Chapter 10 #2
“Yeah. Kid bled out in my arms while Luke tried to keep pressure on wounds that were never going to close. And then…” He pauses, jaw working. “Then we almost lost Arrow.”
“What happened to him?”
“His brother happened. Mack, his younger brother, showed up at the clubhouse, high off his ass on something that made him brave and stupid. Started screaming about how Arrow abandoned the family, left him to deal with their parents’ religious insanity alone.”
I dry my hands and move closer, drawn by the pain in his voice.
“His parents tried to pray the Alpha out of him. Literally. Starvation, isolation. Arrow got out at sixteen. Mack stayed, and it broke something in him. So when Mack showed up that night, waving a gun around, making threats, one of our rivals saw an opportunity.”
“They attacked during a family crisis?”
“The Bones MC didn’t give a fuck about family drama. They saw vulnerability and struck. Arrow took three bullets protecting Mack. Three bullets for a brother who went there to hurt him.”
My hand finds his arm. “But he survived.”
“Barely. Touch and go for weeks. And while he was fighting to live, I realized that next time it could be Luke. Could be me. Could be someone who didn’t get lucky. We’d been doing it long enough, made enough money. It was time to get out before the life took everything.”
“That must have been hard. Disbanding everything you built.”
“I made sure everyone was taken care of. If they wanted to keep working, I found them places with other MCs. If they wanted out, they got enough to start over. And the three of us came here. This is our place now. Where we’re settling down, building something that doesn’t end with bullets and blood. ”
“And the Savage Reapers?”
“Gone. Dissolved. Some of the guys joined other clubs, some went straight. But the Savage Reapers died the night Arrow almost did.”
“That’s why you’re so protective. Why you all are. You’ve already lost too much.”
“We’ve lost enough,” he agrees, his hand finding mine. “Not losing anything else. Not losing anyone else.”
The weight of that promise sits between us, and I squeeze his fingers.
“Thank you for sharing.”
Silence.
“We should go,” I say, breaking the moment. “Farmers’ market gets picked over if you don’t get there early, and I need ingredients to impress my mother with my domestic goddess capabilities.”
“You need a ride?”
“Unless you want me walking five miles with groceries, yes, please. Plus, you said you need to get back to help Luke and Arrow?”
“Right. Big event tonight at Savor. Arrow’s losing his mind about table arrangements.”
We clean up the last of the breakfast dishes, and I grab my reusable shopping bags while he grabs his keys.
In his truck, I’m hyperaware of everything. How his hands look on the steering wheel. How he takes up so much space but makes it feel safe rather than claustrophobic. How his thigh flexes when he works the pedals. I really need to stop staring at his thighs.
“So,” he says as we drive through town, Halloween decorations everywhere, “any other maternal land mines I should know about?”
“Oh, just the usual impossibilities. She hates public displays of affection but will judge us if we don’t seem intimate. She basically wants us to be both Victorian and passionate, which makes total sense if you’ve had a lobotomy.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“You sound very confident for someone who’s never met Hurricane Victoria.”
“I’m good at reading people. I’ll know what she needs to see.” His hand rests on the gear-shift between us, casual but somehow making the space feel charged.
The farmers’ market comes into view, rows of white tents already bustling with early morning shoppers, produce arranged in Instagram-worthy displays. The parking lot is already half full because apparently everyone in Whispering Grove needs organic kale at eight in the morning.
He pulls into a spot near the entrance and turns to me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I blink at him, mentally running through my checklist. “My bags? Check. My wallet? Got it. My sanity? Questionable but technically present.”
“A kiss, my sweet girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes so hard I probably see my own brain. “We don’t have an audience. The farmers’ market vegetables aren’t going to report back to my mother.”
“Practice makes perfect.” His hand lands on my thigh, warm even through my leggings, and my entire leg suddenly forgets how to function. “Besides, I’m not letting you out until you kiss me goodbye. It’s what couples do.”
“That’s extortion.”
“That’s commitment to the role.”
“You’re pushy.”
“And you’re stalling.”
I try to lean over for a quick peck, just a brief, clinical pressing of lips that means nothing, but his hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there.
His tongue traces my lower lip, and I open for him without thinking, my hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.
The kiss is hungry, searching, like we’re both trying to find answers to questions we haven’t asked.
