Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(9)

By: Meg Jackson


But, with all those things he could have been thinking about, he couldn’t stop thinking about Tricia. She would be back any day now. Would she come to see him? Should he go to see her? She would be different. She had to be different. Would she be so different that what he saw in her, all those months ago, would be gone? Or would it be even better? Would she even want to see him – or would he be just a reminder of all she’d been through?

She’d covered for him when the police arrived to investigate the kidnapping. Damon had shot a man who wasn’t posing an immediate threat to either of them. Rig, the man he’d killed, barely even had time to pull his gun before Damon’s bullet met his chest. Tricia had told the police that Damon saved her life, that the man had a gun to her head. She could hate him for that.

She could hate him for being part of the reason she was kidnapped in the first place. She could hate him for knowing more about her than any human should know about someone they’d met twice. Damon had seen her the night Cristov brought her home, bruises like a necklace from what her boyfriend had done to her. And then he’d seen her tied up and shivering, had carried her through the woods as she clung to him like a child. He’d seen her at her worst. If the roles were reversed, he didn’t think he’d be too eager to see himself. Not if he wanted to move on.

Six miles went by quickly, and Damon found himself back at the empty trailer, guzzling water. His phone was buzzing in the bedroom, but he took his time checking it. Cristov had texted him, presumably from Ricky’s bed.

Tricia coming back next Tues, R. planning a dinner for everyone at diner on Wednesday. You in?

Who was everyone? Was it Tricia’s idea, or Ricky’s? He sucked in a breath. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to see her. Soon. It had felt like long enough since the last time, at the trial, when she’d been ushered in and then away so quickly that they’d barely made eye contact. But Wednesday…that was the night he planned to leave for Miami. Fate had decided for him this time.

Can’t that night, he typed back. Cheese stuff.

He threw the phone on the bed and went back into the bathroom to take his second shower of the morning. He made it quick, washing off the sweat and stink. He still had an hour before he needed to be at the store, and he spent it at the kitchen counter with another cup of coffee.

He listened to the clock tick, uneven. That clock had been slightly off for as long as he could remember. It was at the half-hour; the seconds slowed just slightly, almost imperceptibly. It was only through years and years of listening that Damon could recognize it.

He’d mentioned it to Cristov, once, and been surprised when his younger brother had no idea what Damon was talking about. Kennick said he’d noticed, and always wanted to get a new clock, because it drove him crazy. But Kennick never remembered that when he was at the store. Damon urged Kennick not to replace it. He liked the inconsistency. It helped him meditate.

He supposed that was a testament to the difference between them all. Cristov couldn’t sit still long enough to pay attention to minutia. Kennick paid attention to everything, wanted to fix everything, but his priorities made some things more memorable than others. Damon didn’t just pay attention to the minutia, he focused on it so deeply that he accepted every flaw, every little detail, as purposeful, useful.

And then, of course, there was Mina, who had grown up in that trailer but moved out to live with her girlfriends in another trailer when she hit 16. He’d asked her about the clock, curious. She’d laughed, told him that she did notice the fact that it was a little off. And then she’d leaned in, winked, and told him that the reason it was a little off was because she’d knocked it off the wall one day when she was sneaking some cookies from the cabinet. It had never worked quite the same after she put it back up.

So Damon sat and listened to the broken clock and thought about other things that were a little off. Like dreams and women and hearts and histories. It was plenty to think about to fill an hour.





5





The sigh Tricia released as the storage unit door rolled up could have sent a dandelion’s seeds scattering. Her eyes travelled over the stacked boxes, the familiar furniture, the pictures that had once lined her walls. So much stuff. So much damn stuff.

“Don’t worry,” Ricky said, sensing Tricia’s falling mood. “I’ll help you with everything. And you don’t have to deal with it anytime soon. Mi casa is su casa for as long as you need.”

“Thanks,” Tricia said, turning to her friend with a wan smile. “I appreciate it, really. But I’m going to have to get my life back together eventually…”

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