Page 35 of Jett

“Hey,” I protest. “I am nowhere near old enough to be your mother.”

Killer laughs, and the girl closes her legs and pulls a robe tight around her body. “Boo. No fair. I’ll catch up with you next time, lover. Don’t forget to tip.”

Killer grimaces and nods to the phone in my hand. “Would you mind? Mine are covered in spunk.”

My brows practically knit with my hairline and I fight the urge to wipe my hands on my clothing because ... ick. I’ve seen and done a lot of strange things since I began working at this clubhouse, but I never thought tipping a cam girl would be one of them. I grit my teeth and hit the flashing dollar sign on the screen, sending Cherrie an extra two hundred dollars.

I angle the phone toward Killer and he blanches. “Jesus, woman. How much did you send?”

“Two hundred. Trust me, she’s earned it.” I frown. “She’s going to need to buy all new sheets, because nothing gets buttercream out.”

A courier van pulls up to the gate and Killer glances around the booth—probably looking for something to wipe his hands on. I roll my eyes and head for the door. “I’ll get it.”

“You’re a peach.”

“That’s what they tell me.” I shrug and walk to the end of the gate where Killer opens it just enough for the guy to slip the box through.

“I got a package for someone here named Jett King?” the courier asks.

“Yes. He’s out right now, but I can sign for it.”

He proffers a digital writing pad and I struggle to scribble my signature with my broken arm. The other holds the package on my hip. It’s heavy, probably more parts for the bikes the boys are fixing, but I wrestle with the weight and my newfound disability.

A beat later, the guy is gone, and Crazy comes to alleviate me of my cumbersome burden.

“Thanks,” I say as I shake out my arm. “I’m not used to being crippled.”

“I got you, mama.” Crazy smiles. His teeth gleam in the afternoon sunlight, all perfect and straight, except for one chipped tooth right at the very front. The deep rumble of the van slices through the quiet street. “I’ll take this inside, but you better get in there too because—second wifey or not—Prez is gonna kill you and then us if he finds you outside the clubhouse on lockdown.”

“God forbid any poor, defenceless woman should leave the shelter of the kitchen, right?”

“It really is the safest place for you bitches. Hey, if you’re headed there, wanna make me a sandwich?”

I raise a brow in disapproval, then I decide that doesn’t send a clear enough message, so I flip him off and turn to walk back inside as his laughter fills the compound.

JETT

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