Page 12 of Damascus & The Wildfire
Kenna giggled. “I’m willing to compromise. I pick the music on the way to brunch, and you can on the way back.”
She selected a song and pressed play, and Theory of a Deadman filled the cab.
My eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t peg you as a hard rock chick.”
She grinned and rolled down the window. “I like country and pop, too. I’ll even listen to orchestral music sometimes.”
“Don’t know what the fuck orchestral music is. Is that, like, flutes and violins and shit?”
Kenna laughed harder. “I used to play the violin. Some of my favorite rock songs sound amazing in an orchestra. But we’ll ease into that playlist, biker boy. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”
I chuckled at the nickname. She’d called me that last night, too. Right before she fell apart. “How are you feeling this morning?” I asked carefully—leaving the question open to interpretation on whether it was about the hangover or her emotional state.
“I’m fine.” She glanced at me with a grimace, exhaustion etched into her expression. “OK, I feel like shit. I really am sorry about last night. Sometimes I just?—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I interrupted. “I know enough from what Eva told me last night, and I’ve seen enough loss with my brothers to know that not everyone wants to talk about it. But, if you ever want to, I’m here.”
She offered me a sad half smile. “You’re a good friend.”
“I aim to please. Now, are you ready for the best breakfast tacos in Texas?” I put the truck in park.
Kenna glanced at the food truck outside her window. She narrowed her eyes as she took in its peeling paint and the barely legible handwritten menu on a tattered poster board. “Um, are you sure? Because I think I’ve got hepatitis just from looking at it.”
I laughed. “Trust me. The sketchier the truck, the better the tacos. It’s science. Let me get your door.”
Kenna bit her lip as she watched me circle the truck to help her out. I led her to a battered picnic table and offered to order. She sipped her latte, watching me with suspicion. After a few minutes, I returned with a buffet of my favorites.
Her eyes widened as she took in the ten tacos I set before her. “Is the entire club joining us?”
I scoffed. “As if I’d share with those assholes. I’ll eat whatever you can’t.”
Kenna unwrapped one and took a cautious first bite. “God, that’s so good,” she moaned.
I nearly dropped my own breakfast at the sound. I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat, glad the table hid my now-hardened dick. “So you’ll trust me next time?”
She licked salsa from her thumb and smirked. “Maybe. Being right one time doesn’t mean you’re right all the time.”
“Hmm.” I pretended to contemplate. “You’re wrong, but I’ll let it slide for now. You’ll see on our next date.”
She tensed. “Date?”
“Yeah, I picked you up from your house, surprised you with coffee, and introduced you to the best breakfast tacos in Texas. A brunch date. What more could you ask for on a Saturday morning?”
She offered a strained smile and clenched her fingers around her latte as she stared at the table. “Hatchet, I really like you. But I don’t know that I’m in a good space to date right now. I’m a mess.”
I brushed a hand over her fist and squeezed gently. “Then this is a friend date. Just promise I’ll be the first to know when you’re ready for more.”
She met my gaze and offered a smallsmile. “Deal.”
My phone pinged as an email from Linc landed in my inbox, the notification echoing through my room above the clubhouse like a warning shot. I opened the attachment and started scrolling. Phone logs, credit card records, security cam footage. Time-stamped details of our daily lives ready for dissection. Every beer tab and drunken text message. And more dick pics than I cared to see, including my own. It was a goddamn digital autopsy.
I drummed my fingers on the battered dresser. I hated this part. The waiting. The overthinking. We should have been dragging every Maverick to the junkyard for afriendlyconversation, not skimming through PDFs and spreadsheets like we were fucking accountants. My hatchet at a throat was often the only motivation someone needed to spill.
Merrick and his fucking protocols. His concerns for maintaining club unity would be our downfall. I cracked my knuckles. Every second we wasted with this methodical bullshit gave the rat a chance to cover his tracks, or worse, spill club business to the feds that would land us in prison. If it were up to me, we’d already have answers by now.
I stared at the file of evidence and wondered which of my brothers was the rat.
Who would betray us?
