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She turned, following his movement as he rounded the end of the counter and came to stand next to her. He stared at his daughter in the bouncer with concern.
“Now,” she said, catching his attention. “Take your shirt off.”
He had no problems shucking his cut and placing it over the back of one of the stools at the counter, but removing his shirt wasn’t as easy. With his back toward her, she watched him struggle for a few seconds before she stopped him and slid it up and over his torso and head for him. Again, careful of his nose, which was still healing.
Unlike the last time she helped him undress, she had a full view of his broad, naked back. A few bruises of different sizes discolored the skin here and there but didn’t take away from that view.
He had to work out somewhat. While he wasn’t ripped, he also wasn’t flabby. He was trim enough not to have even the slightest love handles above his jeans.
His soft, worn Levi’s were cinched around his narrow hips by a wide black leather belt but rode low enough where the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs was visible.
His jeans cupped his ass perfectly. So perfectly, she had to drag her attention from it. But before she did, she took note of the black leather wallet tucked into his back pocket with a chain attached to one of his front belt loops. Bikers wore them so they wouldn’t lose their wallets on a ride, or in a fight. It also made it more difficult to be stolen when hanging out with questionable company.
Before she checked his ribs, she stepped back and studied the club’s colors tattooed onto his back.
Proof this man was all in.
He was born to be in this club, he just didn’t get the chance until now because of all the fucked up shit the Originals did and were involved in. The Originals had been their own worst enemies. They fucked up what could’ve been a good thing. They tainted their brotherhood with backstabbing, lies and internal beefs.
She only hoped the new Fury wouldn’t follow the same pot-hole riddled road as the old. From what she’d seen so far, she wasn’t sure. Especially with what happened with Cage on the edge of that field.
She had to assume both Judge and Deacon bore the same ink in their skin. She hadn’t seen it since she had no reason to see her brother or cousin without a shirt or even without their cuts. She also hadn’t asked.
Though, she planned on it.
She needed to know how deep into this club they both were. It was bad enough they both held spots on the executive committee. They helped make decisions when it came to what the club did and what the brotherhood became involved in. And Judge, as the sergeant at arms, not only enforced the rules, but was responsible for doling out the actual punishment for breaking those rules.
The very reason she was about to inspect Cage’s cracked ribs and bruises. The damage her brother had done to his own so-called “brother.”
Brutal.
Disappointing.
Damage that couldn’t be undone.
And the man before her wanted to raise his daughter in this life.
Jemma closed her eyes for a moment and simply breathed, pushing away the memories of what it was like to be a little girl being raised in an MC.
When she said, “Turn around,” her voice cracked and she quickly cleared her throat and gathered herself before he saw her.
Once he faced her, she handed his shirt back to him, which he took and gripped tightly within his fist. Without breaking their locked gaze, she noticed his chest expand and retract oh-so slowly.
Something in that movement made her stomach flutter. A sensation that should not be. Not with the man before her. She quickly shoved it away.
Without his sunglasses on, she could see the deep purple under both eyes caused from his broken nose. The bruise surrounding the right eye was worse and crept toward his temple. Judge must have clubbed him upside the head.
If he had not been covered with a heavy blanket, he’d most likely be dead, or at least in a coma. Her brother could’ve killed him. And that would have made Judge a murderer, just like Ox.
That pissed off Jemma even more at her brother for wearing the club colors. But it wasn’t Judge standing before her.
She quickly smothered the flair of her anger, just like she had with the unexpected reaction to Cage, and concentrated on the task at hand. “Any problems with breathing?”
“No.” His answer was buttery-soft, so it caught her off-guard and she had to swallow hard to keep her throat from closing. “Jem—”
Ignore it and keep going. “You’re not sleeping on that side, right?”
She wasn’t sure if he answered or not because she was too busy studying the tattoo on his right upper chest. It covered his pec and surrounded his nipple. A helmeted man rode a Harley but his face was only a skull. However, the rider’s arms and legs looked normal.
