Page 12 of Hard as Stone
Maria’s eyes meet mine, and I see the struggle there—pride warring with practicality, grief with gratitude. Finally, she nods and reluctantly accepts the envelope.
“Thank you,” she whispers, tucking it into her pocket. “I just... I wish things were different, you know?”
I nod, understanding all too well. “The club’s not giving up, Maria. We’re still investigating what happened. Summit, especially after what I found in their records room last month, is going to pay for the loss they’ve caused.” I take another sip ofcoffee, the memory of my own close call while doing re-con for the club still fresh. It took a hell of a distraction from the club to get me out of there unscathed, but at least we know it’s the cartel’s money bankrolling them now.
Maria’s eyes narrow. “You think Summit’s to blame? They’re why there’s been so much construction chaos lately, right? One of the new residents of Paradise was just here fixing my porch steps, mentioned there’s been no end of issues with all those roadworks cropping up. They can’t get anything finished.”
“Summit’s doing everything they can to slow progress in certain areas while pushing hard in others.” I watch her process this. “They tried buying Duck’s garage too. But the club took partial ownership to block them.”
“Good. No one on the west side of town wants them here. We’re struggling enough as it is.”
I drain the last of my coffee. “I know, Mez. We all want them gone.”
I stand, knowing it’s time to take my leave. Maria’s got enough on her plate without me hanging around, dredging up painful memories. “I should get going. Let you get back to... whatever smells so good in that oven.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. “Rosemary focaccia. It was Jack’s favorite.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. “He always did have good taste.”
I step out of Maria’s trailer, the screen door creaking shut behind me. The evening air wraps around me like a warm blanket, heavy with the scent of sun-baked asphalt and blooming jasmine fromMrs. Henderson’s overgrown garden next door. For a moment, I stand there, my hand reflexively patting my pocket for a pack of cigarettes that hasn’t been there in years. Old habits die hard, I guess.
God, I wish I still smoked. The familiar ritual of tapping out a cigarette, the flick of a lighter, that first drag... it would be a welcome distraction from the weight settling on my chest. But I’d quit years ago, a promise to Rosie when she burst into tears one day and told me about the dangers of smoking. I quit then and there, but some days, like today, the craving hits harder than others.
I’m about to head back to my bike when I hear raised voices coming from around the side of Maria’s trailer. My body tenses, instincts kicking in as my hand goes to the gun at my hip as I move silently toward the source of the commotion.
I round the corner, only to see a trailer door slam and Poppy storm out, book clutched to her chest like a shield.
“And I said I need five minutes of peace!” she yells over her shoulder through the door. “Five minutes where nobody asks me what’s for dinner or where their clean socks are or why the hot water isn’t working!”
A muffled male voice responds from inside, and she throws her hands up in exasperation.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry! There’s bread and peanut butter—make it work!”
She spins around and nearly collides with me, a small ‘eep’ escaping as she stumbles back. My hands shoot out to steady her, catching her upper arms.
“Breaking and entering now, Road Captain?” she asks, but there’s an amused twitch at the corner of her mouth. She looks softer somehow—softer than she has any right to, given the steel in her spine—wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that’s slipped off one shoulder. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a bright yellow that matches her work vest.
“Heard shouting.” I release her arms, taking a step back. A month of our roadside encounters has taught me that Poppy Bennett doesn’t break easily. But that doesn’t mean I’m OK with anyone—including her family—raising their voice at her. “Thought someone might be in trouble.”
“Only my brothers’ stomachs, apparently.” She drops onto a lawn chair under the awning, propping her feet up on an overturned milk crate. “They act like they’ll die if I don’t cook for them every night.”
“Rough being the only woman in a family of men?” I ask, leaning against the trailer’s support pole.
“Someone’s gotta keep them in line.” She shifts in her chair, tucking one leg under her. “Though I’m starting to think herding cats would be easier.”
“POPPY!” A voice bellows from inside. “WHERE’S THE MUSTARD?”
She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “In the fridge door where it always is!”
“I DON’T SEE IT!”
“Then you’re blind!” She turns back to me with an eye roll. “See what I mean? Sometimes I think they’d forget their own heads if I wasn’t here to point out they’re still attached.”
“Sounds familiar.” I think of the chaos of the clubhouse. “Though at least your brothers can probably spell their own names.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh my god, I almost forgot about that!” She sits up straighter. “But you just reminded me—I have something for you. Wait there.”
Before I can respond, she disappears into the trailer. I hear more muffled arguing and what sounds like someone getting smacked with a dish towel.
