Deadline to Damnation (Sons of Templar MC 7)

He’d tensed as the door opened after we were technically closed, and I was gathering dirty glasses. He didn’t completely relax when Scarlett walked through the door, eyes narrowed at me.

She somehow managed to look more dangerous in a snakeskin mini dress than most of the men did in a leather cut. Likely why the prospect stayed alert, because he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t start clawing my eyes out.

I put the glasses down, straightening, half expecting that too.

She’d got the job for me, after all. Put me in deeper. I’d betrayed her, and the sisterhood that we’d had distantly over the fact we were both here for complicated reasons.

“I’m not gonna slap you,” she said in response to my greeting. Her voice was husky, and not at all friendly.

“Shoot me?”

The corner of her mouth ticked. “Wouldn’t want the prospect to have to clean up the blood.”

I nodded. “Considerate of you.”

“I’m known to be considerate if the occasion calls for it.”

Silence rang out.

She was utilizing one of my own interview tactics, staring blankly, not asking questions that I knew she was here to ask. Usually I weathered well under such silences as I considered myself the master of them. But this bombshell in platforms and perfect red lipstick at three in the morning was beating me with ease.

“I’m sorry,” I said first, breaking the number one rule I lived by as a reporter, never apologize for doing whatever it takes to get the story.

And the other rule I lived by for being a human, as long as I never physically, emotionally or financially hurt someone undeserving, never apologize for doing what it takes to survive.

It wasn’t even like we’d bonded in the weeks since I met her. She was back and forth from the Amber club, her Old Man helping out here by the looks of it, and liaising about whatever was going down.

Scarlett came with him.

We weren’t best friends, didn’t tell each other secrets. But it was something different with a woman like Scarlett. A woman hardened by the world, who didn’t give kindness freely because she’d had to forsake kindness to survive whatever had put the hardness behind her eyes. She saw something in me, likely that same kind of hardness, with a side of hopelessness—I didn’t have a man who looked at me the way her biker did—and she’d given me something she didn’t have to.

She did it as a rare act of kindness and my using that for my story rubbed me the wrong way.

“I look like I’m asking for an apology?” she asked with a scoff. “I’m someone who’s had to do a lot of things to stay alive. Not judging for what you do. Mostly because I’ve been educated that you weren’t out to bring the club down.” She raised her brow. “You were, it’d be a different story, and we’d likely be having this conversation in a basement with you tied to a chair.”

I had to say I was impressed with her steel, and her knowledge of how the world worked. She was likely in on a lot more than the traditional Old Lady might’ve been.

“You’re gonna have to deal with your share of hate, since I don’t think it’s escaped you that you’re not exactly popular right now,” she continued.

“I’ve noticed,” I replied dryly.

“You’re not a woman that’s gonna let that bother you, though,” she said with a chilling certainty. Like she knew me. “No one will hurt you. Not until you give them reason to.”

I nodded.

I knew as much, though the purplish bruising on my wrist spoke somewhat of a different story. Though I couldn’t worry about bruises in a world of bullet wounds and severed fingers.

“Not gonna be your friend,” she continued, walking over to the bar and reaching to snag a bottle of tequila with a wink to Henry. She then snagged two glasses and brought them back over to the table, pouring liberal amounts into them. She sat. Eyed me expectantly.

I did the same, grabbing the glass though I wasn’t much of a drinker. If there was ever a night that I needed tequila, it was this night.

Well, it was eight nights before this, but they all merged into one.

“We’re not friends, but we can be allies,” she said, clinking her glass with mine. “Only if you tell me your story.”

I brought the glass to my lips and let the liquid burn at my throat. I put it down. She refilled it. “I’m not usually the one to tell my story. I’ve made a job out of avoiding my story,” I told her honestly.

She set the bottle down. “Babe, we all try to avoid our stories. Till we have to live them. Tequila works as a good accompaniment to tellin’ your story. Living it—there’s nothing to soften that blow.”