“That makes two of us.”
“You could be dangerous.”
“I’m dangerous.”
Her hand tightens on the truck door. “That isn’t comforting.”
“I ain’t trying to be comforting. I’m trying to be honest.”
She stares at me, and I let her. Let her see the tattoos, the cut, the bruised knuckles from yesterday’s dumbassery, the knife at my belt, the fact that I ain’t smooth enough to lie about what I’m and not decent enough to pretend I’m harmless.
A man can be dangerous and still not be the danger in front of you.
Maybe she knows that.
Maybe she doesn’t.
“Who are you with?” she asks.
I tap the front of my cut. “Kings of Anarchy MC.”
Her eyes drop to the patch.
Recognition flickers. Not enough to mean she knows us well. Enough to mean she’s heard the name.
Most people around here have.
Some pray when they hear it.
Some pay.
Some run.
“Motorcycle club,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Outlaws?”
I smile. “Depends who’s charging.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s Kentucky.”
She looks back toward the dark road as if another option might appear if she wants it hard enough.
No headlights.
No help.
Just Hell Road and the Widow’s curve behind us.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her eyes cut to mine. “Flat tire.”
“Before that.”