Page 59 of Burned in Stone
“Ginger’s the only person I know who can intimidate a six-four, two-eighty wall of muscle,” I say, reaching for the conditioner.
“She and Maggie seem to take Christmas pretty seriously.”
“They take every holiday seriously.” I squeeze conditioner into my palm. “Last year at Thanksgiving, Duck decided he was going to impress everyone by deep-frying the Thanksgiving turkey.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“He watched a single YouTube video and declared himself an expert. Set up the fryer outside, thank God, because when he dropped that turkey in...” I shake my head at the memory. “The whole thing literally exploded. Shot hot oil and turkey parts twenty feet in every direction.”
Mercy gasps. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Duck has a patch of beard that won’t grow anymore. Hawk has a couple of scars from where he got hit with flying turkey shrapnel. And Stone’s bike was parked too close—ended up covered in oil and meat.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. The turkey looked like it had been through a war. Duck tried to salvage it, insisted the parts that weren’t charcoal were still good.”
She’s shaking with laughter. “What did Maggie do?”
“Banned him from cooking anything more complex than bacon and pancakes. We had Chinese takeout for Thanksgiving. Duck still maintains the video was wrong, not him.”
I smooth the conditioner through her hair, fingers slow and sure. “I’m glad you had a good afternoon with the girls. They’re good people.”
“They really are.” She sighs, relaxing deeper into me. “Steel got nicknamed Fairy Floss.”
“What?” I pause mid-massage. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Poppy mentioned it’s what Australians call cotton candy. Ginger decided it fits him better than Steel because he’s too soft.” She giggles. “The twins started using it immediately. It’s going to stick.”
“Poor bastard. He’s going to spend his entire prospecting period living that down.” I laugh. “Could be worse. When I was prospecting, I almost got stuck with Bubbles.”
“Bubbles?” Mercy twists to look at me, water sloshing. “How?”
“First week as a prospect, Bones told me to clean the bikes. All of them. Didn’t specify how.” I grimace at the memory. “I was so eager to impress everyone that I went and got the dish soap, thinking it’d clean it all up real good.”
“So?”
“It stripped all the wax off. Took me three days to fix it. He made me hand-polish every bike in the garage as punishment.”
“How many bikes?”
“Twenty-seven.”
She winces. “Your poor arms.”
“Worth it though. That’s when I realized they weren’t going to throw me out for making mistakes.” I run my fingers throughher hair, making sure all the conditioner is worked in. “How long have you been part of the MC now?”
“About a decade.”
“How’d that happen? Bones brought you in, right?”
My hands still for a moment. This isn’t a story I tell often. Hell, I barely told anyone. Bones knows. Stone knows. Maybe Maggie. But sitting here with Mercy, her body warm and trusting against mine, I realize I want her to know. Need her to know where I came from so she understands why I am the way I am.
“Yeah. Back when I was sixteen. It was wrong place, wrong night. Bones found me behind a dumpster, bleeding out. Thought I was done.”
Mercy turns in the water to face me, concern in her eyes. “Cash...”
“It’s OK. It’s a story with a happy ending, I promise.” I pull her back against me, as much for my comfort as hers. “I’d been on the streets for two years by then. Ran away from home after my mom OD’d. Figured anything was better than foster care or whatever the state would do with me.”
