Page 6 of Petty's Crime

Having done my walk around and not having noticed someone carrying a gun or something labelled “bomb”, I return to the stage, show security I’ve got it from here, and then lean back, folding my arms, more convinced than ever she’s created this fiction herself.

I suppose it’s a plus I enjoy watching her move and hearing her sing. At least it makes my role less boring. I don’t mind the hours standing sentry outside her door. I’m a vet. I’ve had boring duties before. It’s the babysitting parts that I hate. The times when I’m forced into close proximity to her and have to bite my tongue, sometimes not very successfully. She’s under no illusion that there’s anything about her of which I approve, and I hadn’t needed to overhear her outburst to her stylist earlier to know she can say the same about me. My lips curve slightly. At least we’ve one thing in common—our mutual feelings about each other.

Another night passes, another dollar earned. She finishes her set, then under my eagle eyes, signs autographs for those who want them. When that’s done, she goes back to her dressing room and transforms herself from superstar to girl next door. I drive her home in complete silence, and when we arrive, as expected, Sarge is waiting.

Sarge has PTSD and I know he sometimes struggles with his limitations to what he can give back to the MC. He can’t cope with loud noises or the dark. When he needs rest, he naps during the day. But these drawbacks make him the ideal candidate for the graveyard shift as there’s no danger of him falling asleep. It makes this an excellent opportunity for him. He wouldn’t be able to swap shifts with me. There’s no way he’d be able to cope with being with her while she’s on stage, not with the noise levels in the auditorium.

On my part, I’d find watching her while she was sleeping boring. Give me the chance of some action any day.

Having successfully passed off my responsibilities, I swap the SUV for my bike and enjoy the ride through the darkened streets back to the clubhouse. Near the strip, Sin City never sleeps, but here on the outskirts, there’s a distinct difference between night and day, and for part of the time, mine’s the only vehicle on the road.

Wind in my hair, pavement under my wheels, and I can forget all my worries as the engine rumbles between my thighs. Riding is a balm to the senses, and a chance to put everything else in the rearview. As I ride, I leave all thoughts about RoseLyn behind, locked up neatly until the next day when I’ll need to turn the key and pick them up again.

I have a couple of drinks, share a few jokes and exaggerated tales with Hammer and Cobra, then go to bed.

When I go to sleep, I dream of a nightingale with a rasping voice, singing songs in my head. It’s certainly not the lingering remnants of that vision that makes me wake with a hard-on. Not at all. No, that’s just morning wood.

The sun shining straight onto my face rouses me earlier than I wanted, and I open my eyes, wishing I’d remembered to close the fucking blind before I laid my head down. I turn over, but now awake, can’t settle again.

So I start my day earlier than expected, and that’s just the start of everything going wrong. I’ve eaten my breakfast and returned to my room, pondering whether as I’m not due back on bodyguard duties until four pm, whether to make the most of my unexpected free hours and go lose myself on the road, when my phone rings.

It’s an unknown caller, but my second mistake is to ignore that and answer. My whole body tenses when I accept the call from the penitentiary.

“Hey, Clark.” The use of my government name doesn’t help me relax, nor does the voice I never expected to hear again.

“Britney,” I respond, cautiously, pronouncing it how she always preferred me to do with the ‘e’ sounding like an ‘a’.

“I got an early release. They’re letting me out on parole.”

And she’s calling me, why?I couldn’t give a fuck whether she’s being let out or not. My silence prompts her to continue speaking.

“Can you come pick me up tomorrow at ten?”

My hand starts to shake and I have to grip hard to keep hold of the phone. My ass hits the bed as my legs give way while my brain tries to process what the fuck is going on.She wants me to pick her up? Demanding it, in fact, as if it’s her right?The shock makes me stammer. “Y-y-you didn’t let me visit. I-I-I haven’t s-s-seen or h-h-heard from you in s-s-seven years.”Hell, could I sound any weaker?

Her voice takes on that what I’d hoped was a long forgotten familiar whine. “Clark. I didn’t want you to visit me inside. I couldn’t stand you seeing me that way. But I didn’t sign the divorce papers you sent in, so that means I’m still your wife.”

My palms sweat, and my head feels dizzy. That’s the little fact I’ve tried to overlook over the years, thinking it was an omission and not an ulterior motive.

Out of sight, out of mind. While she’s been locked up, I’ve been living and enjoying life as a single man. I tried to set things straight, had the divorce papers sent to her, but as she’s just reminded me, while I’d done my part, I’d kind of overlooked that she hadn’t done hers. That important document remains unsigned. Technically, we are still married, whether I want to be or not. As the realisation sinks in, I know if anyone was around to take my blood pressure, it would be off the fucking charts.

This can’t be happening, can it?

As the phone threatens to slip out of my hand, I realise my palms are sweating, and there’s a tremble in my grip. Just her voice sends me back to the man I was seven years ago. But just as she’s apparently done her time, so have I. The difference being is that I’ve moved on, and I’m no longer the man I once was. Or I’ve tried very hard to become someone else.

I’m a biker, a member of a one-percenter MC. I’m feared and respected in equal measures and answer to no one except my club and my prez. Yet just hearing her voice is threatening everything I’ve built.

My jaw clenches. I swallow hard and speak slowly and deliberately so I don’t stammer over any more words. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” That’s putting it mildly. It’s a fucking terrible idea.

In return, her voice drips with emotion. “Honey, I’ve changed. I promise you. I’ve worked hard inside. That was part of the reason I didn’t want to see you. I wanted to wait until I got myself sorted out. I… I never stopped loving you, Clark, and I’m still your wife.”

I’m still your wife.How can four simple words have such an effect? My hands fist, my phone in danger of being crushed.

For seven years I’d thought I was free. My chest feels like a weight’s been dropped on it and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I don’t know how to deal with it. I want to tell her to go fuck herself, but she’s right, she’s still my wife. And as such, much as I want to deny them, I have obligations.

I’d rather deal with a bullet to my brain.

A hell of a lot has happened in the time she’s been gone. She was the one who refused my visits, letters and calls, so it’s her fault there are things she doesn’t know. It probably won’t come as a surprise that I’m no longer in the Army, but not what I’ve done since I’ve been out. Not least, I’m no longer in the same state that she is.

---