Page 35 of Burned in Stone
Before she can respond, the clubhouse door bangs open.
“Cash!” Duck’s voice cuts across the parking lot. “Church. Stone wants you there now.”
I glance back at Mercy, who’s already putting more distance between us like she needs the space to breathe.
“Go,” she says quietly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Steel!” I call out, spotting the prospect near the entrance. He jogs over immediately. “Take Mercy’s bags to my room. Make sure she has everything she needs.”
“Your room?” Steel glances between us, but he’s smart enough not to comment further. “Yes, sir.”
I turn back to Mercy. “We’ll talk later, OK? After church. Figure all this out.”
She nods, but won’t properly meet my eyes. “I should probably find Kya, anyway. Let her know what’s happening.”
“She’ll be in the kitchen with the other old ladies,” Steel offers helpfully. “I can show you?—”
“I know where it is.” Mercy’s voice is steadier now, finding her footing. She takes her laptop bag from me, leaving the duffel for Steel. “Go. Don’t keep Stone waiting.”
I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close and promise everything will be OK. But Duck’s hanging in the doorway looking impatient, and Stone doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Later,” I promise, and it feels like I’m always saying that to her. Always putting off the conversation we need to have.
The conversation where I tell her what she’s starting to mean to me. Where I admit that I’m not just protecting her because it’s the right thing to do—I’m protecting her because I can’t fucking breathe when I think about losing her. Where I say the words that make this real, that take away any illusion I’m still in control of this thing between us.
The truth? That conversation scares me more than a man like Gabriel ever will.
As I head for the chapel, I glance back once. Mercy’s following Steel inside, her shoulders squared like she’s preparing for battle. Maybe she is. Maybe we all are.
13
MERCY
Somewhere between Steel’s awkward ‘ma’am’ and the kitchen’s babble of clinking mugs and sarcasm, I stop being Mercedes Rogers and start being Mercy again. Not the ex-cop’s wife, not a missing person on the Ailington PD board, not the girl who hid quivering behind a deadbolt and called that safety. Just Mercy: bartender, chaos-magnet, and now, apparently, a biker’s old lady without any of the cultural prerequisites.
The kitchen is loud. Ginger plays conductor of the chaos, refilling mugs and smacking Steel’s hand away from the food she’s preparing. Kya’s perched on the edge of the counter, legs swinging, eating a slice of toast and glaring at her phone. Maggie, looking every inch the biker matriarch in ripped jeans and a Pearl Jam tee, is swapping gossip with Andi, whose young twins attempt to run amok every time she looks away from feeding baby Adam.
“—and that’s when Duck realized he’d ordered five hundred patches with ‘Motorcyle Club’ instead of ‘Motorcycle’,“ Poppyfinishes, and the whole kitchen stops what they’re doing and erupts in laughter.
I’m just drinking it all in, sitting across from Poppy, who has Rose dozing on her chest and a mug of coffee in one hand, managing to juggle both motherhood and sarcasm with the sheer force of her will. She’s been regaling me with the story of her and Axel’s first unofficial date. The one where she challenged him to pool, he cheated by distracting her on the winning shot, so she retaliated by pointing out none of them can spell ‘motorcycle.’
It’s been an hour since Cash disappeared into church with the other officers, and I’m starting to feel less like an intruder and more like I might actually belong here as I cradle my second cup of coffee.
“The booty shorts were the best part,” Kya adds, wiping crumbs from her fingers. “Glitter and everything.”
“Premium booty shorts,” Ginger corrects. “With rhinestones.”
Baby Rose fusses, and Poppy automatically starts rocking while continuing to eat her eggs one-handed. The casual efficiency of it, the way the other women automatically shift plates and cups to help her, speaks of a routine developed over months.
“So Mercy,” Andi says, expertly preventing Adam from flinging banana at his sisters. “How long have you and Cash been together?”
“Oh, we’re not?—”
“Few months, give or take,” Ginger answers before I can explain the situation. “It’s been painful to watch. Like getting a root canal at a strip club—technically you’re supposed to be enjoyingit, but the pain is real.” She glances at me, eyebrows prepped for the afterburn. “I have never seen two people so committed to each other without fucking like bunnies.”
I almost snort coffee through my nose, but Poppy just grins. “Cat and mouse, babe. It’s classic. I think Cash is the only man in North America who’d rather win a woman by attrition and weird acts of service. I don’t think he’s evenlookedat another woman since Mercy started working at Devil’s.”
“That’s a lie,” I protest. “We’ve been little more than friends this?—”
