Lock shrugs. “You know the solution to this?”
Havoc shakes his head. “No. I really don’t want to know what you think the answer to this is.”
“Find a dealer for a little blue pill, then take every club girl, one after the other. Go all fucking day like you’re trying to break a fucking world record.”
Vandal laughs. “Even that won’t outrun eleven seconds. If you could change road names, I’d propose changing Havoc to Eleven. Can you do that, Prez?”
The truth is, I could. Road names are usually based on some form of lore. But it’s possible that someone does something major that means their nickname usurps their road name. But Havoc is taking enough flack. “Seeing I picked his road name, I’m saying no.”
Havoc’s shoulders drop in relief. “Thank fuck.”
“Remember, next week is bike check. Ridge is gonna check everyone’s bikes are roadworthy.”
Ridge leans forward. “If you alternate bikes, make sure they all get tested. I’m not talking your personal bikes, but the ones you use for club business.”
“Anything else?” I ask as I flick ash into an empty beer bottle on the table.
Everyone shakes their heads.
“Then, let’s get moving.”
Chairs scrape back across the wooden floor as the brothers start peeling away. Some head to the garage, others, the kitchen.
When the room empties, I sit back in my chair and take the last few drags on my cigarette before stubbing it out.
My phone is the last one left in the container outside of church. Phones have never been allowed in the sacred place we discuss club business. Too many ways for people to hack them.
But there’s a notification for a message from a number I don’t recognize.
A second pops up while I’m contemplating the unknown number.
I lean against the doorframe and open them.
Unknown:Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
Unknown:I responded emotionally yesterday and was unfair.
Yesterday in the grocery store, I was certain Maren had shut the door so firmly that I’d never open it again. The flowers were supposed to be more of an underscore of how sorry I was. As I placed them on the hood of her truck, it felt as though I’d let the one good thing I had slip through my fingers.
Which is a ridiculous reaction to a woman I barely know.
Yet, my brain processes the messages and the glimmer of hope I feel turns into a full-on firework display. Like, Fourth of July level.
I can’t bite down the smile I feel growing as my thumb rests against the edge of my phone.
I’m relieved that, with a little space and time, Maren realized she wasn’t responding rationally. Not that she didn’t have every right to be scared and hurt. As I tried to sleep last night, it was a kick in the gut to realize that I didn’t fully protect her.
Imagine having a strong and capable and sweet woman like Maren turning to you for comfort and you…grip her biceps to keep her away.
It was a dick move.
One that protected my ego and saved me from a difficult conversation with my men.
Still, the knot that’s been lingering in my gut since yesterday, loosens a fraction.
I add her to my contacts before typing a response, but then erase it.
Then, another.
