Page 48 of Blackbeard
“Come on. Just a few days ago, you said that I was getting color back in my cheeks, I have a good appetite, and my bandages don’t even need to be changed that often anymore. I’m practically good as new.”
I shot her a skeptical look. Pleading flickered in her eyes. She had ditched her usual skin-tight attire for loose, breezy clothes lately—high-waisted mom jeans, an oversized ZZ Top T-shirt, and a light pink cardigan. Her nails were no longer painted that glossy, bloodthirsty red either, opting instead for a nude, peachy color.
She looked…softer. That bullet had knocked her down a peg.
I scraped my plate clean and deposited my dishes in the sink. Then I scrubbed a hand over my mouth, weighing her proposal.
“You’re bored, aren’t you?”
Leigh tipped her head back and blew out a breath.
“God, yes. I’ve been binge watching cheesy soap operas for days, and I can’t do it anymore. My head will explode, I swear. Please, give me something to do.”
I picked up the help wanted ad, studying it. We’d been trying to fill the position for months. Tending a biker bar wasn’t for the faint of heart, and many of our new hires bailed after working one or two shifts, never to be seen or heard from again.
For now, we were rotating through Blackjacks, making sure someone was always there to serve drinks, but it was a temporary solution, and patience was wearing thin. It didn’t fix the problem.
“Crash would be there,” I pointed out.
Leigh balked for a moment, but she held firm.
“I think we’ve both learned our lesson. He doesn’t worry me.”
I snorted.Liar.
Would the Blackjacks tolerate Leigh behind their bar, touching their alcohol? Would they trust a drink that was served by her?
No, probably not.
On the other hand, we couldn’t ice out Leigh forever, just because of her roots among the Forsaken.
“Technically, it’s not my decision to make,” I replied. “New hires get a trial run. We need to see how you get along with customers, with the club. We need to see if you can mix a decent drink. After that trial run, we put it to a vote.”
And who in their right mind would vote to bring Leigh into our clubhouse as a permanent bartender among the Blackjacks when they bristled every time they saw her?
“Are you trying to scare me off?” Leigh countered.
“Just preparing you for what you’re getting into, that’s all.”
“Then let me give it a try.”
“Fine,” I relented. Her boredom might make her do something desperate. At least having Leigh at the clubhouse meant I could make sure she didn’t re-injure herself. “But only for a few hours, max. Then I’m bringing you straight home and you’re going to bed.”
Leigh beamed.
“Yes, Doctor. Whatever you say.”
I rolled my eyes and huffed a laugh at that spark of her old self coming back.
Fifteen minutes later, Leigh and I pulled up to the clubhouse. I’d sent a text to Kingpin ahead of time as a precaution, fully recognizing the hypocrisy of that move. Two weeks ago, I butted heads with him about it—arguing in Leigh’s favor that her presence didn’t need to come with a warning when I was married to her.
But Crash’s actions had changed my mind. I had no desire to repeat that hellish nightmare.
A rigid silence greeted us when we entered the room. They knew Leigh was coming and they didn’t like it. Scattered among the tables and booths were a few locals, indicating that the evening crowd would be filling up the place shortly.
Crash was nowhere in sight.
I cleared my throat and addressed the room.
