Page 100 of Apex of the Curve

Chapter Twenty-Four

Fenris…

I was sitting at the bar and nursing a hard cider, feeling like my ass was being held to the flames of hell while I stared at the black, blank screen of my phone waiting for it to fuckin’ do something.

Maverick and Dump Truck were to either side of me, waiting with me.

Finally, the phone lit up with an actual notification that I wanted instead of the bullshit news or whatever.

A text came through.

Dahlia: You can come down and talk to her.

I felt my shoulders and back loosen up with relief.

Me: What was the problem?

“I can go talk to her,” I said, getting up.

“Good,” Dump Truck said with a nod.

“About fuckin’ time,” Maverick said. “What was the problem?”

“Tic, probably. I haven’t—” My phone buzzed against the bar top where I’d tossed it back down after shooting back to Dahlia.

Dahlia: Tic and his mouth.

Maverick leaned over and saw it and gave a nod.

“Yeah, that’s worth at least a punch in the mouth the next time you see him.”

I scowled. Mav had to give me the go-ahead for at least that.

“I’ll see how bad it is and get back to you,” I declared.

“I hate fuckin’ drama.” Dump Truck rolled his eyes. “Bylaws dictate an ass whoopin’, he keeps this pansy ass shit up.”

“I know what they say,” Maverick said sharply, giving my boy some side-eye.

“Right, I better get down there while the invitation stands open,” I said. “I’ll catch you two on the flipside. Pretty sure the girls will head this way when I get there.”

“Good deal,” Mav declared.

“Good luck,” Dump Truck shot at me. “Go easy on her.” I gave him a look like, no, shit, and he gave a nod. “You got this.”

“I fuckin’ better,” I grumbled, and I went for the back door and to cross 15th where my bike was parked at the boneyard.

I rode down the hill toward Georgetown, across the 1st Ave S. bridge. It was maybe five minutes of travel time from the club to her shop, which was damn convenient. I parked behind it, and before I could even get off the bike, the back door opened, Dahlia standing in it in one of her 40s style dresses. Black with white polka dots this time.

I took the steps up to the back door of the building and she stepped out in her red peep-toe pumps and sighed.

“I don’t know what his fuckin’ problem is,” she muttered dispassionately, and I shook my head.

“You,” I answered. “You, and the fact you don’t see it.”

“See what?” she demanded and jerked her head back, an ugly scowl on her face.

“Talk to him and find out. Just do me a solid, don’t tell him shit about how he’s gonna get punched in the fuckin’ mouth for this.”

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