Page 77 of Devil's Marker
When the conference room door opened, Boss said, “Good heavenly days, what is that smell?”
“That’s May’s cinnamon rolls. Go on over to the kitchen there. She’ll be glad to let you take some right outta the pan.”
Brant winked at Brash and Win over his shoulder knowing that May would give a verbal blistering to anyone, resident or guest, who touched the rolls while they were still cooling.
Boss watched May with fascination as she lectured him up, down, and sideways about venturing into the kitchen of a club where he didn’t belong and having the balls to touch SSMC cinnamon rolls. By the time her tirade was done, Boss had decided he might be making frequent trips to Austin. To see his daughter, of course.
The Marauders’ president and his entourage agreed to stay overnight at the clubhouse and be treated like the MC version of princes. Boss agreed to share his security technology with the SSMC. Catcher had moved on, but not before teaching Bo everything he knew about systems design and operation.
When R.C. and Win visited the courthouse to pick up their marriage license, she decided he was never going to stop surprising her.
“Your name is Winston?” She was incredulous. “But I thought…”
He chuckled. “Yeah. That’s what everybody thinks. And I let ‘em. If I was gonna have an actual road name, Win would be a good one. Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
“So there you go. Get to keep my own name and be considered cool while doing it. Win. Win.”
“Funny.” She tried to sound snarky, but couldn’t help a small giggle.
On their wedding night, Win pulled out an extraordinarily pretty wrapped package.
“Here,” he said.
“What’s this?”
“Wedding gift.”
“You got me a wedding gift? Shit. I didn’t get you one.”
“No?” He looked disappointed. Then his face cleared into a grin. “Just kidding. I wasn’t expecting anything from you. Except maybe that thing we talked about with the chair…”
“Yeah. Yeah. We’ll get to that.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Just hold on. I’ve got a gorgeous wedding present to open. From my husband,” she added with a half squeal, like being married to him was a dream come true.
“Go ahead.” He leaned against the wall of their suite at the Driskill, crossed his arms over his chest, crossed his foot over his ankle and waited.
She pulled the blue tulle ribbon with satin edges and silver bells, ripped off the paper and opened the box. Inside was a cashier’s check made out to her in the amount of three million dollars.
She laughed her sexy deep-throated laugh. “Very funny.”
He smiled. “It might be a great joke. But it’s not a joke. You wanted three million dollars to feel safe and secure. And I want you to feel safe and secure.”
She looked at the check again, carried it over to the light and studied it. Her eyes opened wide. “Oh my God, Garrett. This is real. How did you…? How are you…? You’re a real investment guy?”
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
“And you’re good at it!”
“Yeah,” he repeated.
“Holy shit.” She pretended to fan herself with the check. “Wait a minute. You said you own nothin’ more than a motorcycle and a leather vest.”
He shook his head. “No. You said that. If I recall, I said I do own those things. I could have said ‘I own those things and a lot more’, but then I wouldn’t know for sure that you love me for me.”
He rushed her, grabbed her, and licked the skin at the base of her ear lobe, delighting in the sound of her squeal. When he pulled back with a sardonic grin that made her ovaries quiver, she decided she was the luckiest girl in the world.
Win. Win.
There’s just one more thing to add.
As a result of the shootout Catcher became a celebrity. Apparently the combination of looks, attitude, and the fact that he was a bad boy outlaw biker had YouTube racking up phenomenal views while he trended on Twitter and became the subject of countless Instagram memes.
In a twist of fate sure to remind everybody that life is strange, it turned out that Catcher could sing. And play guitar. Within weeks he’d been hired by a rising star band who’d lost their singer to vocal nodes and was on his way to becoming a rock star.