Page 1 of Damascus & The Wildfire
Chapter One
In the six days since I’d moved to Texas, I’d knocked back more tequila shots than an entire frat house during welcome weekend.
The morning sun stabbed daggers into my skull as I rolled up the long driveway leading to the clubhouse owned by the Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club. I stepped out of my Range Rover, holding onto the door as I swayed slightly. I’d hoped the drive would settle my stomach, but the world still felt off-kilter, like I’d just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl. I closed my eyes for a moment and sucked in a breath, counting on the warm Texas spring air to clear the fog from my mind.
My best friend, Eva, waited for me, leaning against the hood of her chili pepper–red Jeep with ice-cold drinks from Maisie’s Bakery clutched in each hand. Her blue-gray eyes looked annoyingly bright for someone who’d matched me, shot for shot, less than twelve hours ago.
Eva’s gaze raked over my face, and she grinned. “You look like shit.”
I caught my reflection in the window. Dark circles cradled mygreen eyes, and a light sheen of sweat shimmered across my forehead. Tendrils of red hair stuck to my damp skin despite the light breeze.
I snagged the iced coffee she offered and took a few gulps, my empty stomach rolling in protest as the cold, bitter liquid swirled with the lingering tequila. “Next time Rhetta offers me a margarita, remind me to say no.”
Eva chuckled, patting me on the shoulder. “Last night reminded me of college. This morning reminded me that we’re not in our twenties anymore.”
I started to shake my head but stopped as dizziness threatened to knock me off balance. “Never again.”
“You say that every time.”
I scoffed. “This time, I mean it. How do you still look annoyingly beautiful after a night of drinking? It should be illegal.”
Eva shrugged, flipping her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “Guess I just handle my liquor better than you.”
We walked into the clubhouse like she owned the place. Maybe it felt that way because Eva was head over heels for the club’s vice president, Reaper. The guys treated her like royalty—a biker princess in a vest they called a cut.
The clubhouse hit my senses all at once. The place smelled of leather, pine cleaner, and a hint of motor oil. Underneath it all, there was the unmistakable musk of stale beer, a reminder of wild nights that had come before.
I pitied the prospects—the new guys, still earning their patches—who were stuck mopping up spilled liquor and God only knew what else from the polished concrete floors. For all the debauchery I’d heard about when it came to the rough-and-tumble biker crowd, the Mavericks seemed surprisingly particular about cleanliness.
Maybe it was just Thane, their president.
“Want a drink from the bar before our meeting?” Eva teased.
I groaned. “Fuck. No. If I even get a whiff of tequila right now, I’ll yack onThane’s desk.”
Eva laughed. “I don’t recommend it. He would be thoroughly unamused if you violated his office like that. He’s got a thing about puke. Says that’s why he never became a parent.”
Rhetta strolled toward us with a wide grin, her blonde curls framing her bright-blue eyes. I cringed as she stopped at the bar to add a splash of Bailey’s to her steaming coffee cup.
“Sugar, we need to get your tolerance up if you’re going to hang with the club,” she drawled as she sipped her spiked drink.
As the president’s wife, Rhetta wore her cut with queenly pride—the bottom rocker declaring her “Property of Thane.” Still patriarchal as fuck, if you asked me. But, as Eva reminded me last time I ragged on her about the “Property of Reaper” claim on the back of hers, no one had.
Rhetta swept us down the hall toward Thane’s office. The air grew thicker with the scent of smoke and whiskey. I breathed slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth, willing my stomach to settle.
“The guys have Church in an hour, so let’s get this meeting out of the way, and then we can grab brunch,” Eva said.
“Church.” I scoffed, trying not to roll my eyes. I dropped my voice into my best National Geographic narrator impersonation. “Here, we witness the rare and secretive biker species in their natural habitat where they participate in a sacred, men-only ritual for mysterious ‘club business.’”
Eva pinched my side and shot me a glare. I offered a sheepish smile.
Rhetta glanced back at us and chuckled. “You’re not wrong. But if you want to keep your sense of humor—and your fingers—I’d suggest not doing that in front of Thane.”
Her tone was light, but a warning shone in her eyes that sent a shiver down my spine. As we trailed Rhetta toward Thane’s office, I considered the possibility that she might not be joking.
The Mavericks weren’t just a bunch of guys who liked to ridebikes. They were outlaws. And you didn’t become president of a motorcycle club by handing out hugs and rainbows. My gut told me Thane had earned his place at the head of the table with grit, loyalty, and a reputation for making hard choices.
A lamp glowed in the corner of the ample office space, emanating warmth from the knotty pine walls. Thane stared at a pile of papers, his weathered face schooled in a frown. Rhetta knocked on the door, and his lips shifted beneath his graying goatee into a genuine smile.
