Page 61 of Angel
Joker points. “Truck. Angel drives.”
Stevie snaps her eyes open. “No. Absolutely not.”
My head whips to her. “Excuse me?”
She glares through pain. “You drive like a man possessed when you’re stressed.”
“I do not.”
Carrie’s voice cuts in from behind us. “You do.”
I turn my head and there she is. Carrie, eyes bright and fierce, Polly on her hip and Beau at her side. Like she sensed this before it happened.
“You were at the clubhouse?” Stevie gasps between breaths.
Carrie smirks. “I had a feeling.” Of course she did. Carrie has that sixth sense for her people.
Stevie points at me with a shaky hand. “See? Even she knows you drive like an idiot.”
“I don’t—”
Carrie interrupts sweetly. “You do.”
Joker barks a laugh. “She’s outnumbered you, brother.”
I grit my teeth and hold Stevie tighter. “Fine. I’ll drive calm.”
Stevie arches a brow. “You swear?”
I lean in close. “On my patch.”
Her expression softens just a fraction. “Okay.”
Doc snaps, “Move. Now.”
The room turns into organized chaos. Chairs scraped aside. Doors thrown open. Someone kills the music. Someone else grabs Stevie’s bag from behind the bar because of course the old ladies packed one and left it there like this was inevitable.
Pandora is already moving with lethal efficiency, shoving Tank toward the door.
“Move,” she orders.
Tank stumbles. “I’m moving, I’m moving.”
“Faster,” Pandora snaps.
“Woman, I’ve got long legs.”
Pandora points at him. “And yet you trip.”
Tank shuts up and hustles. Outside, engines roar to life. The sun is dipping low, painting the sky orange and violent. Headlights cut through the dusk. Bikes roll into position without being told because this is what we do. When one of ours needs something, the whole damn club moves.
I guide Stevie down the steps carefully. She stops, jaw clenched, breathing hard.
“You, okay?” I ask, voice low. Just for her.
She nods, eyes squeezed shut. “I hate you.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
