Chapter 23
KNOX
“What do you mean, they never came back?” I ask the following morning as I sit in church.
A half-asleep Reaper is nursing his coffee like it’s life support.
“What I said, Prez,” he says. “They never came back. Been there all night. The woman who runs the motel let herself in there this morning and emptied it. Said they didn’t pay the previous night’s bill, so they don’t get to keep their room. ”
“Wonder if we spooked them,” Sunny says.
Havoc nods. “It’s possible they had micro-cameras in the place to keep an eye on things. If they know we’re there waiting for them, they aren’t going to hurry back anytime soon.”
“Keep a couple of prospects on the place anyway,” I say.
“But let’s mix it up. Send them in a car, no cuts, nothing identifiable.
Tell ‘em to ask the woman running the place to give them the room closest to her office. That way, she can alert them if they come back. Stay for at least three days. My guess is they give it enough time for the heat to cool off, then they’ll be back to pick up their shit. ”
“I’ll make that happen,” Vandal says.
I reach for my packet of cigarettes and knock out the last one in the box.
I light it and savor the drag. “We got a request from New Jersey. King asked if we could meet a boat tonight. The cargo is weapons. Three crates. We need to meet our Austin brothers for hand over. Given what’s going on here, I’m reluctant to send a full ride out.
Those two men come back, we need to be on our game to go round ‘em up. So, North, I want you, Ridge, and Havoc to do the run. I want Vandal, Lock, and Sunny with me. Reaper, you stay here, get some fucking sleep, and be on hand for injuries.”
Reaper nods. “I’m prescribing myself some food, pussy, and a solid eight hours.”
Vandal looks to Havoc. “If Havoc was prescribing himself, it would be fifteen minutes for food, eleven seconds for fucking, and eight hours for sleep.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Havoc throws his empty coffee cup at Vandal’s head. Of course, he dodges it. “Fuck. You. All.”
Lock shrugs. “You know the solution to this?”
Havoc shakes his head. “No. I really don’t want to know what you think the answer to this is.”
“Find a dealer for a little blue pill, then take every club girl, one after the other. Go all fucking day like you’re trying to break a fucking world record.”
Vandal laughs. “Even that won’t outrun eleven seconds. If you could change road names, I’d propose changing Havoc to Eleven. Can you do that, Prez?”
The truth is, I could. Road names are usually based on some form of lore. But it’s possible that someone does something major that means their nickname usurps their road name. But Havoc is taking enough flack. “Seeing I picked his road name, I’m saying no.”
Havoc’s shoulders drop in relief. “Thank fuck.”
“Remember, next week is bike check. Ridge is gonna check everyone’s bikes are roadworthy.”
Ridge leans forward. “If you alternate bikes, make sure they all get tested. I’m not talking your personal bikes, but the ones you use for club business.”
“Anything else?” I ask as I flick ash into an empty beer bottle on the table.
Everyone shakes their heads.
“Then, let’s get moving.”
Chairs scrape back across the wooden floor as the brothers start peeling away. Some head to the garage, others, the kitchen.
When the room empties, I sit back in my chair and take the last few drags on my cigarette before stubbing it out.
My phone is the last one left in the container outside of church. Phones have never been allowed in the sacred place we discuss club business. Too many ways for people to hack them.
But there’s a notification for a message from a number I don’t recognize.
A second pops up while I’m contemplating the unknown number.
I lean against the doorframe and open them.
Unknown: Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
Unknown: I responded emotionally yesterday and was unfair.
Yesterday in the grocery store, I was certain Maren had shut the door so firmly that I’d never open it again.
The flowers were supposed to be more of an underscore of how sorry I was.
As I placed them on the hood of her truck, it felt as though I’d let the one good thing I had slip through my fingers.
Which is a ridiculous reaction to a woman I barely know.
Yet, my brain processes the messages and the glimmer of hope I feel turns into a full-on firework display. Like, Fourth of July level.
I can’t bite down the smile I feel growing as my thumb rests against the edge of my phone.
I’m relieved that, with a little space and time, Maren realized she wasn’t responding rationally. Not that she didn’t have every right to be scared and hurt. As I tried to sleep last night, it was a kick in the gut to realize that I didn’t fully protect her.
Imagine having a strong and capable and sweet woman like Maren turning to you for comfort and you…grip her biceps to keep her away.
It was a dick move.
One that protected my ego and saved me from a difficult conversation with my men.
Still, the knot that’s been lingering in my gut since yesterday, loosens a fraction.
I add her to my contacts before typing a response, but then erase it.
Then, another.
And another.
I hope she isn’t watching her phone, seeing those little dots bounce that tell her I’m typing, but no content comes through.
This is why bikers should never try to behave like boyfriends, because we’re clueless at it.
