Page 16 of Jett

FUCKING LOCKDOWN. Istare into my whiskey. My clubhouse is full of bodies—still breathing, thank fuck—but every Saint and their family members are here, their fucking dogs and cats too. I’m surprised Country didn’t bring his goddamn chickens home to roost. I kind of wish he had. At least then we’d have a way to feed everyone. My cook and head bar wench are out of commission, laying in a bed in my clubhouse, and there are thirty hungry mouths to feed. Thank fuck most of my boys don’t have kids yet, or this would be torture taken to the next level. Raphe’s five brats are bad enough.

Every single one of these arseholes under my roof are pissing me off, least of all my goddamn wife. The love left my marriage about the same year that we got hitched. Mia stays because—well, I have no fucking idea why she stays. I guess the money is good, and it beats having to find some sugar daddy when you’re no longer young enough to pull off pigtails. My wife has a body made for fucking, but it’s been a good long while since we’ve done any of that. Used to be fucking was all we had—fucking and fighting. Now we’re just getting off on the last with none of the stress relief of the first.

I fill up my glass and leave my office, heading toward One Eye’s room. We put Raine in there, since no one has claimed it since his death. I don’t think anyone wanted to, afraid his treachery would rub off on them.

I enter the room without knocking. Ivy sits by the bed. The junkie looks good since Tank took her from this hellhole, fixed her up, and put a big shiny rock on her finger. Though they’ve both been through some shit since.

Who here hasn’t?

“Hey,” she whispers, glancing up from a fucking bridal magazine—of all things.

I nod. “How she doing?”

“She’s good for someone who should have been dead. She’s woken up a few times, but the morphine has pulled her under. God, do I remember that feeling.”

Fuck. I put a recovering drug addict in a room with an unconscious patient and an IV full of morphine. “How you doin’?”

“I’m not pulling the line from her arm if that’s what you mean.”

“I didn’t—”

“Relax, Prez. I’m just fucking with you.” She sets the magazine on the bedside table. “It’s not easy being back here. Every corner of every room holds some kind of memory, but I think the worst part is the things I don’t remember. I spent years of my life lost in drugs and sex and the men in this club because it meant I would forget. It meant I was safe from my father. Now, he’s dead and I’m free, but I’m marrying your VP, which means for the rest of my life I’ll be married to the club where so much evil shit happened to me.”

“And you blame me for that?”

“No. I both love and resent you for that. You offered me protection if I sucked your club brother’s dicks. You offered Raine your protection, but she didn’t need to become your club whore. Why is that?”

My voice is full of warning, “Ivy.”

“You’re in love with her.”

“I don’t have time for this shit.” I turn and grab the handle, ready to get the fuck outta here.

“You’re in love with her, she’s in love with you, and what’s your darling wife, Mia, going to say about all this?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Ivy.”

“That’s the thing about girls who watch and listen to everything that goes on while they’re sucking cock—we see and hear things you can only imagine.”

“If you’ve got a fuckin’ point, you should make it.”

“Raine isn’t like us. She’s not tainted by the things she’s seen or done. She isn’t Mia, and if you don’t squash this now, you’ll destroy her and bring her down with you.”

“Like you did with Tank?”

“Tank’s a big boy, and we both know he’s never been innocent.”

“Get out.”

She backtracks to the bed and picks up her magazine, turning a snide smile on me. “Take care of her, Jett, but don’t let her get too close. She deserves better than the kind of life you’re offering.”

She brushes past and exits the room, leaving me staring at an unconscious Raine. Is Ivy right? Am I only bringing her down by having her clean my club and pour my booze?Fuck! I let the junkie get inside my head.

I walk toward the bed and slink into the chair beside her. By some fucking miracle she still looks like an angel, though her arm is in a cast and sling. Raine has a few minor grazes on her neck, face, and arms, and there’s a small cut on her forehead. Her hair is matted with blood. I’m guessing from Grim’s wounds, or maybe from the explosion. I drink my whiskey and set my glass on the nightstand. I slide my hand over hers, the right one that’s not injured, and I squeeze it and hang my head.

“You scared the shit outta me, Angel.”

Her lids flicker but they don’t open. I pick up her hand—a dead weight, so warm, yet so devoid of life. I lean over and press my lips to her skin.

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