Page 93 of Steel

I laugh. “I definitely don’t see that becoming a problem.”

He glances down at me. “Not so long as I’m on this side of the dirt, wildfire.”

“Why would you say that?” My eyebrows pinch, and my smile falls. “Don’t tell me you have plans of dying.”

“Not anytime soon.” Jameson rests his hand over mine. “But men in my line of work don’t have the longest lifespans. Especially ones with “President” stitched into their patch. My dad and grandad are two good examples.”

“What happened to them?”

I’m still learning pieces of Jameson’s history, and since he rarely talks about his family, I don’t know much about them outside of the rumors. My dad mentioned once in passing that Jameson got his position when he was still really young, and because of that, he didn’t think he deserved it.

“Well, my grandad went down in a bar fight. Or, at least, that’s what the police report said. The lines between territories weren’t as clear back then, and they steppedinto rival territory without realizing it on a long ride back from Portland.” Jameson scratches his jaw. “My dad, on the other hand… He was gunned down when a rival club tried to overthrow the Twisted Kings almost a decade ago. They got in a lucky shot he didn’t see coming. One to the center of his forehead, and that was it.”

Jameson rubs his hand over his forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

He looks down at me, lifting my hand to kiss the back of it. “Nothing to be sorry for, wildfire. That’s how this life is. And now here I am.”

“Next in the line of fire?” I frown.

Jameson chuckles. “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“I know. But I don’t like thinking about you dying.”

We might not have defined what we are to each other, but there’s no more denying Jameson means something to me. The thought of leaving here rips my heart down the middle. And after his confession last night, I’m starting to think he feels the same.

“I appreciate you wanting me alive.” Jameson cups my cheek. “And don’t worry, I’ve no plans on going anytime soon.”

“Does anyone ever plan to die?” I challenge, but when he frowns, a bad feeling stirs my gut. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing. You clearly just thought something about what I said. Talk to me, Jameson.”

Jameson takes a deep breath, scratching his jaw. “It just made me think about my mom. That’s it. You’re right. Most people don’t plan to die, but she did.”

“You mean she…?” But I can’t finish the sentence as his nod confirms it. “I didn’t realize.”

“You couldn’t have known. Half my men don’t even know about it. My dad was really good at pretending it never happened.”

“I’m sorry.” I brush my hand over his chest. “How old were you?”

“Five.”

“Young.”

“Not young enough.” He shakes his head. “I still remember it.”

Jameson closes his eyes, and he’s quiet for a moment. I rest my hand over his heart, and I swear it’s beating harder than I’ve ever felt it.

“I remember the sagebrush more than anything. My allergies were going haywire. Mom made me take my medicine before Dad took me to the shop that day. It’s the last thing she did for me.” He lets out a heavy breath. “When we got home, all the windows were open. I walked into the living room behind Dad, and she was just hanging there—”

He cuts himself off, his jaw tensing.

“There was this beam above the staircase—” He swallows hard, and my heart hurts just picturing what he witnessed at such a young age. “Guess she couldn’t handle the guilt.”

“What did she have to feel guilty about?”

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