He backed out of the driveway of the big brick McMansion and made his way through the yet-to-be-built development to the main road. From there, it was less than fifteen minutes to his rendezvous point—a downtown restaurant called Dutch’s. Maverick pulled his Harley in line with seven others waiting there. Eight members of the Raven Riders Motorcycle Club ought to make the point—and be more than able to handle any shit should it go down.
Turning off the engine, Mav gave Alexa a hand off. “We have a few minutes to kill,” he said. He raked a hand through his hair as he dismounted.
She just nodded as she peered at the big picture window that lined the street. His brothers were visible sitting at the counter just inside.
“Hey, com’ere.” Maverick pulled her into his arms. More gently this time. “I know I’m being an insufferable prick, but just roll with it a bit longer. Please.” He stroked his hand over the long, thick silk of her ponytail.
Alexa gave a little chuckle. “Can I remind you of that later?”
He bit back a grin. He liked Al when she was feisty. And he definitely liked her standing up for herself. “You really gonna listen if I say no?”
“Probably not.” He felt her smile against his chest.
“That’s my girl. Come on.” He took her hand and led her into the diner. Dutch’s sat on the corner, and had a long, narrow interior that filled the whole first floor of an old brick building. A Formica counter with spinning stools and red-and-white booths with juke boxes on the wall completed the old-timey look.
Somber greetings met them as they walked through the door, the bell jingling overhead. Phoenix, Caine, Jagger, Bear, Joker, Blake, and Mike Renner were all there—Maverick had insisted Dare keep his still-healing ass back at the clubhouse. His brothers were ready to stand with Maverick. Ready to fight with him, if it came to that.
Though the place used to be open later, because of Dutch’s age, it now typically closed at five. But Dutch was a friend to the club and had agreed they could hang there for a bit after closing. The restaurant Slater had picked—after realizing he wasn’t going to get Alexa to agree to come to his house—was only two blocks away.
“Maverick,” Dutch said, extending his wrinkled brown hand across the counter. Despite owning a diner his whole life, Dutch Henderson was tall and thin. He had a friendly face and graying black hair, and he never forgot a name or a face. “Good to see you, son. How’s your mother doing?”
“Better every day, Dutch. Thanks for asking,” Maverick said. Dutch and his wife had been at the racetrack the night all hell broke loose, so he knew exactly what’d gone down.
“You tell her and Rodeo to come on in for some breakfast or lunch, and it’ll be on me,” he said.
“You bet,” Maverick said. “She’ll love that. But how are you? Dare said you’ve got a surgery coming up.”
“Hip replacement,” he said, patting his right hip. “Never get old, Maverick. Never get old.”
“I’ll remember that,” Mav said with a grin. He turned to Alexa. “Dutch, do you know—”
“Alexa Harmon, of course I do. Though I don’t think I’ve seen you in a whole lot of years.”
“Hi, Dutch,” Alexa said, giving him a smile. “Being here makes me remember how much I loved your milk shakes. Do you still make them with the whipped cream and the little cookies that slide over the straw?”
The question flashed a memory before Maverick’s eyes. Him and Tyler and Alexa when she was seventeen or eighteen. Some asshole boy had spread a rumor around school that he’d scored with Al, and she’d come home upset but not wanting her mom to know why. So Mav and Tyler had brought her to Dutch’s because she loved those damn milk shakes so much. They had the ice cream first, and then got dinner after. By the end, Alexa was smiling again. And the next day, Tyler put the fear of God into that kid. Best Mav knew, he never gave her another problem.
“I surely do,” Dutch was saying. “I can make you one if you like.”
“Oh, no,” Alexa said, giving a quick shake of her head. “I don’t think I can eat anything now. But another time.”
“You know where to find me,” he said with a wink.
“It’s time,” Caine said, icy blue eyes flashing.
“Let’s do this,” Phoenix said. “Fucking Slater.”
“Fucking Slater,” Jagger groused. Of anyone, Jag probably had to deal with Slater’s bullshit the most. The wealthy prick hated the racetrack because it hurt his home-building business, or so he argued. He was constantly making noise—with the mayor, the city council, the sheriffs, the press—that the Green Valley Race Track was bad for Frederick. Occasionally, Slater managed to stir something up that would bring the sheriffs sniffing around. Once, he almost had the city council agree to debate zoning ordinances that would’ve seriously hampered the Ravens’ business. And every time, Jagger had to deal with the brunt of the bullshit. Of all of them, the guy was probably the hardest to ruffle and the smoothest talker, and he’d memorized all the relevant rules, policies, and laws pertaining to the track like the brilliant motherfucker he was, so he thwarted Slater at pretty much every turn. It was a thing of beauty.
So Maverick nodded, joining in with the sentiment. “Fucking Slater.” Everyone got up from their stools and moved toward the doors. Toward Alexa.
“Before we go,” she said, bringing all the guys to a halt. Maverick eyed her, no idea what was about to come out of her mouth. “I just want to say thank you. For being here for me. And for Maverick. I know you’re mostly here because he asked you, but I wanted to tell you that I appreciate it, too. I know I flaked after Tyler died”—she paused like it took something out of her to say her brother’s name—“and I’m sorry for that. But that was more about me than it was about you. So, yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.”
“We’re doing this for both of you,” Phoenix said, giving her a flirty smile that under other circumstances Mav might’ve wanted to knock off his face. “Don’t you worry none.” The other men nodded.
Jagger rubbed her arm. “Losing Tyler was a damn shame, Alexa. We all regretted it. You were allowed to be messed up by that. No apologies needed here.”
The men filed out, offering kind words that made Maverick proud to be one of them. Taking Alexa’s hand, he squeezed. “Thank you for that.”
“It was the least I could do,” she said, her expression uncertain, maybe even a little overwhelmed. Had she expected them to do anything other than appreciate her gratitude?
He leaned down to look her in the eyes. “No, the least you could do was say nothing at all. Or, worse, disrespect them. Instead, you gave them your gratitude and respect. In our world, that means a helluva lot.” When she nodded, he turned to Dutch, who was clearing the counter of a few soda glasses and coffee cups. Maverick put a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks for always taking care of us, Dutch.”
“Always,” he said. It was just that simple. “Ride safe now.”