Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(11)

Dutch still didn’t have anything to say, except what he’d already said.

This was the way it was.

And it sucked.

“So how do I write this article without making the father out to be what he is, a total jackhole?”

Dutch didn’t quite clamp down on his bark of laughter before he asked, “A jackhole?”

“What would you call him?” She asked the question, but didn’t let him answer. Instead, she kept talking and doing it fast. “Don’t tell me. I can guess.”

“I bet you can,” he mumbled, smiling at the busy highway he was navigating. “It’s the truth he’s a jackhole. So tell the truth.”

“My editor requires objectivity.”

“Okay. So then objectively, he’s still a jackhole.”

There was a moment of silence and then she busted out laughing.

And that just cut it.

Because the woman had a generous mouth, a generous head of wild, dark, curly hair, a generous body…

And a generous laugh.

She also had a generous amount of attitude, he reminded himself. And not a lot of it was good.

He could see she’d had a shit trip.

He could not see her taking it out on a stranger who was doing something nice for her.

“My dad was…not around, maybe that’s it,” she muttered like she was talking to herself.

Christ, he shouldn’t have asked if she was okay. He didn’t need her to give him reasons to understand why she was behaving like a bitch.

“But I think it’s that somehow, I got on the kids beat,” she kept at it. “And it’s wearing me down.”

Even if he knew it was no good for him, Dutch again couldn’t stop himself from asking, “The kids beat?”

“If it has to do with kids, they assign it to me,” she told him. “The state of CPS. Foster care. Social media shaming. Vaping in schools. Now this. Meeting this young girl with good grades that don’t set the world on fire, but she also has a part-time job to help mom out at home, not hours to kill to do extra credit or go the extra mile. Her mom works a data desk at an insurance company, and she doesn’t do badly, she just doesn’t have tens of thousands of dollars to toss around. She doesn’t even have what it takes to make sure her daughter has the most recent iPhone and the bevy of other status symbols kids find important these days, to the point the girl’s prom dress was rented. And good or bad, that kind of thing matters to a kid.”

“All of that’s a lot to compartmentalize, Georgiana,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it’s my job. I know journalists who’ve been at it far longer than me and they don’t act like harridans, raving about freaking carry-ons because they met a douchebag who was all down to make a kid, and even more down to walk away from her.”

Yup.

He shouldn’t have asked if she was okay, because he sure as shit did not need to like this woman.

His brother was dating her sister, for one.

And even if there was a reason behind it, she absolutely did not make a good first impression. No man (or woman, undoubtedly) wanted to be someone’s punching bag on a consistent basis when that someone was in a bad mood.

Then, of course, there was her bullshit about bikers.

He knew she was looking at him when she asked, “Did I blow your afternoon?”

“My plans got sidetracked so I was free,” he told her.

“What were your plans?”

“Seems we share a theme,” he muttered.

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve been recruited to try to help reach a kid at King’s Shelter who’s fucking up his life.”

“King’s Shelter? You?”

And there it was.

A reason why he wasn’t going to be able to like this woman.

“Yeah, bikers do more than get drunk, bang biker bunnies, start bar fights and get arrested,” he said sarcastically.

“It’s not that—”

He cut her off.

“You ever heard of BACA?”

“Sorry?”

“BACA. Bikers Against Child Abuse.”

“Yes, I have. They do good work.”

“Well, essentially, they’re an MC. An MC that does good work. Not all bikers are Hells Angels and the Bandido Nation. That’s the fuckin’ point of the term ‘one-percenter.’ Ninety-nine percent of bikers are just bikers. One percent are outlaws. Chaos is not a one-percenter.”

“You were, though,” she said softly, not an accusation, a fact.

And she was right.

That was a fact.

The operative word being was.

“We’re not anymore.”

The cab fell silent.

She broke it.

“Who’s this kid you got recruited to help?”

“Listen, I’m sorry you had a shit trip, but maybe we should—”

“Dutch, you haven’t asked me where I live.”

He felt his brows go up because he hadn’t.

“Did Carolyn tell you?” she asked.

“No,” he grunted.

“So, where are you taking me?”

And now her words were threaded with humor, which was almost prettier than hearing her say his name for the first time.