Juice rubbed his temples. He was nowhere near the worst of his news and Kyra was already incensed. "Look, I know this is a big deal to you-"
"A big deal to me? You lying-after you promised you were done lying-about who you are is only a big deal to me?"
Fuck. That wasn't how he'd meant it, but if he was going to tell her the truth, he couldn't let her hijack the conversation. "I didn't mean it like-. Can you just let me get everything out before you jump down my throat? I'm in really deep shit here."
Kyra crossed her arms and glared at him.
Where did he start? "I can't be black and be in SAMCRO. No one knew about my father. It's why Roosevelt's using it. He wants me to rat on a cartel we run guns for."
"What do you mean you can't be black and be SAMCRO?"
"It's in the by-law-"
"Stop. Just. Stop," she put her hand up. "You mean to tell me the club-the same club that admitted you as a Puerto RIcan-has a 'no Blacks' policy?"
"I know, I know. It makes zero sense and it's old as hell, but it's the rules."
She stood up and slammed her chair under the table. "I can't do this right now."
"Ky-"
"I get it. You're black. The club's racist. You're working with a cartel and the cops are tryna get you killed. But I can't give you a hug or help or whateverthefuck right now. I need a goddamn minute."
As she stormed out, she glanced at the boiling pot on the stove. "If you want tacos, I suggest you make them yourself."