Page 29 of Jett

JETT

ISTALK OUT OF THEkitchen and spot Killer on the couch, buried inside Brooke, or Jenny, or one of the other needy fucking club whores who drink my booze, eat my food, and live in my club rent-free.

I grab Killer’s neat little fucking ponytail and pull him off the bitch. “You busy, arsehole?”

He comes up swinging, but I block the blow and deliver one of my own, right to the side of his fucking head.

“What the fuck?” His eyes widen when he sees it’s me. “Shit, Prez. I’m so—”

“My wife just left the clubhouse.”

Killer’s eyes dart from me to the door and back again. “Okay.”

“On lockdown, fuckface.”

“Oh ... shit.”

“Yeah, shit is right,” I seethe. “Wasn’t it your job to stand at that door and make sure no one leaves this fuckin’ club?”

“Er ... yeah.”

“And what are you doing instead?”

“Um ...” He swallows and glances at Brooke, who’s smiling like the fucking Cheshire cat as she stares up at us from the couch. “Getting my dick wet?”

I release his shirt and shove him away from me. In my peripheral, Raine exits the kitchen and hurries down the hall. I want to go after her. I want to take her in my arms and tell her that none of this was her fault, that my wife is a goddamn psycho, and that I’m a complete fucking idiot because Raine deserves more, but I have a few things to take care of first.

Outside, a car engine revs, tyres squeal, and Mia shouts at Raphe who’s manning the booth to, “Open the fucking gate”.

I take a slow, steady breath in through my nose, but I am this close to losing my shit. “Go after her.”

“What ... like, outside? But we’re on lockdown.”

“Yeah, and your stupid arse was supposed to be minding the fuckin’ door. So put your goddamn dick away, pull up your big-girl panties, and follow my fucking wife.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry, Prez.” He tucks himself back inside his pants and spares a brief glance at Brooke before heading for the door.

“Killer?” I growl. The kid turns around. We’ve been through a lot of shit in the past few years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this fucking panicked. If my wife wasn’t determined to get herself killed, I might even laugh. “If she dies, you die.”

“I’ll take care of her, Prez.”

“You better, or I’m going to gut every woman you’ve ever loved, your mother included.”

I move toward the bar, where our new girl—Hannah, or Holly, or some fucking shit—is texting on her phone. She’s cute, with a wild streak a mile long if her tatts, piercings and blue hair are anything to go off, and Brooke vouched for her. I’m starting to see that Brooke vouching for anyone means shit, but we got a clubhouse full of people. We needed someone to man the bar while Raine is out of commission, and the blue-haired bitch needed a job, so here we are.

“Bourbon, darlin’. Don’t be stingy.” I sit heavily on the stool and wait for her to pour my drink. She pours it stiff, just the way I like it. I pick up the glass and down the warm liquid in one go.

“Rough night?”

I chuckle and slam the glass on the bar. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You want another?” She tilts her head toward the bottle in her hand.

“Nah, do me a favour though? Don’t serve my boys drinks that stiff. I don’t need those arseholes fallin’ off their goddamn bikes.”

She salutes me. “Yes, sir.”

I get up and walk through the room. Brooke is passed out on the couch, her legs splayed open, her pussy on show for all the fucking world to see. “Oh, and don’t go sleepin’ with any of the guys. I don’t need another coked-out club whore on my hands.”

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