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“She’s my woman, and I can do what I want with her,” he spits out.
Before I can ask who, Willow pushes through the swinging door, and her body settles into relief when she spots me.
“Wilder,” she says in recognition, either because she remembers how often I eat here—an embarrassing number of times each week—or because of her friendship with McKenna.
“Maven’s all right,” she says loudly as if she’s trying to make a point.
I don’t know exactly what the point is, but I take her lead. “She’s pressing charges?”
“Hell, yeah, she is,” Willow practically shouts in Khaki Asshole’s direction.
“Maven’s a smart woman. She won’t say anything against me.” His certainty is alarming, but Maven is my bigger concern as I head back to the kitchen.
“Montes.” Officer Montgomery is using his law enforcement voice, and I turn slowly toward him.
“Yes, Officer?” I get how it all works. I’ve been in the MC long enough to know we maintain a façade in public.
“Let us do our jobs.” His warning is clear, and I nod.
“Just make sure you do it,” I tell him and turn back to the swinging door where music is playing so softly that Maven’s tears and sniffles mostly cover it.
My instinct is to run to her. The sight of this woman so sweet and kind and normal, crying over some jackass who doesn’t know how to treat her, it’s just that shit doesn’t sit well with me.
I’ve been in this position too many fucking times in my life, listening to a woman cry after some asshole put his hands on her to inflict pain and instill obedience. I saw it in my own home before my old man beat my mama a little too hard and put her in the hospital and then the grave, and then it was the same fucking story in foster care.
My hands ball into fists as Maven angrily wipes away her tears. I know she’s scared and angry, so I approach her slowly, keeping my voice low and as unintimidating as possible. “Hey, Maven.”
She let out a gasp and looked up at me, her hazel eyes wide and watery, her pale skin tear-streaked. “Uhm, Wilder. What are you doing back here?” She smooths her hands over the sunny yellow apron with the bakery logo splashed across the front and wipes her eyes again. “I’ll be right out to take your order.”
“Maven,” I sigh. “Are you all right?”
Her smile is bitter as hell and lacks all amusement. “Yeah, I’m just great. How are you?”
“Honestly? I’m worried about you. I just saw the cops haul a khaki-wearing dude out of here. Says he put his hands on you?”
Instantly, she is defensive, arms folding across her chest in a clear effort to block me out, a suspicious expression on her face. She starts to shake her head. “I’m not talking to you about this.”
I frown, taken aback by her tone. “Why not? I’m just here to help.”
“You want to help me?” She shakes her head, and light brown tendrils that have fallen free from her bun brush against her cheeks. “No thanks.”
I stand tall. “Have I done something to piss you off?” I take another step forward, treating her like the skittish hellcat she is.
“No, but I know who you are and what you do, and yeah, Cyrus is an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve what you have planned for him.”
I smile. “So you know who I am,” I tease. “Been thinking about me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t think you can charm me into telling you anything. I’m old enough to be your mother, and I’m impervious to twenty-year-old charmers.”
I laugh. “Thank goodness, because I’m twenty-seven.”
She tightens her arms across her chest and arches a brow.
“And for the record, my mama would be older than you if she was still on this Earth.” Instantly her demeanor changes as I knew it would, and I take a few steps closer until we’re face to face. “Talk to me.”
“No.”
I smile at her stubbornness. All this time I had Maven pegged as a pushover. She’s never without a smile. She bakes for a living just like a real-life Suzie fucking Homemaker.
