Page 8 of Fletch

“I don’t . . . I’m not drinking.”

“You used to love a whiskey,” I point out, sipping my own.

“Used to,” she mutters, staring into her lemonade.

“It’s been a while, Snap.”

She sighs, tipping her head to one side and bringing her eyes to meet my own. “Stop calling me that. And it’s been fourteen years.”

“Jesus,” I say, releasing a long breath, “no wonder I didn’t recognise you.”

“I haven’t changed that much,” she mumbles, swirling her drink in the tumbler.

“Oh, you have, Snap, so much.”

“You’re right,” she agrees. “I’m an adult now, and I don’t take crap or fall for bullshit lines. Now, get to the point. Why did you want to meet?”

I lean back and frown. “Still so feisty.”

“Because if you thought you could sweet talk me into laying off your club, you’re wrong.”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “There’s no ulterior motive here, Gem. Just an old friend wanting to catch up.”

“There’s always an ulterior motive with you, Fletch.” She snatches up the whiskey and takes a drink, wincing before placing it back on the table.

“So, you’re getting married? When, and who’s the lucky fella?”

“I’m not feeding you information on me,” she snaps.

I roll my eyes. “Jesus, you’re still paranoid, aren’t yah?”

She scowls. “I was right to be paranoid all those years ago, wasn’t I?”

“You accused me so much that in the end I thought I may as well do it if I was gonna get blamed anyway.”

She shakes her head in disappointment and pushes to stand. “This was a bad idea.”

I groan, grabbing her wrist. “Wait. Sorry. Please don’t go.” She hesitates but slowly lowers to sit again. “I was a prick back then. I treated you like shit and . . . well, I don’t have an excuse, just that I was young and stupid. I’m sorry I treated you like that, Gemma. I truly am.”

She visibly swallows and gives a slight nod to acknowledge my apology. “Never thought I’d hear an apology slip from the lips of the great Cam Fletcher,” she mutters, taking another sip of the whiskey.

“Thought you weren’t drinking,” I say, tipping my glass to hers and lightly tapping it. “Here’s to forgiveness?”

She scoffs. “Here’s to a long overdue apology. Forgiveness has to be earned.”

“Is that an offer for me to try?”

“So, you’re not married. How come?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Guess I never found the right one,” I tell her, shrugging. “Besides, who wants to get involved with guys like me?”

“Are you referring to the biker part or criminal?”

“Are they separate?” I ask, and she presses her lips into a fine line in that way cops do when they’re avoiding talking so you’ll feel uncomfortable enough to keep talking and maybe slip up. “I did my time, Gemma. These days, I’m running in cleaner circles.”

“With The Chaos Demons?” she asks, her tone mocking. “Please, don’t feed me your bullshit, Cam. We’re not on a first date, and you can’t blind me with lies.”

“It’s Fletch,” I tell her, “and if you’re so sure about us, how come I’m not in the cells right now?”

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