Page 61 of Jett

The front door slams, and I slide down the wall and wallow in my own self-destruction.

RAINE

Two weeks later

JETT IS AVOIDING ME. Not that I can really blame him. I did sleep with him and kick him out before the sweat had even dried on our bodies. This past two weeks without him have been hell—an endless cycle of tears, Netflix, and chill from the cold shoulder he’s giving me, not the actual fucking, because there’s none of that going on in this apartment.

The club were on a run to some small town on the far north coast of New South Wales where they hold a hemp festival every year. Jett hadn’t answered any of my calls, and I’m trying not to take it personally, but even Indie and Ivy had heard from their men before they returned. Maybe that’s my problem—I need to stop thinking of Jett as mine.

I can’t stand to mope around this apartment any longer. I’ve already cleaned it from top to bottom and there is only so many times I can scrub the bath with a broken wrist. Especially when it’s spotless anyway. I’d thought of visiting the clubhouse to take a little of my OCD tendencies out on the filth the Saints have likely left since I moved out, but I’m not supposed to be driving yet with my cast.

Instead, I shoot a quick text to Indie, who tells me she’s no longer on the late shift at Death Before Decaf—the café where she works. I tell her to come over in twenty minutes for tacos and tequila. I head into the bathroom to fix my face and brush my hair. Being around other people right now is the best thing for me. I would have extended the invite to Ivy too, but she’s in the Blue Mountains, and she’s not supposed to drive on account of never officially getting her licence. I make a mental note to organise drinks with the both of them at some point, now that they’re finally getting along. Maybe it was putting the two of them together in a room at lockdown that made them realise they weren’t so different. They’d been through atrocities at the hands of men, and through even more once they fell in love with men from the Savage Saints MC.

I guess we all have that in common.

I apply a little powder and mascara, and open the cabinet for a ponytail holder when a dilapidated box at the back of the shelf catches my eye. With trembling hands, I pull it from the cupboard, and drop it just as quickly. My stomach roils as I stare at the brightly coloured foil-wrapped squares resting in the pristine sink. Chills break out all along my body and a shiver runs the length of my spine.

It’s ironic that the second I see the tattered condoms that belonged to my dead husband, my heart pangs, and I’m painfully aware of my bodily functions over the last few weeks. We didn’t use protection, we didn’t use ... oh, God. We didn’t use protection either time. Two weeks ago, I was half-mad, out of my mind with grief, and Jett felt so good. I didn’t even think to stop. And in the clubhouse, before Mia and Josh, before we were both widowed, I didn’t ... we didn’t. My gut churns and I run the few paces to the toilet and throw up.

No, no, no, no, no.

I can’t be pregnant. I’ve had periods. I haven’t been puking up my guts. My breasts have been a little tender, and I’ve been nauseous and unable to sleep, but that was just fear and grief. Wasn’t it? I can’t be pregnant. I’m a fucking widow, for God’s sake. I ... slept with my boss and then kicked him out after he’d been so good to me.

Oh, God.

I stand on shaking legs and brush my teeth, fighting the urge to throw up again. I splash my face, not caring that my makeup is running down my cheeks, and grab my phone and wallet from the hall table.

I don’t feel as if I’ve taken a breath since I left my apartment, and I stare out at the rain through my windshield. I shoot off a quick text to Indie saying something has come up and I’m so sorry to have to cancel. She doesn’t reply. I slide the keys into the ignition and start the car. Once I reach the discount chemist, I head inside and take several boxes off the shelf, tossing them all into my cart. I grab a packet of plain chips and a lemonade because I can’t remember the last time I had either.

Once inside the car, I bust into the chips and scoff them down as I drive. I uncap the lemonade and guzzle it as if I’m alcoholic, fresh out of rehab and getting my first taste of hard liquor in twenty-eight days.

Oh, God.I drank. The night of Josh’s funeral, I drank an entire bottle of wine. The urge to puke up my guts overwhelms me, and I have to pull off onto the shoulder and scramble over the passenger side to open the door so I don’t get hit on a major highway. I retch for what feels like an hour. Cars pass at breakneck speed and my head swims. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be.

When I come up for air, I’m woozy and light-headed and I stagger back inside the car and drive home. I get inside the elevator and hastily push the buttons, but Mrs Robinson enters behind me with her very vocal English Bulldog, Winston.

“Hello, dear,” she says, appraising my outfit with her critical gaze.

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