“You’re Kaitlyn Meade?” he asked.
He had on sunglasses, but even with the sunglasses on, I could see what looked like bruises on his face, the outline of a black eye, and purple and red splotches by his nose and cheekbones.
“What about it?” I said.
“I’m Lane Carter, care to grab lunch?”
Lane. The leader of the Black Reapers.
“Why would I want to grab lunch with you?” I said, immediately suspicious that Lane was somehow trying to go behind Michael’s back. “I’m not joining your club, you can forget about that. I’m not going to be a nurse—”
“It’s not about that, not right now, at least,” Lane said, removing his sunglasses and revealing an ugly, enormous bruise on his eye far bigger than I had imagined it would be. “It’s about Patriot.”
“Who?”
“Michael Giordano.”
Oh, shit... what happened?
“Is he okay?”
“I think so, but... look, it’ll be easier to explain someplace else, okay?”
I rolled my eyes. The only reason I was even willing to give this a chance was because I did care about Michael and because Lane had proof something had happened.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m driving.”
* * *
I sat in a booth far removed from the rest of the tables, in a spot where Lane and I could quietly talk. We’d ridden separately, making conversation in the car impossible, but as soon as we put our orders in, Lane leaned forward.
“Something happened this morning that pushed Patriot, I mean, Michael away,” he said. “Some things got said in the club, and he ran off. Where to, I don’t know. But as I try to figure out what happened, I want to know what happened between you guys last night. I saw you ride off with him.”
The tone was polite enough, but there was something in the way Lane was speaking to me that made it sound like he was accusing me of something. I didn’t quite know what, and I wasn’t about to pretend like I could figure it out.
“We had a nice time together, and that’s all I’m going to say about it,” I said. “What happened between Michael and me is our business.”
“Okay,” Lane said, visibly annoyed at my unwillingness to talk. “Well, Michael was supposed to convince you to join us. So—”
“Again, let me reiterate, that is not going to happen,” I said. “I don’t know how many people in your club I need to say no to, but I am not. Going to be. One of your. Fucking nurses.”
Lane looked like he wanted to slam the table in frustration. It was a damn good thing he didn’t, or I would have walked out of there on the spot and forced him to pay for my uneaten food.
“Look, yesterday, Michael lost his mind with everyone arguing in the aftermath of the attack,” Lane said very slowly. “Then, this morning, he came in here, and fucking punched me in the face. What the hell happened?”
He doesn’t know. Michael did say he hadn’t told anyone else the story, and yet he told me.
I don’t even know what to say. If his best friend didn’t know...
As crazy as it was to say, I actually felt kind of sorry for Lane. His best friend had beaten him up, and he didn’t even know why—or he was playing coy and wasn’t telling me everything. Either way, while I did feel some sympathy for him, I wasn’t going to tell him anything. His tone was too accusatory, too suspicious, for me to give him anything.
“If you’re trying to say that I said something, then forget it,” I said. “Michael is dealing with a lot of old wounds right now, and if I had to guess, you’re probably only making them worse. When he needs help, you’re just pushing him away.”
The visible surprise—but also the visible recognition—on Lane’s face told me that he understood he didn’t have the full truth. Maybe this was what he needed to make things better with Michael.
But that was something I wanted no part of.
The food came out, but I couldn’t even act like I had any desire to eat. I took a few bites and finished my fries, but my burger got only about two bites before I requested a to-go box. I threw Lane fifteen dollars and stood up.
