Mica eyes my muscle car, like he always does, so I toss him the keys and get into the passenger side.
Once we’re on the road, I bring up my big decision from today. “About the Titan Pantry contract renewal. I’ve decided that you’re right. I’m thinking of starting the negotiation at ten percent rate hike and settling for eight.”
His eyes light up. “That’s a fuckin’ brilliant idea. Lead with the market data,” he advises. “It’s the third paragraph of the regional freight report I sent you. Those numbers will do the heavy lifting for you.”
“I read it,” I say. “It’s what sparked the idea of asking for ten and settling for eight.”
“You’re a smart lady,” he says, and pulls into the grocery store parking lot. I’m already unbuckling my seat belt when he says, “I’ll drop you off and park. I’ll find you.”
“It’s a grocery store,” I say, unclear on why he’s being so hypervigilant.
“This store has great steak, but it puts us two blocks from Devon Marsh’s apartment,” he explains.
“Got it,” I tell him. “I’ll be in produce.”
The relief on his face is totally worth going the extra mile to cooperate with him. His feelings matter to me now. In fact, they have for a while now.
I get out of the car and go inside, depressed that our whole life seems to revolve around that asshole.
The store is quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. There are a few older women with carts near the bakery counter and a stock boy pushing a pallet of canned food.
I grab a basket and start looking at fruit. I’ve been craving oranges and they have some nice ones.
I see someone in my peripheral vision and become aware that they’re moving closer. My first thought is that I’m hogging the oranges and some little old lady is going to hit me over the head with her purse if I don’t get out of her way.
When they says my name, I recognize the voice.
“Nova.”
Devon Marsh is leaning against a cooler of juice with his hands in his jacket pockets. His expression tells me he’s been waiting for this opportunity and he’s going to make the most of it.
“Hello Devon,” I respond, keeping my voice calm. I’m not going to give this asshole the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
“I heard you got married,” he says.
“Why are you acting like that’s something you just found out when you’ve been harassing me about it for weeks now?”
“Calm the fuck down, girl. I’m just shocked that you married a Rager. You know the townies call them feral fucks for a reason. That’s a big move for a girl who said she didn’t want anything to do with bad boys.”
“Mica’s a nice man,” I say.
“Really?” He takes one step closer to testing what he can get away with. “I thought they were a one percent club.”
“I’m going to need you to back up,” I state firmly.
He doesn’t back up. Instead, he takes another step closer. “I heard you were practically forced to get married in order to get your inheritance. Your gramps did you dirty with that one.” He tilts his head slightly. “You could have called me. I would have helped you figure something out.”
“There was nothing to figure out,” I say. “I married the man I wanted and avoided the one I didn’t.”
“Now you’re trying to hurt my feelings. You married a biker you barely know.” He gestures to my property cut. “Wearing his name on your back. I thought you had more self-respect than to wear a vest advertising yourself as some man’s property.”
“Devon.” I set the basket down on the shelf beside me and give him a blank stare. “How do you figure I know you any better? We dated two or three times. It ended because we weren’t compatible.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” he says quietly.
“That’s the problem, Devon. I’m not a great enough catch to justify you coming after me for months like this. I…”
He cuts in, “You don’t belong with those Ragers. Vulture’s Pride was your world, not Sons of Rage. You’re not one of them and you never will be. And wearing that cut doesn’t change it.”
