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But whether it’s this week or in a few months, I’ll eventually take this thing between Celine and me to the next level.
JESTER
Talon bails on me assoon as we’re alone near her cottage. The hug she offered left me thinking she was past her earlier fear. Instead, I see the same panic in her eyes as when I woke up to her frozen in bed.
“I need to check on the Stockade,” she lies. “We should meet for dinner.”
“What about lunch?”
Talon can’t think of a lie, so she only shrugs and mumbles, “I need to talk to my brother.”
Watching her ride away, I assume she’ll rat me out to Overlord. I always figured she’d use Papa Bear as her shield when things got tricky. But having her brother be my President does have its benefits.
I don’t know what to do with myself while everyone is flipping out about the Texas people. I consider just riding around, but I’m restless and need something specific to do.
I head into Metamora to look for lady shit for Talon. At a gift shop, the tiny, old lady suggests a mom-and-daughter figurine would be a nice present for my special woman. She also swears jasmine candles are “super romantic.” I think the scent is weird. But if that shit works for chicks, I’ll breathe through my mouth.
Next, I ride over to the local flower shop and try to pick something Talon might like. Is she only looking for some effort on my part or do my choices actually matter? Is this a test I’m already failing?I can’t imagine she has a favorite flower. Like the candle, I’m going through the motions, so Tallon will understand how I’m willing to suffer for her attentions.
A motorcycle rolls up to the shop while the flower clerk tries to sell me on pink flowers.
“Women really adore pink.”
“My chick isn’t into that girly crap. Do you have anything more butch?”
“Masculine flowers?” he asks like I’m spewing crazy talk.
Behind me, the door opens, and Bomber enters. I hadn’t expected for him to be the brother to tell me to fuck off, but here we are.
Bomber looks like a younger version of his father. His hair is still black, yet his eyes hold the same wariness as the man who changed all our lives.
I was locked up when Bomber’s older boy, Connor, was gunned down by the Horned Angels Motorcycle Club. I don’t really remember his kid. I think he looked a lot like a dark-haired version of his mom, Pumpkin.
“What’s a butch kind of flower?” I ask before he can start giving me shit.
“A sunflower, maybe. Why?”
