Page 38 of Decoding Morse

Hoping she wasn’t about to preach at me, I scooped up the Bible. It was heavier than it looked, and when I handed it to Mrs. Landry, she placed it beside her teacup. She opened the book, removed an antique flask from the cut-out pages, and poured the contents—whiskey, if my nose wasn’t mistaken—into her teacup.

Equally concerned and amused, I asked, “Are you sure you should have alcohol?” At her sharp intake of breath, I added, “Considering your medications?”

“Dying of cancer is a painful experience. I have no intention of doing it sober.” She took a healthy gulp of her spiked tea before gesturing at the board. “Now, quit stalling and make your first move before I expire right here.”

* * *

A few hours later, a slightly singed antique chess set under one arm, my brothers and I arrived back at the fire station.

“I’ve never seen anyone win and lose simultaneously,” Specks said as we walked down the hall. “Especially not you.”

I frowned and flipped him off, though he wasn’t wrong.

Already frazzled by my duel with Carol, I stopped dead in my tracks when Amelia’s familiar laughter drifted down from the mess hall. Specks didn’t acknowledge my reaction, continuing on his way, but Prospect paused, casting me a quizzical look.

Amelia would want to be debriefed on the Rations Run, but going to Carol’s put me behind schedule, and I still had to finalize plans and pick up supplies for her appointment tomorrow. For that reason—and not that I was avoiding her—I gripped the chess set, waved off Prospect, and headed for my office.

If I told myself that enough, I might even fucking believe it.

13

Amelia

WHEN I CAME downstairs for my appointment Tuesday morning—note balled up in my fist and steam pouring out of my ears—the common room was empty and dark. Outside the fire station’s windows, the skies were gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. A voice that sounded like Morse’s caught my ears, revving up my anger again. Hurrying my steps, I headed for the front of the room where we were supposed to meet.

Another man responded, and although I couldn’t hear everything, I caught part of their conversation. “… don’t actually wear helmets, do we? I thought?—”

They came into view as Morse spun around so fast that the man with him stumbled back a step before firming his posture and squaring up with Morse. Not wanting to interrupt, I stopped and ducked out of view.

“You wanna splatter your brains all over the freeway?” Morse asked. “Be my guest. That’s your prerogative. But do that shit when you’re not riding with me. Today, you’ll wear a fucking helmet.”

“I don’t have one, sir.”

I couldn’t see the other man’s face, but he wore one of those leather vests with the club logo over a jacket, and his rigid posture and recently buzzed brown hair made him look fresh out of the service.

Morse made a sound of disgust.

Berating myself for listening in on a conversation that had nothing to do with me, I pushed off the wall, vowing to be a better person, and headed toward them once again. They stood before a bank of lockers near the front door. Despite my simmering anger, my stomach flipped at the sight of Morse in a black jacket beneath his biker vest, faded blue jeans, and motorcycle boots. Seriously, when had the man gotten so pretty? He turned toward the lockers, giving me a view of jean-covered ass and making me reconsider my flimsy commitment to being a better human. Slowing my steps, I ogled his backside as he marched to a nearby cupboard and yanked open the door.

“When brothers upgrade, we donate our old gear to the club. You’re welcome to use whatever you need. If it’s in decent condition when you no longer need it, toss it back in here. Not everyone can afford new riding gear immediately when they arrive. Remember that. Don’t be a dick, and don’t judge anyone for digging through the cast-offs. Everyone needs a fuckin’ hand sometimes.” He grabbed a helmet, doused it in disinfectant spray, and handed it to the man.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can drop that “sir” shit right now. Hasn’t anyone walked you through the basics yet?”

“No, sir. Er, I mean, no. Havoc was giving me a tour when the shop got a parts delivery. We unloaded it, were sent out on a tow, and never got back to the tour.”

“We’ll find someone to remedy that when we return. Do you at least have a bike?”

The man nodded. “Yessir. Wasp helped me find one he deemed acceptable. He gave it a tune-up and said the tires are new.”

Morse turned his attention to me as I approached, greeting me with a nod but not bothering to meet my eyes. “Good morning.”

I didn’t respond because irritation trumped attraction, and I kind of wanted to strangle him. Rather than knocking on my door and engaging in a face-to-face conversation like a functioning adult, this man had slipped me a note last night, informing me where and when to meet him this morning.

He’d stuffed a freaking note under my door so he wouldn’t have to face me.

At least, that’s what I was assuming since I hadn’t seen him since Sunday when he’d walked me back to my room. He’d been MIA ever since, and now we were in for an uncomfortable drive to a doctor’s appointment I wanted to put off indefinitely.

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