He reached into his pocket and handed it to me. “Knock yourself out.”
I stepped in front of the truck and took a photo of it, along with the license plate, texting the photos to Kim so she’d know who was driving me home and when I was leaving. At least if he did murder me, they’d be able to track down my killer.
“Thanks,” I said, and handed the phone back to him.
He smiled his sexy smile again and pulled open my door. I wasn’t expecting his gallantry as he waited for me to climb inside, but I covered my surprise. I didn’t realize badass biker men did that kind of thing.
Booker climbed in beside me and started the engine while I buckled up. He didn’t say anything as he guided the truck away from Arbor Lodge and I took a moment to take in his ride. It was new with all the bells and whistles, so to speak. Leather seats, wood inlay, and a kick-ass stereo system... at least it looked like a kick-ass stereo system. It was currently off.
About ten minutes passed and I had about all the silence I could handle. “Your real name’s not Booker, is it?” He glanced at me and shook his head before focusing on the road again. “Are you going to tell me your real name?”
“Austin Carver.”
“Oh,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.
He smiled. “Not what you were expecting?”
“Not really, no. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice name. Sweet sounding, but I guess I expected you to be Maverick or something like that.”
“Maverick?”
“What’s wrong with Maverick?”
“Only a pussy would ever go by Maverick.”
“What if that’s the name his parents gave him?” I challenged.
“Then, if he weren’t a pussy, he’d change it.”
I bit back a smile. “I won’t tell Maverick’s mom you said that.”
“You know a Maverick?” he asked.
I nodded. “He’s one of my kids. I teach kindergarten.”
“Fuck me. Of course you do,” he grumbled, and pulled onto the freeway.
I gathered my purse close to me again. For some reason, the fact he didn’t seem to like my choice of employment bothered me. It shouldn’t. He didn’t know me, and he was probably a criminal for Pete’s sake, but I was the one who felt embarrassed.
“What’s your group’s name?” I soldiered on, my inability to stay silent when I was nervous working against me.
“My group?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Your club. Whatever.”
He studied the road again. “Dogs of Fire.”
“Why did you pick that?” I asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Why did your group... I mean, club, pick that?”
Booker shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“You don’t know why they picked it?” I studied his profile and saw his jaw lock. “Sorry, not my business.”
He neither agreed nor disagreed.
