Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“Hey, Mac—”
Maverick wraps me in a hug before I can say anything, his arms tightening around me like he’s grounding me in something solid. I don’t pull away. We stand there for a moment, bodies pressed together, my cheek against his shoulder as I let his calm, steady energy settle into me.
“How’s life in the McMansion?” he asks finally.
A dry, humorless chuckle slips out as I ease back, though I keep my hands on his arms for a second longer than necessary. “Honestly? I wouldn’t mind running away about now.”
“Yeah?” he says, studying me as we move toward the worn picnic table. “Trouble in paradise?”
We sit, the table sticky from years of use, the smell of grilled meat and citrus hanging in the humid Fort Myers air.
It’s been a few days since I overheard Phillip on the phone, but his words haven’t stopped echoing in my head.
They loop endlessly—insurance claims, investigators, the casual way he talked about Whitney like she was already gone.
I can’t seem to quiet it, no matter how hard I try.
Bennett has been patient—more patient than most would be—listening to me unravel it piece by piece at night, then again in the morning over orange juice and croissants. But even his patience has limits, and I can feel myself nearing them.
So I called Maverick. The only other person I trust without hesitation. The only person who won’t try to soften the truth.
“Whitney is dead,” I say finally.
The words land between us, heavy and immediate.
Maverick’s head snaps up, his eyes widening. “What?”
“Probably dead,” I correct quietly, though the distinction feels meaningless. I swallow, forcing control back into my voice. “Boating accident. Supposedly.”
He leans back slightly, watching me more carefully now. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t trust Phillip.”
Maverick huffs a quiet laugh, like that part isn’t even up for debate. “Who would? That guy’s always been sleazy.”
“Has he?” I murmur, though my attention drifts as the food truck owner calls out our order. Maverick stands, grabs the tacos and two glass bottles of Mexican Coke, then returns, sliding one toward me.
“I always thought so,” he continues, taking a bite. “He’s the kind of guy who smiles to your face while figuring out how to screw you over behind your back. All for a few extra bucks.”
I take a slow sip of my Coke, letting the sharp sweetness ground me as I think through what he’s saying.
“What does Bennett think?” he asks after a moment.
I sigh. “He’s firmly in the no body, no crime camp.”
Maverick pauses mid-bite, something flickering across his face. “Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
He shrugs, chewing slowly. “Just thought Bennett was better at reading people than that.”
His words linger longer than they should.
I press my lips together, my gaze dropping to the table as I replay the last few days—the way Bennett has dismissed it, the way he keeps pulling me back from the edge of suspicion.
“He says accidents happen,” I murmur. “That life isn’t a Dateline episode. He actually said that.”
Maverick lets out a low laugh. “He’s not wrong,” he says, then adds, more quietly, “It’s usually worse.”
I glance up at him, studying his face. “You only met Phillip once, right? At my wedding?”
“That was enough.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me pause.
“Also…” he adds, trailing off.
“Also what?” I push, leaning forward slightly. Our eyes meet—same dark shade, same intensity—and for a moment, I’m struck by how much of myself I see reflected back at me. It’s a strange kind of comfort, being with someone who doesn’t require explanation.
He hesitates.
That alone is enough to set me on edge.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask quietly.
Maverick exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s club business. I shouldn’t say anything.”
“Who am I going to tell?” I snap, frustration creeping in. “You think I’m calling the police?”
“The police would be one problem,” he says. “Bennett would be another.”
I hold his gaze. “I won’t say anything.”
He studies me for a long moment, weighing that against everything he knows about me—about how I operate, how I talk.
Finally, he relents.
“Phillip owes the club money,” he says. “A lot of money.”
My stomach drops.
“The motorcycle club?”
“Yeah.” He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable now. “And you didn’t hear that from me. If Butch finds out I said anything—”
“I won’t say anything,” I cut in, leaning closer. “But why? Why does he owe them money?”
Maverick shakes his head. “Don’t know. Just know Butch wants it back. Bad.”
“How bad?”
He lets out a humorless breath. “Bad enough that he keeps saying it’s time to teach him a lesson.”
The words settle into me, heavy and sharp.
“A lesson,” I repeat quietly. “That doesn’t sound like something you walk away from.”
Maverick shrugs, but there’s tension in it now. “Means he’s in deep.”
I sit back slowly, trying to piece it together. “Why would Phillip even be involved with the club?”
“The club is involved with a lot of people you wouldn’t expect,” Maverick says, taking another bite. “I don’t know all the details. I’m still low man on the totem pole. They don’t tell me much.”
“And you don’t want to know,” I say.
He gives me a pointed look. “Exactly. The more you know, the more dangerous it gets.”
I nod, though the words do nothing to settle the unease building in my chest. I finally take a bite of my taco, but the flavor barely registers. It might as well be cardboard.
“I wish you’d taken that job Bennett offered you,” I admit quietly. “The minute you get patched, I’m going to start losing sleep worrying about you.”
Maverick grins, reckless and unbothered. “Nothing I can’t handle. Besides, I live for this kind of thing.”
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
“If it were up to you and Mom, I’d be bubble-wrapped for life.”
“That’s because we love you,” I say, managing a small smile.
“Or because you like controlling variables,” he counters easily.
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
He laughs under his breath, then leans back, stretching out. “One day you’re going to realize worrying about me was a waste of time.”
“You’re really set on this life?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“I’m five years in,” he says. “I’ve seen too much to walk away now.”
Something in his tone tells me not to push further.
I nod, even as unease lingers.
This is why we meet here—why he insists on neutral ground instead of Marco Island.
He says he stands out too much there, that he’d ruin my reputation in Collier County.
I don’t care about any of that, but he does, and so we sit at a worn picnic table behind a taco truck instead of anywhere closer to home.
“Good seeing you, Mac,” he says, pushing to his feet. “If you need anything, call me.”
“You’re leaving already?” I ask, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.
“Got dangerously important business to attend to,” he says with a crooked grin. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Stop,” I laugh, though it comes out softer than usual.
He pulls me into another hug, tighter this time, and we linger there for a moment. His warmth steadies me in a way nothing else has in days.
“You should take the tacos,” I murmur as we pull apart. “I’m not hungry.”
He nods, grabbing the bag and heading toward his bike. He tucks it into the saddlebag, then swings a leg over the Harley and starts the engine. It roars to life, loud enough to draw attention from a nearby family.
He glances back at me, flashing a boyish smile before pulling out of the lot.
I hear the bike long after he disappears.
And all I can think about is what he said.
Phillip owes the club money.
A lot of it.
The thought settles deep, unsettling and sharp.
Because whatever that debt is—I have the distinct, sinking feeling it’s tied to Whitney.
And I won’t sleep until I know how.