Page 52 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“What do you got for me?” I ask.

“Got a different truck for you when you leave, that piece of shit you were driving—man, seriously?”

“It was nice before Texas. Storm rolled in.” I shrug off his incredulous look.

“There were feelers out for you outside of Miami. They thought you’d fled last night. With all the bikers coming and going, you should be safe when it’s time to leave.”

“Which is when?”

“Give it a couple more days. Your body had already experienced some trauma before I ever got to fix your ass up. I need to make sure you’re solid before I send you out to get ripped apart again.”

19

Greer

Asense of terror and excitement fills me as I watch the brothers head out ahead of us. We’re heading for Kentucky—for home—and I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed, well, our bed, mine and Sarge’s, and to see Nic again.

I think about the interesting dichotomy while sitting in this brand-new truck procured by Block—I was directed not to ask about it—who fought by Sarge’s side as Raiders together, while his brothers, the ones who fight by his side now, head off back for Bentley.

Sarge slaps Block’s arm, drawing him in for a genuine hug. I sincerely hope that Block will come to visit us in Kentucky so he can really get a sense of the man Sarge is now. Aside from rescuing damsels in distress and being riddled with bullets. I’d love for him to see Sarge as the vice president of a motorcycle club, see how his brothers respect him, see the life he’s built now. I don’t know why that idea means so much to me, but it does. Because if anyone deserves to be admired, it’s Sarge.

Damn… Sitting here, watching him, I come to a bold realization. Forget about falling. I’ve fallen. Really fallen.Sigh. I’ve got it bad. That thought makes me as sad as it does happy. I’d never been in love before and there’s no one who deserves love more than Sarge. If he were only able to love me back the way I loved him.

I plaster on a smile as I watch him approach the truck. The driver’s side where I currently sit waiting to take off. He tries to open the door, only to be deterred by the lock. But I do roll down the window.

“Wrong spot, baby.”

“No,” I reply flippantly. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

That’s when Block yells over to us— “Give him hell, sweetheart! He needs to learn his place.” Then as he laughs, he turns to walk back inside the clinic, hand thrown in the air waving at us.

“I’ve got orders,” I say. “Your doctor says no driving for you yet.”

“I’m not riding bitch,” he growls, his sexy eyebrow arched as if daring me to argue. I’m so arguing this point.

“Bitch, really? Listen, biker boy…” When I take in a breath, he laughs.

“Biker boy?”

“Mmm… Well, I can’t call you a bikerman. No real man would be so insecure that he couldn’t ride in thepassenger seatper hisdoctor’s ordersbecause he’s justbeen shot.”

“Woman.” He shakes his head. “You are so lucky that I…” Whatever he’s about to say, he lets it trail off, shaking his head again while he rounds the truck to climb up into the passenger seat.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

I start the truck and ease out of my parking spot into traffic. Sarge types the address for Bentley into his GPS and I take each turn through the city like the pro I am. I learned to drive on these streets. Showing Sarge how capable I can be, even doing this mundane task, is utterly liberating. He needs to see me as more than a woman who needs his protection for this to work in the long run because the truth is, I won’t always be the woman who needs his protection. I’ll simply be Greer again. And Greer will need to be enough.

We’ve got a fifteen-hour drive ahead of us. At least the truck rides smooth. I wait to clear Florida before stopping for lunch and to refill the tank, but when I see the sign for a Waffle House, I just have to.

Once we’re inside, I order a coffee and a Coke. Sarge orders the same. Our waitress, Judy, returns moments later and after setting the drinks down, whips her ordering pad out.

“You ready?” she asks and I’m glad that Judy happens to be old enough to be Sarge’s mother with shockingly dyed black hair. Permed. And with a bit more of a circle body type than an hourglass, she either doesn’t have the courage or desire to hit on Sarge the way the chick did back in Missouri.

“I am. You?” I ask Sarge.

“Definitely.”

“Right. Then I want hash browns, all the way, and a pecan waffle.”

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