Chapter Seven
NITRO
Three Days Later
Three days after breakfast at Sage’s place, I’m standing outside The Grind Coffee Shop, opposite Marley’s work, waiting for her to finish for the day.
I’ve memorized her schedule.
Monday through Friday, she grabs coffee at seven a.m. before heading to that toxic hellhole she calls a workplace. She finishes around five-thirty, sometimes later if that dickhead Derek is making her stay. And today, I’m done pretending this is casual.
I’m done pretending I don’t think about Marley every fucking second of the day.
When she pushes through the glass doors, her red hair catches the late afternoon sun like fire, and everything in me goes still.
She’s wearing fitted black pants and a cream-colored blouse that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and those quirky glasses are sliding down her nose as she juggles her phone, her bag, and a travel mug.
She doesn’t see me at first.
But when she does, her entire face lights up as if I’m the best thing she’s seen all day.
“Nitro?” She stops dead on the sidewalk, nearly dropping her phone. “What are you doing here?”
I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Thought you might want to grab dinner.”
Her eyes widen behind those sexy as fuck glasses. “Like… right now?”
“Like right now.”
“I’m a mess.” She gestures vaguely at herself, and I see nothing wrong—she looks stunning as always. “I’ve been at work all day, and I probably smell like recycled air conditioning and—”
“You look perfect, Small Town.” The words come out rougher than I intend, and I watch color spread across her cheeks.
She bites her bottom lip, and Christ, that shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. “Are you asking me on a date, Nitro?”
“Yeah, I am.”
There’s a beat of silence where she just stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve completely fucked this up, moved too fast, pushed too hard, and scared her off before we even got started.
But then she smiles.
Not just any smile.
The kind that reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. The kind that hits me straight in the chest and makes it hard to breathe.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Let’s go.”
I lead her to my Honda, open the door, and she slides in.
I have already made the booking, hoping she would agree.
Marley said she would think about us doing this fake-dating thing, but I haven’t heard back from her.
So I thought with the gala approaching, I needed to take action.
So I drive us to Rosetti’s, a small Italian place tucked away in a quiet corner of the city where the lighting is warm and low, the tables are intimate, and nobody knows me as anything other than a regular customer.
Here, I’m not Nitro, VP of the Las Vegas Defiance MC.
I’m not Damon Blackwell, a man hiding from his inheritance.
I’m a guy taking a beautiful woman to dinner.
When we walk through the door, Franco, the owner, spots me immediately. His weathered face breaks into a genuine smile, the kind that comes from years of friendship rather than professional courtesy.
“Damon!” He crosses the restaurant in quick strides, pulling me into a firm embrace that smells like garlic and red wine. “It’s been too long, my friend.”
Marley stills beside me, a tension building inside her.
Fuck.
“Hey, Franco,” I say, returning the embrace before stepping back. “Good to see you.”
Franco’s sharp eyes shift to Marley, and his smile widens. “And who is this beautiful creature you’ve brought to my restaurant?”
“This is Marley,” I introduce, my hand finding the small of her back instinctively. “Marley, this is Franco Rosetti. He owns the place.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Marley says, extending her hand.
Franco takes it and brings it to his lips with old-world charm, making her laugh. “The pleasure is all mine, bellissima. Any woman who captures Damon’s attention must be extraordinary.” He winks at her, then turns to me. “Your usual table?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
As Franco leads us through the restaurant, past couples lost in quiet conversation and families sharing plates of pasta, I feel Marley’s curious gaze on me.
We’re seated at a corner booth, private and tucked away from the main dining area. Franco promises to send over wine and disappears with a knowing smile that makes me want to throttle him.
Marley settles into the booth across from me, and the moment we’re alone, she fixes me with those green eyes that seem to see right through every wall I’ve ever built.
“So,” she says slowly, folding her hands on the table. “He called you Damon.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know your name was Damon.” There’s no accusation in her voice, just curiosity. Maybe a hint of hurt that I haven’t shared something so basic.
“Most people call me Nitro,” I say carefully.
“Why Nitro?” She tilts her head, genuinely interested.
I lean back in the booth, considering how much to tell her because the truth sits heavy on my tongue.
It’s my road name from my MC, but I can’t go there yet.
