“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” Shelby says, quickly collecting the cards.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, reaching for my cards before she scoops them up. “Can I write these down?”
“Oh! Sure. I’ll write it down for you. Phew. I always worry I’m gonna poke a sore spot or something, so I try to give a general reading, you know?”
“No, it was good. Thank you.”
She beams at me and reaches for her backpack, pulling out a small purple notebook. “Rooster thought I was bananas when I told him I read cards, and don’t you know the motherclucker can be more intuitive in figuring them out than I am sometimes?” She shakes her head and flips through her notebook until she finds a clean page.
Gray rumbles with laughter. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s a thoughtful one.”
“He sure is,” Shelby gushes. “Makes my little heart pitter-pat every time I see his big, bearded face.” Her smile fades and she glances at the door. “Y’all think they’re okay up there?”
“They’ll be all right.” Gray’s authoritative tone is oddly reassuring, given we haven’t heard from anyone in over an hour now.
I hate even thinking it, but I’m so grateful Gray’s down here with us instead of upstairs possibly being arrested and sent back to prison. If Rooster hadn’t gotten us out of the clubhouse in time…No, I don’t even want to go there. We’re safe. Gray’s fine.
“I hate hiding down here and leaving him,” Shelby says. “But, Lordy, I got dragged to hell and back for photos of me at a strip club down in Tennessee. I don’t wanna know what those stupid gossip sites would say—well, whatever. It’s fine.” She nods at me. “Before ya ask, it was one of the MC’s strip clubs. Rooster needed to pay them a visit. Not my idea.”
I hold up my hands. “No judgment from me.”
Another couple of hours slip by. My stomach rumbles. Damn, I never had a chance to eat breakfast.
Gray opens the cabinets and searches for food. “It really is a doomsday bunker. They’ve got a lot of MRE packaged food stuff. Some cans of tuna.”
“I can’t eat tuna.”
“Let’s save that for a last resort. Don’t wanna stink up the whole place,” Shelby adds.
Gray sorts through more canned goods, stacking them all on the counter with a metallic click, click, click. “I guess that rules out sardines in tomato sauce.”
Shelby’s nose crinkles. “I’m allergic to tomatoes, so I’m out on that one too.”
“Peanut butter?” Gray holds up two containers. “Canned peaches?”
“Dibs!” I shout.
Shelby laughs. “Who stocked this pantry?”
“There’s a huge bag of rice, but I’m not sure if we want to test the stove yet. Some cans of beans.” Gray sets a few more items on the counter.
“Ooo my,” Shelby sings. “This is a tight space for a bunch of bikers to be holed up livin’ off beans and rice.”
I double over, laughing until my stomach hurts. “You’re killing me.”
“What? It’s true.”
We end up snacking on peanut butter, crackers, and peaches.
“Not a bad meal,” Shelby declares, munching on a saltine.
“I ate so many meals of peanut butter and crackers as a kid, it’s pretty much comfort food for me,” I admit.
“You gotta come visit me in Texas, my momma will cook you some real comfort food.”
A small prick of jealousy sticks in my side. My mom wasn’t a fan of cooking or comforting. “Are you and your mom close?”
“Oh yeah. She’s a hella overprotective stage mom. Kinda had to be. It was just the two of us for a long time.” She takes a small bite of a peach. “Pain in my butt sometimes, but I love her. She’s supposed to come up and visit soon. Hopefully you’ll get to meet her.”
“I’d like that. Is she coming to help you plan the wedding?” I nod to her engagement ring.
“Shoot, we probably oughta start working on that, huh?” Her smile falters. “Honestly, I’m not sure where to have it. Tradition says bride’s home but we’re not exactly traditional. I don’t have lots of family and Rooster does, so having it here makes more sense.”
“What about somewhere in between?”
She brightens again. “We thought about doing it at the Deadbranch charter in Tennessee since we spent some time there. Dawson offered us his ranch too, but I don’t think he realizes what having a couple hundred bikers on his property will mean.”
“Dawson…as in Dawson Roads? The singer?”
“That’s the one.” She licks peanut butter from her spoon.
The way she casually mentions her friendship with the biggest country music artist like it’s no big deal reminds me that I’m nowhere near Shelby’s league.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say lamely.
“We will.” She stands and clears the table. “Right now, I’ve been happy to help Charlotte with some of her planning. At least I’ll have a clue when I get to mine.”