Page 42 of Mensa's Match

I sipped my soda. “You can’t beat yourself up over that, Mensa.”

He twisted a hand up to concede the point. “That’s easier said than done.”

“True. What’s the second reason?”

“I didn’t have a car as a teenager. Dad wanted me to earn the money and pay for it myself. I had a friend named Jacob who lived in our neighborhood. He and I were really close, and we walked to school every day.”

A nervous feeling gathered in my stomach. “Okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Jacob wasn’t that athletic, but he was all about after school activities like clubs and shit. That meant we didn’t walk home from school together every day.”

The way he bit his lip when he paused, my stomach dropped and my heart ached. I tried to stay optimistic. “All right, that isn’t exactly surprising.”

He blinked three times and exhaled hard. “No, what’s surprising is that during our senior year, Jake was fuckin’ gunned down one afternoon as he walked home.” His chest expanded with his deep breath and his eyes blazed at me. “He wasn’t in a gang, wasn’t in gang colors, and that stretch of sidewalk wasn’t in any gang territory. I was pissed as hell.”

I nodded ever so slowly. Whether he realized it or not, he wasstillpissed as hell. Not that I blamed him.

“Were the shooters caught?” I asked in a soft voice.

He turned his head to the side, and I wasn’t sure he heard my question. “I wanted retribution so fuckin’ bad.”

I grabbed his hand. “Did you get it?”

His gaze met mine – his pain downright palpable. “No. The bastard was shot by a member of the Miscreants – which makes Jacob’s death even more senseless.”

I squeezed his hand. “You’re absolutely right, Mensa. Since you weren’t able to get retribution, what did you do? How did that encourage you to join an MC?”

He grinned, and it was so boyish it took my breath away. “Because by the time I graduated, Brute had spotted me. He was twenty-one or twenty-two at the time. He didn’t have his own business yet, but he was running a small crew for a contractor and he offered me a job. When I showed up on a bike, he asked why it wasn’t a Harley.”

“It mattered that much?”

His eyes went steely. “You know it does. I told him I didn’t have the money for a Harley.”

“Okay.”

His grin returned. “Har had a Harley he could sell me, next thing I knew they introduced me to Brink – the president at the time – I started prospecting, and the rest is history.”

I nodded. What he said made sense, but I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “And you didn’t have any second thoughts? Nothing?”

He tilted his head. “Mom had serious concerns, but that only pushed me closer to the Riot.”

“Right,” I drawled. “What about your Dad?”

He chuckled. “He thought it was a phase, which—”

“Also pushed you away?”

“Yeah. It was insulting to me at the time.”

“You were eighteen?” I asked.

“Barely. I turned eighteen the day before I met Brute.”

“Wow. You’ve been a member for at least seventeen years.”

He shook his head. “I prospected for two years… so it’s only been fifteen.”

I fought off a smirk. “You’re splitting hairs, but that’s damned impressive.”

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