Not when we’re just starting whatever this is, and I know that life, my MC life, will scare her away.
“It’s short for nitroglycerin,” I say instead, which isn’t a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
“I’ve always treated the open road like therapy.
I love the rush of my motorcycle. Nitroglycerin is associated with speed, power, combustion…
kind of like how I ride. It’s why I’m in the Uber.
Not to speed, but to be out on the road.
I love the feel of an engine. There’s something powerful in that. Something liberating.”
Her lips curve into a small smile. “That’s kind of badass.”
“Kind of?”
“Okay, really badass…” She pauses, her fingers playing with the edge of her napkin. “But your name is Damon.”
“Yeah, it is, Damon Lockhart,” I lie, observing her.
“It’s a good name,” she says, as if it’s a fact. No digging, no interrogation. Just acceptance.
Something in my chest tightens at the fact that I straight-out lied to her face about my surname.
But I smile as the wine arrives, a deep red that Franco knows I prefer, and then we order.
She goes for the pesto linguine, I order the carbonara, and then we’re alone again in our little corner of the world.
“Tell me about Queenie,” Marley says, taking a sip of her wine.
I can’t help but smile. “What do you wanna know?”
“Everything. You light up when you talk about her.”
Do I? I’ve never noticed, but hearing Marley say it makes something warm ignite in my chest.
“She raised me,” I start, the words coming easier than they usually do. “My parents… they died when I was a teen. But Queenie, she’s the one who actually raised me. Worked three jobs to put me through school and paid for my music lessons.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about your parents…” She pauses with a sigh. “But I really want to see you play the flute. It’s hard to imagine, but I am sure it’s beautiful to hear.”
“Queenie loves it when I play. I actually got a scholarship to Juilliard.”
Her mouth drops open. “Juilliard? That’s… Nitro, that’s incredible. Did you go?”
I shake my head. “Queenie got sick. Breast cancer. She beat it, but the medical bills were brutal, and I couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t be across the country while she was fighting for her life.”
Marley reaches across the table, her small hand covering mine. Her touch is electric.
“You gave up Juilliard for her,” she says softly.
“It wasn’t giving up anything. That woman gave me everything. Staying close to her, helping with those bills… it was the least I could do.”
Her thumb traces circles over my knuckles, and I have to fight the urge to turn my hand over and lace our fingers together.
“That’s beautiful,” she whispers. “You’re beautiful.”
The words hit me harder than they should.
Beautiful?
Nobody’s ever called me fucking beautiful.
Intimidating, sure.
Dangerous, absolutely.
But beautiful?
“Your turn,” I say, needing to shift focus before I do something stupid like haul her across the table and kiss her senseless. “Tell me about your family.”
She pulls her hand back, and I immediately miss the warmth. “Well, there’s my parents… they live in Oregon now, they’re both retired. And then there’s my brothers, Callum and Beck.”
“The ones Sage mentioned?”
“Yeah.” Her smile is fond. “Cal is the oldest. He’s thirty-five, married to this amazing woman named Tessa. They have two kids, Lola, who’s seven and has me wrapped around her tiny finger, and Finn, who’s three and is basically a tornado in toddler form.”
I grin. “You’re the fun aunt.”
“Absolutely. I spoil them rotten, and Cal pretends to be mad about it.”
“And Beck?”
Her entire face transforms when she talks about him.
“Beck is twenty-six, gay, and one of the most talented photographers I’ve ever seen.
He’s funny, sarcastic, gives zero fucks about what anyone thinks, and he’s just gotten out of a three-year relationship.
He’s going through it right now. We kinda became single at the same time, so hating on our exes over FaceTime has been fun. ”
“Sounds like you’re close.”
“We are. He’s my best friend. Well, him and Sage.”
A waiter suddenly arrives beside the table with our food, interrupting us, but the conversation flows as easily as the wine.
She tells me about her advertising work, how she loves the creative side but hates the toxic environment, how Derek makes every day a special kind of hell, parading around with his new girlfriend while making passive-aggressive comments that cut deeper than they should.
I listen, storing every detail away. The way her eyes light up when she talks about the campaigns she’s proud of. The way her voice drops when she mentions Derek. The way she gestures with her hands when she gets excited, nearly knocking over her wine glass twice.
She’s fucking intoxicating.