He tastes like coffee, and I make a sound that would embarrass me if I had any brain cells left.
When we finally break apart, I’m gasping and my lips feel swollen and sensitive.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
He leans close, his lips brushing my ear, and his voice drops to that register that should require a permit.
“You know,” he whispers, “if you need help with your tension, I’m much better than any toy.
I could make you forget everything except my name, then make you scream it so loud the neighbors learn it too. ”
My entire body goes liquid. Every nerve ending lights up like a Christmas display. “That’s… I… you can’t say things like that!”
“I just did.” He pulls back, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s done to my ability to function. “Text me when your mom arrives. I put my number on a note on your fridge. I’ll be ready.”
I practically fall out of the truck, my legs apparently made of Jell-O now. “Right. Yes. Texting. I can do that. I remember how phones work. Phones are the things with the buttons.”
He laughs, watching me for a moment longer as though he’s memorizing this flustered version of me. Then he drives off, leaving me standing in the parking lot trying to remember basic motor functions.
“Get it together, Cindy,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my sweater and trying to look like someone who wasn’t just thoroughly kissed in a truck. “You cannot melt into a puddle of hormones in the farmers’ market parking lot. You have vegetables to buy and a mother to deceive. Priorities.”
But as I walk toward the market entrance, I still feel his lips on mine, still hear that promise in my ear, and I know that whatever happens with my mother today, Holt has already completely destroyed my ability to think about anything except what he could do with that mouth.
Good thing the farmers’ market sells ice. I’m going to need to bathe in it.
The scent of peaches and fresh basil fills the air, mingling with the sweetness of strawberries piled high in crates.
I pop a slice of white nectarine into my mouth from a free-sample tray, the juice slipping down my chin, and grab a napkin as I reach for another.
I’m just about to move on to the cherries when a shadow falls over me.
“Careful, sweetheart. Keep sucking on fruit like that and someone’s gonna think it’s an invitation.”
I flinch, nearly drop the sample, and spin on my heel only to come face-to-face with Arrow. Of course it’s him. Long blond hair loose and tousled like he just rolled out of bed, mirrored sunglasses pushed up on his head, smirking like he owns the damn sun.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice catching halfway between breathless and annoyed.
“Shopping for a few spices and food. Like you.” He lifts a small canvas bag like it’s evidence. “We’ve got a few extra orders, and there were some things we were short on. Sometimes it’s easier to come grab them in person.”
“Right,” I murmur, heart still racing.
Arrow falls into step beside me like we’d planned this and we do it every Saturday.
He gestures toward the overflowing crates of produce.
“These tomatoes? Death by nightshade’s seductive cousin.
Used to be called ‘love apples.’ Back in the 1700s, people thought eating them would drive you mad with lust.”
I blink. “What?”
“True story. Everything here has a secret history. This market? It’s basically a pornographic museum if you look hard enough.”
A laugh bubbles up out of me. I don’t even notice we’ve stopped in front of a stall with bundles of fresh herbs until he plucks a sprig of mint and hands it to me.
“Try it.”
“It’s mint.”
“But it’s also a symbol of hospitality, ancient Greek style. You serve mint to guests when you’re trying not to stab them.”
I stare at him. “Why do you know all this?”
He shrugs. “I read up on every ingredient I serve people. If I’m going to put it on their plate, I should understand it.”
“You’re like a sexy food historian.”
“Exactly the look I was going for,” he says dryly, purchasing a packet of six figs. “Try the fig next. No pressure, but Cleopatra swore by them.”
I sample things I’d never look at twice on my own.
Arrow keeps ordering strange fruit and weirdly shaped root vegetables and chats with the vendors like they’re old friends.
And with each one, he tosses something into his bag, then reaches out and takes whatever I’m holding so I don’t have to carry a thing.
When I try to stop him, he just smirks. “Let me carry your burden, oh maiden of the market.”
“You’re so weird.”
“You like it.”
God help me, I do.
He pauses at a shaved-ice stall, slaps a ten on the counter, and says, “One Devil’s Punch, extra syrup.”
“What’s that?”
“Local favorite. Spicy tamarind, sour cherry, and blackcurrant. It’s insanity in a cup. You’ll love it.”
He hands it to me, and the first bite has my eyes widening. “Holy crap. That’s?—”
“I know.” He leans in. “Addictive. Like me.”