Page 27 of Damascus & The Wildfire
“I’ll keep the suffering to a minimum. Because of everything you told me the other night, I already know what soundbites I need. I’ll ask a few easy questions, and then you’re free to terrorize the others into coming over here. I’ll throw in my famous carrot cake and a dozen chocolate chip cookies for your cooperation.”
The surest way to get a bachelor to do anything was to speak to their stomach or their cock, and I wasn’t ready for the latter. Still, the brief thought of Merrick in that way sent a flutter through my belly, followed by a flicker of guilt.
“You’re not putting this on social media, are you?” Merrick asked, shifting uncomfortably.
I giggled. “You don’t like social media?”
He shook his head. “I’m too old for that shit.”
“How about this: I’ll check with you first if there’s any part of this interview I want to use on the Mavericks’ Instagram?”
He begrudgingly agreed.
Keeping to my promise, I asked Merrick a handful of questions about his dad and his experience growing up in the club.
“How long have you been the sergeant-at-arms?” I asked, getting into things that we hadn’t yet discussed.
“Since 2020.”
“I need you to restate the question in your answer,” I reminded him. “And elaborate with details when you can.”
Merrick rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath before rumbling his response. “I’ve served as the Mavericks’ sergeant-at-armssince 2020. I was promoted when Reaper became the VP. Before that, I was an enforcer.”
I smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”
I continued my line of layered, open-ended questioning, choosing ones that would draw out the history, emotion, and honesty I’d observed through the club. After a few, Merrick began to relax, answering my questions with ease. I skimmed through my notes to find the dates I’d jotted down during my research. “You came in as a prospect when your father was serving as president and Tobias Grove was VP. Thane was sergeant-at-arms. What was it like to join when the founders were still a part of the club?”
“Look at you, digging up the details,” he murmured.
I smirked and raised my brows as I waited for his answer.
“I joined as a prospect after I was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army. I never questioned whether I would join. The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club runs in my blood. It’s a part of my soul.”
Giddiness ran through me. That final quote would be a perfect highlight in the video.
“Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Merrick scoffed. “No, I think my special on60 Minutesis over.”
I approached him, angling my head to gaze up into his eyes. “I know you hated every second of that, but I appreciate it. And that final soundbite earned youtwohome-cooked dinners.”
He smiled at me for a moment, making my breath catch in my throat. “Appreciate you making it worth my time.”
The Texas night pressed warm and thick against my skin, the air barely cooling despite the setting sun. Merrick fell into my role as a camera assistant—always so careful, so respectful, like he was afraid I’d combust if he got too close. He followed my direction, moving lights and positioning the old folding chair that had seen better days.
He herded other men to stand before my camera. Some acted like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this moment, grinning wide and hamming it up for the lens. Others only did it because Merrickhovered behind me, arms crossed, looking like he’d personally drag them to hell if they objected.
I noticed the way his eyes softened when he thought I wasn’t looking, how his mouth twitched at my sarcastic comments. He was stoic, sure, but not cold. There was a current under all that stillness. I wondered what it would be like if he ever let go of all that control. If, just once, he forgot to be the club’s steady hand and let himself be reckless—with me. The thought made my cheeks go hot, and I pretended to fiddle with the camera settings just to give myself something to do. I watched him wrangle another biker my way, and I tried not to think too hard about the way my heart stuttered every time he looked at me.
Chapter Ten
Having Kenna’s attention on me the night before—her camera lens fixed, her questions sharp—left me more rattled than I cared to admit. I’d faced down rival clubs, the barrel of more guns than I could count, and my own demons, but sitting in that ring of light exposed me in a different way.
Her skill as an interviewer caught me off guard. With her gaze pinning me in place, every question felt like a scalpel slicing through layers to expose the real me.
I was used to threats I could see. Fists, bullets, inattentive drivers. Those I know how to handle. You braced, you fought, you counter-maneuvered. Order, control, routine. That kept you safe. You didn’t let anyone close enough to see the cracks in your armor, because once they did, they knew where to press.
Now, standing on Kenna’s porch, I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake off the nerves. Part of me wondered if I should walk away now before things got too complicated. Before being drawn into this life put her own in danger. But as much as I knew I should walk away, I wanted whatever scrap of her I could have—even if it were just a friendship.
