Page 13 of Damascus & The Wildfire
The urge to break something—someone—itched under my skin. All we needed was one mistake, one slip-up. Then I could trade these spreadsheets for sharp steel, and the real fun would begin.
Chapter Five
An eerie silence blanketed the clubhouse, and the air hung thick with the scent of lemon cleaner layered over stale beer and smoke. Thane slid a cardboard box across the scarred oak table, its edges frayed.
“This is our club history,” he said as he rustled through the pile of papers, rolled-up posters, and news clips.
He handed Eva an old photograph of a group of men with grease-stained jeans and wolfish grins. They straddled their motorcycles in front of a rundown bar, their expressions a mix of fuck-the-world defiance and brotherhood. I leaned in for a closer look. One sported a black eye, and all of them wore the same swagger I’d come to expect in the short time I’d spent around the Mavericks.
“The club was founded by these three—Maxwell Morris, Don Prout, and Tobias Grove.”
“Morris?” Eva asked. “Any relation to Merrick?”
Thane nodded. “His old man. Died a few years ago. You can’t outride lung cancer.”
He lit a cigarette, taking in a drag before blowing the smoke away from us. The irony of reminiscing about your friend’s lung cancer while smoking struck me. Eva poked me under the table, as if my facebetrayed every thought. I fought to control my expression, but Thane’s smirk told me he hadn’t missed it.
“Tobias is dead, too. His son, Tyler, is a prospect right now. Don’s the last founder not yet in the dirt.”
Eva stood and rustled through the contents of the box. “I’m meeting with Maisie this week to talk about PR for her booth at the market, so I can get some background from Don. I’m sure he can give me some context. I want Kenna to create a video about the club’s history, and this is a great starting point.”
Dust motes swirled in the sunlight as her fingers brushed over the faded flyers and Polaroids.
I tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ear. “I can talk to Merrick about what it was like to grow up a part of the club,” I offered, trying to sound casual.
Eva arched a brow at me. I ignored the heat creeping up my neck.
“I owe him a drink for driving my drunk ass home the other night,” I explained. “So I can kill two birds.”
I pulled out my phone, thumbs hovering for a moment before I typed. I pushed away the unnecessary guilt that crashed through me.
Me:
When are you free for dinner? I’m helping Eva with the 50th anniversary planning. Thane shared that your dad was a founding member. I want to talk to you about growing up in the club … and thank you for the ride home again.
I watched the three dots below my text as Merrick keyed in his response. My heart leapt in my throat when my phone pinged.
Merrick:
Sure. I’m free tonight or Thursday.
Me:
Let’s do tonight at 6. Do you like lamb chops and risotto?
Merrick:
Sounds great. Can I bring anything?
Me:
If you have any photos from growing up in the club, bring them. Otherwise, just bring an appetite.
Thane guided Eva and me from his office to a wall of photos in the hallway. Just as he was pointing out another picture of the founders, a clean-cut man with a boyish expression and glasses slipped through the front door.
“Tyler,” Thane boomed across the open space, his voice sharp and commanding.
Tyler jumped. He adjusted his glasses with a nervous flick of his fingers, then squared his shoulders. “Prez, how’s it going?”
