Page 15 of Damascus & The Wildfire
“The reporter didn’t say. And we shouldn’t ask if we don’t plan to offer an interview. It’s not something she’s obligated to share with us.”
“And I’m not obligated to interview with her.”
“You’re right. You’re not. But she’ll write the story either way. Do you want to tell me what the Riot is? And why you don’t want to talk about it?”
Thane said nothing.
“I can’t help manage media for the club if you don’t tell me. I signed the NDA. I’ll manage this the best I can, but leaving me in the dark won’t work.”
Thane grumbled under his breath before speaking. “The Red Rock Riot Motorcycle Club. They’re in New Mexico.”
“And?”
“We do business with them. Club business. Shit I can’t tell you about.”
“Is this club business legal?”
Thane stayed mute, his silence spelling out the answer I needed.
“OK, so this is definitely not something we should acknowledge. I’ll respond and let her know that you don’t do interviews regarding other clubs, and she should direct any questions she has about the Riot to their president. If you have a good relationship with the guy, you should give him a heads-up. The reporter might pretend she has an interview with you to get him to talk to her.”
“Goddamn it. Just what I fucking need is to piss off Serpent and Jag.”
“And they are?”
“Serpent is the president. Jaguar is the VP. And they’re both fucking unhinged.”
“Got it.”
I had more questions, but I was certain Thane wouldn’t answer a single one.
Merrick knocked on my door at six on the dot. The sound echoed through my still-half-unpacked home.
I wiped my palms on my jeans and kicked my running shoes out of the way. My heart thumped as I opened the door to see him standing on my stoop, wearing his cut with a zinfandel blend in onehand and a small bouquet in the other. A canvas bag hung from his arm.
“I, uh, thought of you when I saw these at the store,” he stammered as he handed me the wildflowers. And Reaper swears this is the wine you’re supposed to have with lamb, but … hell, I’m just taking his word for it.” The words tumbled out of him, more uncertain question than confident statement.
A flush crept across my cheeks. “Thank you. Please, come inside. Don’t mind the mess. I’m still unpacking.” I turned away, hoping to mask how his awkward charm made my heart race.
Merrick’s boots thudded behind me as he stepped inside. His gaze swept across the room as I fussed with the flowers, placing them in a mason jar at the center of my small table.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A photo album. Some club stuff my dad saved and a few photos I’ve added over the years.” He pulled the items from the bag and stacked them neatly on the counter. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, please, just sit. The lamb’s in the oven and the risotto’s done.” I opened the wine and poured him a glass. I bit back a laugh as the gruff, scarred biker carefully took the long-stemmed glass into his large hands. “You don’t strike me as a wine guy.”
He grinned. “I’m not. Beer and whiskey, mostly. This is the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in a while. I live off cold pizza and sandwiches.”
I smiled, pouring a glass for myself. “Well, I love to cook, so you’re welcome to join me anytime. I always make too much and have leftovers for days.”
The timer beeped, and I pulled the sizzling cast-iron pan with two racks of lamb from the oven. The scent of rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen. With practiced precision, I carefully cut and plated the chops atop a bed of risotto, trying not to notice how Merrick watched my every move.
“This is impressive,” he said as I placed a plate before him.
“A thank you and an apology.”
Merrick raised a brow at me in question.
