me:
What should I name him?
Eva:
Well, that escalated quickly. He’s a beast.
Me:
I think I’ll call him Brisket. A Texas name for a Texas dog.
Eva:
You cannot name a dog after your favorite BBQ dish.
Me:
Brisket says keep your judgment to yourself.
Eva:
I’m happy you have a new running buddy. It’s getting too hot for me to go through that torture with you.
The deafening silence of my home was replaced with the gentle click of Brisket’s claws on the hardwood, the rustle of him settling into his bed, and the occasional contented sigh.
My heart brimmed with happiness as I played with him through the evening.
As the night deepened, Brisket curled up beside me on the couch.
His warm body pressed against my leg, and the sound of his steady breathing filled the room with a sense of safety and companionship.
Instead of putting him in his crate, I let him sleep beside me in bed.
And for the first time in days, I slept through the night.
The music pulsed throughout the yard as I pulled up to the Mavericks clubhouse, mingling with the distant laughter and the clicking of cooling engines. The air smelled of grilled meat and beer.
I’d hoped to arrive before the real party began, to capture video interviews to show the history of the club, but the lot was already filled with bikes.
I pulled my bag from the back of my Range Rover and slung it over my shoulder. A gruff voice sounded behind me.
“Need a hand?” Merrick reached for the tripod, lights, and boom mic before I had a chance to respond.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile.
“You’re not going to make me be on camera, are you?”
I chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I can’t make you do anything. But I will ask nicely.” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“Are you open to negotiation?”
I arched my brow. “Maybe.”
“Another home-cooked dinner?” Merrick asked with a hopeful note in his voice.
“Deal. But only if you help me wrangle the others before they’re too drunk for an interview. And you convince them to take it seriously.”
He nodded. “If anyone gives you problems, point them toward me.”
I glanced around the yard, looking for a location to set up. The chrome-coated bikes and activity in the background would add character to the backdrop, and the evening light would cast a golden glow on each member.
“This spot is perfect,” I said, setting my camera bag on the ground.
Warmth flooded me as Merrick handed me the tripod, his hand brushing mine. I set up the equipment with practiced ease, despite the nervous flutter in my stomach.
“Stand here,” I directed.
“Fuck. You were serious,” Merrick lamented.
“I’ll keep the suffering to a minimum. Because of everything you told me the other night, I already know what soundbites I need.
I’ll ask a few easy questions, and then you’re free to terrorize the others into coming over here.
I’ll throw in my famous carrot cake and a dozen chocolate chip cookies for your cooperation. ”
The surest way to get a bachelor to do anything was to speak to their stomach or their cock, and I wasn’t ready for the latter. Still, the brief thought of Merrick in that way sent a flutter through my belly, followed by a flicker of guilt.
“You’re not putting this on social media, are you?” Merrick asked, shifting uncomfortably.
I giggled. “You don’t like social media?”
He shook his head. “I’m too old for that shit.”
“How about this: I’ll check with you first if there’s any part of this interview I want to use on the Mavericks’ Instagram?”
He begrudgingly agreed.
Keeping to my promise, I asked Merrick a handful of questions about his dad and his experience growing up in the club.
“How long have you been the sergeant-at-arms?” I asked, getting into things that we hadn’t yet discussed.
“Since 2020.”
“I need you to restate the question in your answer,” I reminded him. “And elaborate with details when you can.”
Merrick rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath before rumbling his response. “I’ve served as the Mavericks’ sergeant-at-arms since 2020. I was promoted when Reaper became the VP. Before that, I was an enforcer.”
I smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”
I continued my line of layered, open-ended questioning, choosing ones that would draw out the history, emotion, and honesty I’d observed through the club.
After a few, Merrick began to relax, answering my questions with ease.
I skimmed through my notes to find the dates I’d jotted down during my research.
“You came in as a prospect when your father was serving as president and Tobias Grove was VP. Thane was sergeant-at-arms. What was it like to join when the founders were still a part of the club?”
“Look at you, digging up the details,” he murmured.
I smirked and raised my brows as I waited for his answer.
“I joined as a prospect after I was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army. I never questioned whether I would join. The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club runs in my blood. It’s a part of my soul.”
Giddiness ran through me. That final quote would be a perfect highlight in the video.
“Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Merrick scoffed. “No, I think my special on 60 Minutes is over.”
I approached him, angling my head to gaze up into his eyes. “I know you hated every second of that, but I appreciate it. And that final soundbite earned you two home-cooked dinners.”
He smiled at me for a moment, making my breath catch in my throat. “Appreciate you making it worth my time.”
The Texas night pressed warm and thick against my skin, the air barely cooling despite the setting sun.
Merrick fell into my role as a camera assistant—always so careful, so respectful, like he was afraid I’d combust if he got too close.
He followed my direction, moving lights and positioning the old folding chair that had seen better days.
He herded other men to stand before my camera. Some acted like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this moment, grinning wide and hamming it up for the lens. Others only did it because Merrick hovered behind me, arms crossed, looking like he’d personally drag them to hell if they objected.
I noticed the way his eyes softened when he thought I wasn’t looking, how his mouth twitched at my sarcastic comments.
He was stoic, sure, but not cold. There was a current under all that stillness.
I wondered what it would be like if he ever let go of all that control.
If, just once, he forgot to be the club’s steady hand and let himself be reckless—with me.
The thought made my cheeks go hot, and I pretended to fiddle with the camera settings just to give myself something to do.
I watched him wrangle another biker my way, and I tried not to think too hard about the way my heart stuttered every time he looked at me.