But this is my Hail Mary pass. My one shot at getting the tone right, and comment right, that could put us both back on the path to…
To what? A happily ever after?
I shake my head and put my phone down. What the fuck am I doing messing with Maren’s feelings?
At least, that was the epiphany I had around four thirty this morning. Maren ended whatever the two of us was in the grocery store, but the truth is, or was, that it was just a premature execution of something I intended to do once I was over fucking her.
But even that, now, feels disloyal and wrong and, frankly, pathetic in the cold light of day.
Because I’m starting to think Maren isn’t one of those women you fuck and forget.
Give me a gunfight, a deal with a cartel, or a room full of hostile cops while handcuffed, and I know exactly what to do and say. But this?
Apparently, that’s where my wheels fall off.
So, I settle for something simple.
Me: You had every right to be.
I stare at the screen and immediately wonder if that’s enough.
Three dots appear almost immediately, and my mouth twitches again despite myself.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck while I try to figure out why it feels so damn good to see those three dots and know that Maren is at the other end of it, thinking about me, talking to me.
Maren: Still, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like I did.
“Who’s got you looking at your phone like that, Prez?” Vandal asks as he walks by.
Lock gives a pointed look at my denim. “Guessing by that, it’s nudes.”
I adjust my cock, which, admittedly, is half-mast given I’m thinking about Maren. “Y’all can fuck right off.” I head towards the corridor leading to my room.
“Definitely nudes, if he needs privacy,” Havoc yells, and I flip him the bird over my shoulder.
“Prez has got a girlfriend,” Sunny sings in a childish voice.
I stop, turn, and glare at him.
Sunny laughs as he raises his hands in defense. “Just messing with you, Prez.”
I shake my head and keep walking before any of them gets the smart idea to run their mouths again. Then, I unlock my clubhouse bedroom.
It’s pretty bland. I pay Donna, one of the older club girls, to clean it for me each week.
She makes sure my bedding is laundered and then cleans everything else.
It’s never a mess, but it also lacks any kind of character.
There’s a spot on the wall crying out for one of Maren’s paintings.
Maybe one day, it’ll be possible to walk into the bait shop and buy whatever one is hanging there.
I toe off my boots and flop down onto the bed, before typing.
Me: I’m old school. Can I call you?
Three dots appear again almost immediately.
Which tells me she’s waiting for my replies as much as I’m waiting for hers.
Maren: Yes
A second message pops up.
Maren: I’m in the middle of something though.
I frown slightly, because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take that. Hoping that it just means she’s at work and may have to ignore me for a hot minute while she does something, I dial her number.
She answers after two rings. “Hey.”
There’s a faint scratching in the background, something rhythmic. Maybe I should have video called so I could see her face. Instead, I lean my head back and focus on how she looked the night I fucked her.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Painting. The roses you gave me, actually. I don’t usually do still life, but they’re too pretty not to.”
“They’re just grocery store flowers.”
“Pah,” Maren says. “They’re not just anything. It’s the first time I’ve been bought roses. Well, any kind of flower, actually.”
When she tells me things like that, a piece of my heart hurts for her.
“Most people just put them in water; they don’t paint them.”
“Yeah, but they’ll last forever this way.”
Forever.
Usually, I’d run a mile to get away from that word. But hearing it from Maren’s lips, I’m not quite so scared of it.
A quiet laugh escapes as the tension from yesterday eases away from us. “I had every intention of coming to find you last night, before we met at the grocery store. I make a mean whiskey sour, hence the lemons. Was gonna come over and make one for you.”
“That would have been nice,” she says finally.
Relief moves through my chest, slow and steady. “Figured I owed you a date, and seeing I couldn’t exactly take you to a bar, I thought I’d bring the bar to you.”
“On any other day, that would have been really nice. I get why we have to behave like two people who can barely tolerate each other in public,” Maren continues. “I know that’s what everyone expects from us. But maybe we can adapt.”
“Adapt how?” I ask.
“Maybe we text the things that others can’t see us admitting. If we had each other’s numbers yesterday, this might have all gone different.”
“Being able to call you on your ride out of there would have helped, for sure.”
There’s another pause. “Well, now you can.”
I pick at a thread on the bedcover. “Want to check I’m fully understanding what you’re saying, Maren. Are you saying we try this again?”
She sighs. “I think I am.”
I pump my hand in the air, a silent fucking yes!
“I’m really fucking glad, sweetheart.”
“So am I.”
Another soft scratching comes through the phone. And I picture her, standing at her easel by a window. Sunlight coming off the water, the bouquet of flowers in some vase.
“Is the painting turning out okay?” I ask.
“I’ll send you a photograph when it’s done.”
This time, when I smile, I realize I want more of that forever she mentioned than I care to admit.