Page 56 of Claimed By the Bikers
17
EMBER
“I needcoffee before I deal with anything today,” Atlas mutters, running a hand through his hair as he stumbles into the kitchen. He looks like he barely slept.
“It’s already made,” I tell him, pushing a mug across the counter. “Extra strong.”
“Christ, I love you.” He takes a long sip and actually groans with relief. “Remind me why we don’t just run away to Mexico and start over?”
“Because you’d be bored out of your mind in a week,” Garrett says from the stove, where he’s flipping bacon. “Plus, Mexico’s got its own problems.”
Silas appears in the doorway, looking annoyingly awake for seven in the morning. “Problems like Los Serpientes, who’d probably find us there too.”
“You’re all rays of sunshine today,” I observe, settling onto a stool with my own coffee. The kitchen smells like home—bacon grease and coffee and the lingering scent of whateverGarrett baked yesterday. Domestic normalcy wrapped around the underlying tension of knowing we’re being hunted.
“Haven’t had enough caffeine yet,” Atlas says. “Ask me again in an hour.”
I watch him drink his coffee, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders refuse to relax even here in what should be a safe space. “When’s the last time any of you actually slept?”
“Sleep’s overrated,” Silas says, stealing a piece of bacon from Garrett’s plate.
“Sleep’s for people who don’t have cartels breathing down their necks,” Garrett corrects, swatting at Silas’s hand. “Get your own damn bacon.”
“Yours tastes better.”
“Because I cooked it, you lazy bastard.”
“I’m not lazy, I’m efficient. Why cook when I can just steal from you?”
“Because one day I’m going to stab you with this spatula.”
“Empty threats. You love me too much to cause permanent damage.”
“Don’t test me.”
I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. Even stressed and sleep-deprived, they fall into their usual banter like putting on comfortable clothes. It’s one of the things I love about living here—the easy familiarity, the way they can go from discussing cartel threats to arguing about bacon without missing a beat.
“What’s the plan for today?” I ask when their mock argument winds down.
“Same as every day,” Atlas says. “Run the restaurant, move supplies, try not to get shot by Mexican drug dealers.”
“Standard Tuesday agenda,” I agree.
“Pretty much.”
The restaurant’s lunch prep keeps us busy until mid-afternoon, but the tension builds like pressure in a sealed container. Atlas snaps at a supplier over a delivery that’s twenty minutes late. Garrett nearly takes Finn’s head off for using paprika instead of cayenne on the burger seasoning. Silas sharpens the same knife four times before I finally walk over and take it away from him.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I announce during a brief lull between lunch and dinner service. “You’re all wound tighter than watch springs.”
“We’re fine,” Atlas says, not looking up from the invoices he’s been staring at for the last ten minutes.
“Bullshit. You’re driving yourselves crazy, and it’s making everyone else nervous.” I gesture toward the kitchen, where Finn keeps glancing our way like he’s expecting an explosion. “Lizzy’s been tiptoeing around like she’s afraid to breathe too loud.”
“We’re under a little pressure right now,” Garrett says.
“A little pressure? Silas, if you sharpen that knife any more, there won’t be any blade left.”
Silas looks down at the knife in his hands like he’s surprised to find it there. “When did I pick this up again?”
