Page 1 of Jett

RAINE

DOG-TIRED, I WALK THEhall at the end of my shift. I’m ready for a glass of wine and that new Netflix rom-com. Anything to chase away the sights, sounds, and—unfortunately—the smells of a rowdy clubhouse. The whole club came back from a run in a good mood—which, around here, is like winning the lottery. It doesn’t happen often, but boy, do you hear about it when it does.

Kick exits the room at the end of the hall with a bottle of Bundy Rum in his hand. He chuckles to himself, but his laugh gets loud and more obnoxious than usual when he glances up and meets my gaze. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

“Just coming to tell the boss that I’m finished for the day.”

“You go in there looking like that and you won’t be the only one who’s finishing.”

“Oh my God, stop.” I smack his arm. His face contorts, and he moans like I just hit him hard enough to bruise, but we both know that’s not true.

“Hey, I just call it like I see it, sweetheart,” he slurs.

“Mm-hmm. Well, I might just call Indie to come pick your drunk arse up. Honest to God, I don’t know what you boys did today, but someone must have spiked the punch. You’re all acting so crazy, even Crazy looks sane.”

“God had nothin’ to do with it, but the Saints sure did.”

“Alright, captain cryptic, move aside. This saint needs to go to bed.”

Kick lifts the rum to his lips and takes a huge swig. “Well, shit, don’t let me stop you. Prez’s couch is right this way.” He gestures to the closed door at the end of the hall like a game-show host pointing to the main prize.

“Get out of here.” I move around him. I have half a mind to snatch the bottle from him and save Indie from an especially obnoxious Kick, but she can hold her own, and I know better than to take booze from this biker. “And text Indie to pick you up. We don’t need a call from the police saying you’ve been plastered all over the road.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I shake my head and rap my knuckles on Jett’s office door. My hands look worn, aged from the harsh cleaning chemicals and lack of self-care.I need a manicure. I need a man, period. Guilt worms its way through my chest. I take a deep breath and knock again.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Can’t a man jack it in peace?”

“Sorry.” My voice is merely a squeak as I consider my options. I could attempt to scurry away before he opens the door, but this hallway is long and there’s no place to hide. Instead, I stand my ground and prepare to face the wrath of a very pissed-off Jett.

Jett yanks back the door. He’s shirtless. Water beads on his chest and torso. Or perhaps it’s sweat. Either way, I’d like to lick it from his skin and shove my hand into those unbuttoned leathers that he’s clearly straining against. His blue eyes switch from murderous rage to easy and inviting all in the space of a heartbeat. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Yep, only me. Your friendly neighbourhood bar wench.”Friendly neighbourhood bar wench? Oh my God. What is wrong with me?

The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. One that belongs to another woman, but he graces me with it all the same. His damp wheat-blond hair brushes the tops of his shoulders. Would it be silky to the touch, fall into his eyes or brush my cheek as his body hovered over me? He appears calmer tonight—not at all the menacing man who started his own biker club. Not at all how he looks in his cut, with his scruffy beard, his hair slicked back, and a gavel in his hands. He looks ... soft.

But looks are misleading.

Every inch of him is hard ... at least, that’s how I imagine him. It’s not as though I’ll ever get the chance to find out. He’s married, and I’m ... well, there’s no point in fantasising about something you can’t have.

“I’m heading out for the day.” I’m also blushing right to the roots of my hair. I can feel it. “Unless, of course, you need me?”

He licks his lips. His eyes roam over my body. Those devious baby blues say he needs me, but it’s not to clean his clubhouse.

“I need a lot of things, darlin’.” A quiet sigh passes his lips and washes over my face. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes. It’s a heady mix. Or maybe it’s just the man himself who makes me half-drunk with adoration. “But you go on home. I reckon you’ve had enough of dirty bikers for one day.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, on a deep exhalation.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

I duck my head. “Goodnight.”

“Night, darlin’.”

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