Page 31 of Property of Booker

“Morning,” she says, her tone worn but polite. “What can I get started for you two?”

Booker keeps his eyes on mine, not even bothering to glance at the menu. “Black coffee for me,” he replies, his voice gravelly. “And whatever pie you have that’s fresh.”

I glance at the menu for appearance, though the choice is easy. “I'll take a coffee too, with just a splash of cream and two sugars. And we will take two slices of the apple pie.” When I define what pie we want, Booker’s lips tilt upward in amusement.

The woman nods, writing it down with quick, practiced strokes. “Coming right up.” She turns on her heel and retreats toward the kitchen, leaving us in our small, quiet corner.

Booker leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. The movement pulls at his shirt, showing the ink creeping up from his collar. “See?” he says, his mouth quirking into that crooked smile. “Easy.”

The waitress returns moments later. She maneuvers through the narrow space between the tables, balancing two steaming ceramic mugs and a pair of plates stacked with pie. The sweet aroma of baked apples and cinnamon instantly cuts through the dull scent of stale diner coffee. She sets the plates down with a soft clatter, places the mugs carefully on the placemats, and disappears back toward the kitchen without another word.

I stare at the slice of pie, watching a thin ribbon of steam rise from the crust. It feels surreal to be sitting here, in the middle of a quiet morning, with a man who has turned my entire world upside down in the best way possible.

Booker takes a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes never leaving my face. The intense heat of his gaze makes it hard to focus on the food, so I take a forkful of the pie. It is tart, warm, and comforting.

“This is good,” I murmur, hoping to break the thick, charged atmosphere. “I haven't had homemade pie in years.”

Booker nods, breaking his focus just long enough to taste his own slice. “I figured you needed something real. Not the processed garbage we usually live on at the clubhouse.”

He settles back into his chair, looking relaxed in a way I have never seen a man like him look. An idea flickers through my mind. We are dancing around each other, afraid to say too much, afraid to ruin the fragile peace we’ve built.

“How about a game?” I suggest, tracing the rim of my coffee mug. “Twenty questions. No heavy stuff, no Syndicate, no Jerome. Just… us.”

He leans in, his interest piqued. “A game? You trying to figure out if I’m as dangerous as I look?”

I laugh, a genuine sound that makes his eyes darken with amusement. “I already know how dangerous you are, Booker. I want to know who you are when you aren't carrying a weapon.”

He raises his mug in a silent toast. “Fair enough. You go first.”

“Okay. Question one,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table. “What did you want to be when you were a kid? Before the life, before the club.”

He pauses, gazing out the window at the empty road as if he can see a past version of himself there. “I wanted to be an architect. I loved the idea of building things that lasted. Structures, houses, bridges. Something solid in a world that felt pretty temporary.” He looks back at me, a wry expression on his face. “My turn. What is your biggest fear? And I don't mean the obvious stuff like Jerome or the syndicate.”

I chew on my bottom lip, weighing the question. It’s an honest one. “I fear losing the ability to choose. To be stuck in a life that doesn't fit, controlled by people who don't see me as a person. I want to be the one steering my ship, even if the waters are rough.”

He nods slowly, acknowledging the weight of the answer. “I get that. I really do.”

“Question two,” I continue, shifting in my seat to get comfortable. “What is your favorite memory that has nothing to do with the club?”

He laughs, a short, throaty sound. “Fishing. When I was ten, my uncle took me to a lake up north. We sat on a dock for six hours and caught absolutely nothing. But we talked. He didn't treat me like a kid, he treated me like a man. It was the first time I felt like my opinion actually mattered.” He leans forward, his voice dropping an octave. “Your turn. What is one thing you are dying to do but never thought you would get the chance?”

“I want to teach Kolter to paint,” I confess, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “He has this artistic streak, but we never had the supplies or the time since Jerome kept us apart for him to hone his skills. But when I could sneak a peek, I’d watch him over the monitors and watch as he’d draw on the walls using whatever he had on hand to sketch with. I want to buy a canvas, some brushes, and just let him make a mess. I want to watch him create something beautiful just for the sake of it.”

“We can make that happen,” he promises, his voice firm and steady. “As soon as things are settled, we’ll find the best art supply shop in the state.”

I feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the hot coffee. “I’d like that.”

We keep going. He reveals that he is secretly a fan of old jazz records because they calm his racing mind. I confess that I used to write poetry in the margins of my old schoolbooks. He tells me about the first bike he ever rebuilt, and I describe the sensation of wind on my face the first time I truly felt free. It just so happens that was with him on the back of his mean machine.

With every question, the stranger before me becomes someone I recognize. The intensity he projects is still there, but now I see the humor underneath it, the thoughtful nature he hides behind a wall of tattoos and leather.

“You're a lot more thoughtful than people give you credit for,” I observe, finishing the last bite of my pie.

“And you're a lot more resilient than you know,” he counters, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. His palm is rough, calloused, and grounding. “I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to win you over. I mean it. I’ve watched you fight, Kendall. I’ve watched you survive. That takes a kind of strength most people don't have.”

I look down at our joined hands. The silence returns, but it is not the suffocating silence of the clubhouse or the dread-filled quiet of Jerome's prison. This silence is easy. It is comfortable. It is the sound of two people finally finding a common ground.

“What’s question fifteen?” he asks, his eyes on mine.