Page 21 of Blackbeard
But a quick search of the house proved Blackbeard wasn’t here. Well then, fine. If he was going to leave me unattended, I would use his absence to my advantage. I surveyed the house again, slower this time, taking note of any information I could use.
The kitchen was beautiful, with warm, golden lighting, and a turquoise tiled border for a pop of brilliant color. A long, granite counter top extended along one wall, with a massive stove. Every inch of the room was spotless and well kept, organized, indicating Blackbeard took great care to maintain it.
Or someone else did. He was a bachelor after all. Women in his life were probably cleaning up his messes, making sure he didn’t have months of dirty dishes piled in his sink and attracting cockroaches.
I continued wandering through the house. Brightly colored toys and board games were stuffed into the hallway closet. The courtyard seemed to be a popular place to hang out, judging by the numerous chairs scattered around the barbecue pit. A handful of trees provided shade, but the landscaping was non-existent otherwise—rocky, dry, with patches of scrawny weeds.
Then I found myself in the bedroom again, with that big mattress at the center, and those silky black sheets that felt like melting into the velvety embrace of the night sky.
Above the headboard was a triptych photograph of a motorcycle on a winding desert highway, stars glittering above, and towering saguaros in the distance.
Definitely not Brightwater, Montana.
The bedroom seemed nearly as well-maintained as the kitchen—clean, tidy, with good quality materials, turning it into a sanctuary of comfort for the senses.
Blackbeard must have hated that I slept in here. In his bed. In his most private living space that was supposed to be safe and protected.
I smiled to myself and dragged one of my suitcases into the bathroom. It was time to leave my mark on my new home alongside my husband.
Thirty minutes later, I was dressed, with a cup of coffee in hand, as I pulled into the parking lot of the Blackjacks clubhouse. When I stepped inside, it was virtually empty, especially compared to last night. Only a few members were present, and none of them were Forsaken.
We were probably a long way from sharing a clubhouse.
Blackbeard, Kingpin, and Crash were seated at a table in the corner, picking over plates of breakfast. Two more members—Tex and Spike—were at the bar, sleepily nursing cups of steaming hot coffee.
“Good morning, everyone,” I chirped.
Blackbeard glanced up and his gaze darkened.
“What are you doing here?”
I shrugged and unhooked my purse from my shoulder, draping it on the coat rack by the door.
“You were gone when I woke up. So, I thought I’d track down my dearest husband and spend the day with you. And since I’m your wife—the love of your life and your better half—I figured I should get settled in at the clubhouse. Make myself comfortable.”
No one said a word. I raised my eyebrows and took a sip of coffee.
Geez, it’s a little frosty in here.
Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed a chair and slid it across the room, planting myself next to Blackbeard.
Crash stared at me, fork paused halfway to his mouth. He let it drop to his plate with a clatter that broke the silence.
“What the fuck is she talking about?” he demanded.
Blackbeard put a hand on his shoulder.
“Kingpin and I were telling you—”
Crash shoved away from the table and rose to his feet, shifting from foot to foot with agitated energy. I leaned back in my chair to watch the show as understanding dawned on his face and he pieced together who I was.
“She’s Popeye’s daughter. She’s—she’s Forsaken.”
“Sit down, kid,” Kingpin said in a low, calm voice. But there was an edge of warning to his tone—a command that was intended to be obeyed.
“No, I won’t sit down,” Crash retorted. “And stop calling mekid. I told you, these fuckers are going to screw us over. But you’re not listening. Now, you’re making friends with them? Withher?”
A beat of silence filled the clubhouse. I glanced at Blackbeard, but he purposefully avoided my gaze.
