Page 30 of Property of Booker

“Ready?” I ask, reaching for the keys in my pocket.

When she stalls, I glance at her with my brows raised. “I’m worried about Kolter,” she spits out. “He was really insistent about us going on a date. What if all of this is too soon for him, for me? I don’t want to rush into anything, I don’t want him to feel as if I’m living a life that doesn’t include him.”

I let the keys dangle from my fingers, letting the silence hang between us for a moment. She’s staring at her boots, the anxiety clearly eating at her again. I know that look. It’s the fear that if she stops holding it all together for even a second, everything will crumble.

“Hey. Look at me,” I reassure, and wait until she finally lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Kolter isn't just a kid who needs protecting anymore. He’s tough as nails, and Slayer’s the best man for the job. If anybody can get him to talk about his feelings it’d be him. If something’s going on, he’ll figure it out and help Kolter through it. You aren't abandoning him. You're just taking an hour or so to breathe."

She chews on her bottom lip, still looking uncertain. “It just feels... selfish.”

“It's not selfish to be a person outside of being a mom,” I tell her. “You’ve spent so long just surviving, running on adrenaline and fear. If you don't take this time, you'll burn out. And Kolter doesn't need a version of you that's constantly on the verge of breaking. He needs the woman you're fighting to become.”

She exhales, a long, shaky breath that seems to carry away some of that tension. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” I reply, leaning in until there's hardly an inch between us. “One hour. One cup of coffee. No Syndicate, no Jerome, no running. Just you and me. Think you can handle that?”

A small, genuine smile finally breaks through the worry on her face. “I think I can.”

“Good,” I affirm, pressing a quick, firm kiss to her forehead. I shove the keys into my pocket and offer her my hand. “Then let's ride.”

Pulling my spare helmet from my cargo, I slide it over her head, and click the strap into place. My fingers brush her jaw one last time before I swing my leg over the saddle. The bike groans under my weight, a familiar creature of comfort. I tap the side of my helmet, activating the comms. “Can you hear me through the link?”

She taps her own helmet, her eyes brightening when the connection clears. “Loud and clear,” she confirms, her voice sounding crisp and private in my ear.

I kick the stand up and thumb the starter. The engine barks to life, vibrating through the frame and right up into my palms. I ease off the clutch, and we roll out from the clubhouse gravel onto the smooth asphalt of the main road. The gates of the compound fall away behind us, and I twist the throttle. We surge forward, the wind instantly tearing at us.

“It feels strange,” she murmurs over the line, her voice tight but losing its edge. “Going somewhere without checking over my shoulder every three seconds.”

I steer us through a long, sweeping curve, feeling her shift her weight perfectly in sync with the bike. “Get used to it,” I encourage, checking my mirrors one last time before trusting the road ahead. “Nobody’s following us.”

“I just–” She pauses, and I hear the faint static of the wind rushing past her mic. “I don't know how to turn off that part of my brain.”

“You don't have to,” I promise, leaning into the next turn. “You just have to focus on the road. Focus on this. Focus on me.”

“Okay,” she sighs, and I can hear the smile in her tone. “I'm focusing.”

The diner comes into view, a brightly lit beacon against the morning sky. It sits quietly at the edge of the county line. I downshift, the engine braking as we slow, and pull into an empty parking spot near the front door. I kill the engine, and the sudden silence rings in our ears.

“We made it,” she declares, lifting her visor.

I pull my own helmet off, looking back at her. “Yeah. We did.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Kendall

My boots hit the asphalt with a satisfying thud as I slide off the motorcycle. My legs wobble slightly, not from the journey, but under the weight of finding myself here. The diner's lingering scent of stale coffee and old grease offers a strange sense of comfort after the madness of the past few days.

As Booker reaches for my helmet, his fingers gently brush against my cheek, catching my breath in my throat. He flashes a subtle, crooked smile and turns toward the building. I follow him inside as the bell above the glass door rings with a welcoming chime.

Morning light streams through the glass, illuminating dust specks as they drift lazily in the quiet air. Apart from the soft hum coming from the refrigerator, the restaurant is completely empty. From behind the counter, a tired-eyed waitress looks up, instantly recognizing Booker without asking a single question.

“Corner booth in the back is free,” she calls out, nodding toward a red vinyl booth that reminds me of one I’d seen in an older movie.

Trailing my hand along the table edges, I make my way back and slide onto the seat, feeling the cool vinyl against my legs. Booker takes his place across from me where his back is to the wall and he can see the entire room from his vantage point, his large frame occupying the small space. He remains silent at first, simply holding my stare with a focus that sets my heart racing.

The waitress shuffles over, her apron bearing the faint stains of a long morning. She pulls a notepad from her pocket, the tip of her pen clicking once as she prepares to write.