Page 21 of Kane
She didn’t. “Your crew, your call. If you need to hire another set of hands, you have my blessing. Forward me all his information when you have it, and we’ll get him on the payroll.”
His face relaxed. “Thank you.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making a good call. Berringer is a reputable developer, and semi-custom homes are a lot easier than full custom jobs once you get used to the plan options. You’ve got my support.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Xander wouldn’t tell her it was a good idea unless he really believed it. “Excellent. I’ll get the ball rolling.” She started back toward the direction from where she came.
“Amanda.” He spoke softly, but the hard undercurrent in her name stopped her in her tracks. “Why don’t you go around the side? I can’t imagine it would do Kane much good to run into you twice.”
His unmistakable admonishment squeezed her chest.
Was their history so obvious? Did everyone view her as the villain in their doomed romance?
She shoved down her questions and her doubts into an impenetrable place inside her, then smoothed her skirt and lifted her chin before escaping around the house, through the mud, back to her car.
***
Kane
The scent of fresh linen still teased Kane’s nose hours after he ran into Mandy at work. Back at the clubhouse, he imagined he smelled it even amid the thick odor of second-hand smoke clinging to his brothers’ clothes.
He took a deep pull from his longneck. If only he could drink his thoughts of her away. God knew he’d tried for years, but he’d never even come close.
How many nights had he sat on this very same recliner and tried to figure out what went wrong? How often had he choked back the waves of grief threatening to drown him?
Not tonight.
He backhanded the empty water bottle off the rickety table beside him, and it bounced off the wall with a satisfying thwack.
Why the fuck did she think it was okay to show up where he worked? Did it mean so little to her? Was she over it now?
He drained his Budweiser and reached for another from the cooler at his feet.
Who was he kidding? She’d been over him a dozen years ago.
He downed the second beer even faster than the first.
Before he could twist open a third, a flying wad of crumpled paper bounced off the side of his head. He growled as his brother’s cackle carried across the room from the far end of the pool table.
“What the fuck, man?”
Scott ignored the acid in his voice. “Stop sulking. Life is too short for all your broody bullshit.” He tossed his stick to Frank, the club’s resident Casanova. With his perfectly maintained stubble and wavy blond hair, the guy looked more like an actor than someone who would take MC life seriously. He brought in more pieces of ass than Hugh Hefner probably got in his heyday. But when the chips fell, he never let his brothers down. Not once.
Scott stalked toward the recliner, then toed his foot with a heavy boot. “Seriously. What the fuck do you have to mope about?” He squatted down so they were eye level. “You’ve got your brothers. Money in your pocket. More pussy than you could ever fuck in one night.” He slapped the arm of the old vinyl chair. “Life is good.”
Kane knew better than to bring up Mandy. His brother didn’t like her, not from the day he introduced them after the first Braves game, to the day she left him with a broken body and heart in a hospital bed. “I’m not moping.” It didn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.
Pulling up to his full height, Scott scoffed. “The fuck you ain’t. Come back to the chapel. I’ve got something to take your mind off your troubles.”
Knowing Scott, that could mean anything from two women fucking on the table, to a midget stripper or a clown standing by to pie him in the face. Except for the fact they were headed to the club’s private meeting room; it was as close to sacred space as any of them had.
The chapel was empty when Scott led him to the big table. Intrigued, he took his customary seat, folded his hands, and waited as his brother paced the paneled room. The flimsy, dusty blinds were closed, as always, and the halogen lamp standing in the corner did little to relieve the room’s ever-present shadows.
“We have an opportunity, Kane.The clubhas an opportunity. We need to jump on it now.”
He cocked his head to the side, in a silent invitation for Scott to continue.
“Sucre has been dead for—what—a little more than a week? Shit on the street is already falling apart.” He loped from one end of the room to another then turned on his heel and paced the other way. “Say what you will about that sick fucker, he kept things straight.”
“Yeah, because people couldn’t so much as fart for fear he’d shove something up their asses.” Sucre had run Atlanta’s streets with an iron fist and unyielding consequences for failure. His methods and his brutality were legendary.