Candace angles her head just enough to catch my look in the rearview. It's brief, barely an exchange, but I give her nothing. I keep my attention on the back of Darla's head and my expression unreadable.
Darla adds too brightly, "Also, I'm fine. Everything smells strong lately. Like your car. No offense."
"My car smells like leather and discipline."
"It smells like a man's cologne section," Darla says, and presses her lips together, trying not to gag.
Candace doesn't push. Not yet. Just says, "Roll your window down more," and cranks the music up as though sound can fill the space where questions want to live.
We pull into the grocery store parking lot. Candace grabs a cart and moves. She's decisive, efficient, a woman running a mission. Darla drifts beside her, tossing basil and garlic into the cart with delight that belongs to people who haven't spent years bracing for impact.
I take the cart handle at the produce section. The aisle stretches bright and orderly. People shuffle past with baskets, toddlers, and lists. My eyes find the exits anyway.
"Okay," Darla says, leaning into the cart. "We need to retaliate."
Candace drops onions into the cart. "Agreed."
"Idea one: we swap all their shampoo with hair removal cream."
Candace stops dead. "Absolutely not."
Darla blinks. "What? It's just hair."
"It's not just hair. Also, East would shave his head and call it a lifestyle choice."
Darla makes a face. "Fine. That one's out."
"Also," I add, "we're not injuring anyone."
Darla turns to me. "That's why you're here. You're the conscience."
"I'm the medical liability."
Candace cuts a glance at me. "You're the one who'll treat whichever idiot gets hurt by their own stupidity."
Darla taps her chin. "Okay. New idea. Fake 'patch meeting' text to all the prospects at once."
Candace's lips twitch. "Prospects will panic."
"Exactly. They'll scramble, wake up the whole clubhouse, and the guys will have to deal with it."
I picture Kyle half-awake, trying to figure out who he offended; Rider moving as a silent threat through the halls; Nash barking orders with no context. My mouth pulls into a reluctant smile.
"That's not bad," Candace says.
Darla beams, squints at the shelves. "Oh my God."
"What?"
She points at a display of giant pickle jars. "Pickles."
"We already have pickles."
"These are different. These are… spicy."
Candace catches her wrist. "We are not buying a gallon of spicy pickles."
Darla's eyes widen, pleading. "Candace."
