Page 16 of Damascus & The Wildfire
“I screwed up the other night, and while I’d like to blame whiskey, it was my fault.”
He shook his head. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
The memory burned hot and sharp as a flush crawled up my neck. “I just … I want to be friends, and throwing myself at you like that isn’t a great start.”
He shrugged. “You were pretty drunk. Liquor makes us do things we would never do otherwise.”
I stayed quiet at that. He was right. I’d never wanted to be with a man like Merrick, and I’d certainly never had a one-night stand. I pushed away the errant thoughts about him that left me curious, left heat pooling in my belly.
Merrick took a bite of the lamb, and his eyes widened. “This is so good. It might be one of the top ten dinners I’ve ever had in my life.”
I laughed, and the tension in my shoulders eased. “Well, you set the bar pretty low with cold pizza.”
“True, but I’ve eaten at Reaper’s a few times. He’s like Gordon Ramsay with a gun.”
I nodded, having benefited from his chef skills several times in the past week.
Merrick swallowed a gulp of wine. “So, what do you want to know?”
“What was it like, growing up?”
Merrick tilted his head, chewing on another bite of lamb before responding. “The club was different then. Rougher.”
I tried not to smirk. Merrick would be a tough interview. He didn’t say more than was necessary. I’d either have to get him drunk or use the interviewing skills I’d built during my stint as a broadcast reporter. “Thane said your dad was one of the founders?”
“Yeah, he’d grown up seeing clubs in Nevada. When he moved to Texas to be with my mom, he met Don and Tobias. They didn’t like the Rangers and what they represented. So, they started the Mavericks out of an abandoned bar Tobias bought with his inheritance.”
“The nice clubhouse hasn’t always been there?”
“Fuck no. The first one was falling apart. They made just enough improvements to get it insured, and then it mysteriously burned to the ground.”
“Mysteriously?”
Merrick shrugged. “I was old enough to know the circumstances were suspicious. I knew better than to ask questions.”
“What about your dad? What was he like?”
“Probably hits every stereotype when you think about a biker in the 1970s. He was a chain-smoking, whiskey-drinking, fist-fighting son-of-a-bitch. He taught me everything I know about working on old bikes. He died a few years ago. Lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” I bit my lip. “My dad died about seventeen years ago. He was a smoker, too, but now”—I gesture to the urn sitting atop a shelf—“he’s all ash.”
Merrick choked on the sip of wine he’d just swallowed.
I laughed. “Sorry. I always forget that dead dad jokes make people uncomfortable.”
He cleared his throat. “Not uncomfortable. You just surprised me.”
We chatted for a few about our fathers, swapping stories and memories.
As we quieted, Merrick stood, grabbing our empty plates and taking them to the sink.
I watched in curiosity at this rough man being so … clean. Domesticated. He rinsed our plates and put them in the dishwasher.
“What?” he asked, noticing the expression on my face.
“Nothing. I just didn’t expect a biker to be so housetrained.”
Merrick leaned his head back and laughed, his entire body shaking. “My mother ingrained it in me. The person who cooks doesn’t do the dishes. Don’t expect this behavior from my brothers, though. I let Hatchet stay with me once, and it was like living with a deranged spider monkey.”
