I glance over to the table that sits by my front door, staring at my phone, begging it to ring. The screen remains dark, a cold slab of glass that offers no comfort. Each time I’ve tried to call Slayer, it’s gone straight to voicemail, his deep, gravelly greeting mocking my growing desperation. Like Boston, who is currently pacing the small living room with a restless, frantic energy, I’ve had e-fucking-nough. I can no longer play the part of the patient, compliant guest while my nerves are being shredded by the unknown.
I need answers, not just for my own sanity, but for the two people currently looking to me for a safety I feel less sure of with every passing hour. Marching over to the sofa table, I grab the device and bring up my call log, the glow of the screen illuminating the frustration etched into my face. I press LoneStar’s number and place the receiver up to my ear as I prepare myself to demand the truth, regardless of the club’s protocols or the translucent boundaries I’m undoubtedly about to cross.
“Jersey,” he answers, sounding out of breath and I instantly feel bad, knowing that I've interrupted his and Britton's alone time. The guilt is a sharp, familiar sting, a reminder of the years I spent making myself small so as not to be a burden,but I swallow it down. Inhaling, I remind myself that I’m just as important and so is Slayer. My needs, and the needs of his brother and Carolina, are not secondary to the club's iron-clad silence. I can’t be the perfect woman Slayer saw if I’m too afraid to fight for the man who saw her.
“Where is he, LoneStar?” My voice is steady, a contrast to the shaking of my hands. I don’t leave room for “club business” or vague reassurances this time. I need a location, a status, a sign that we haven’t been abandoned. I watch Boston stop his pacing, his eyes locking onto me with a desperate hope that nearly causes me to stumble.
“Jersey,” he grinds out, his tone sounding weary and strained. “We’ve talked about this. There are rules, protocols that have to be followed. You’re safe, they’re safe. That should be enough for now.”
“I’m sick and tired of getting the runaround, LoneStar. He’s not answering his phone and that’s not like him. Not at all. His brother misses him,Imiss him. Don't you get it? If he’s hurt, if something happened during thatbusinessyou keep mentioning, I have a right to know. Boston has a right to know. We aren't just guests anymore, you said it yourself, we're family. Start treating us like it.”
My chest heaves as the words tumble out, months of being the quiet, compliant observer finally snapping under the weight. I look over at Boston, who has stopped his pacing to watch me with wide, hopeful eyes, and I know I’m doing the right thing. If being family means sharing the burden, then I’m ready to carry my weight, but I won't do it while being blindfolded by the men who claim to be our protectors.
“What the fuck?” he whispers from the other end of the phone line. “Jersey, are you shitting me right now?”
Swallowing, I say, “I most certainly am not.”
His voice becomes dangerously low when he says, “When he’s able to talk to you, he’ll call. I’m done with this. He’s good, that’s all I can tell you.”
The line clicks and goes dead, leaving me standing with the dial tone buzzing in my ear like a swarm of angry hornets. I pull the phone away and stare at the dark screen, my vision blurring with a mixture of fury and absolute heartbreak. “He's good,” LoneStar said, but that doesn't explain the week of radio silence or why the second-in-command of this club is being kept under lock and key. I feel Boston’s presence behind me, his hand tentatively touching my shoulder, and I force myself to inhale a shallow, shaky breath. We’re still in the dark, still waiting, and the family I just fought for feels more like a fortress with the drawbridge pulled up tight.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Slayer
Splicer is here unbindingme since my ribs are less achy than they’ve been through the week and I’m able to move without moaning and groaning. The medic moves with clinical efficiency, his face a mask of concentration as he unwinds the heavy-duty athletic tape that has been my secondary skin for the last seven days. Every tug of the adhesive against my bruised flesh is a biting reminder of the price I paid for my lapse in judgment. I grind my teeth, refusing to let so much as a grunt escape, even as the air finally hits the yellowing and purple wreckage of my torso.
“You’re lucky nothing snapped,” Splicer mutters, his fingers probing the tender area along my lower ribcage. “A few more degrees of force from Icer and you'd be looking at a punctured lung instead of just a hell of a lot of hematomas.” I look away, focusing on the drab walls of the clubhouse infirmary, the weight of the silence outside the door pressing in on me.
LoneStar told me Jersey called, sounding like she was at the end of her rope, and the guilt of that is heavier than the physical damage Splicer is currently prodding. I wanted to shield them from the reality of what I suffered, but in doing so, I’ve left them in a different kind of hell. As the last of the tape falls away, I take my first full breath in days—it’s shallow and hitches with a dull throb, but it’s progress. I need to get back on my feet. I need to prove to my brother thathisBubba is still standing, and I need to see if the woman who shared my morning on the porch is still waiting for the man beneath the bruises.
I wouldn’t necessarily call thislucky, but I’m not in the mood to lay down my poor me act at Splicer’s feet. “And that’s the silver-lining,” I harrumph. “Gotta go, unless you need me for something else.”
“Nah, you’re good. From my understanding, you’ve got a helluva lot to answer for,” he says, smirking at me.
“That I do,” I muse, not looking forward to paying a different sort of penance with Jersey and Boston.
I ease my shirt over my head with calculated care, the fabric snagging against the patches of skin where the tape once clung. Each motion feels like a high-stakes gamble against the white-hot agony radiating from my ribs. I toss a final nod toward Splicer as he begins the methodical ritual of cleaning his gear. We both know the score, the physical remnant is a cake walk compared to the debris I’ve likely littered Jersey’s trailer with.
Leaving the sick bay, the stagnant air of the hallway hits my sensitive skin like a physical strike. I brace myself against the wood for a heartbeat, eyes squeezed shut as I force my lungs to find a steady rhythm. I refuse to walk through Jersey’s door looking like a man one breath away from death. I have to findthat steel resolve again—be the VP, the Bubba, the man they’re all relying on, even if I’m currently held together by nothing but grit and spit. LoneStar’s warning about Jersey’s frantic voice is a relentless drumbeat in my skull, a reminder that the silence I used as a shield to protect them from what I agreed to, to the price I paid for going against my own rules, has been hard on her for the last seven days.
“Shut your wallowing, Slayer,” I berate myself. “You sound like a broken record with all of your whining. Man the fuck up.”
The trek to the clubhouse exit feels like it stretches for miles, longer than the throttle-heavy ride I took to get to Boston. Riptide is loitering near the bar, his gaze tracking me with a lethal mix of grim satisfaction and localized concern. No words are needed, the air is finally clear, the ledger balanced in blood—mine. I shove the heavy doors open and step into the blinding afternoon sun, the heat reflecting off the gravel. Across the lot, Jersey’s trailer stares at me, calling me. I suck in a deep, agonizing breath, lock my knees, and begin the walk toward the woman who’s come to mean a lot to me.
It takes me longer to reach her porch, and I use the siding of her house to help balance me as I lift my feet. “Jesus fuck,” I hiss as I reach the top and wrap my arm around my torso. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Boston must’ve heard me struggling and bitching because the door flies open and he leaps into my arms. The sudden weight is a shock to my system, a brutal collision of love and agony that nearly sends me over the railing. I stagger, my teeth gritted so hard I’m surprised they don’t shatter, but I catch him, planting my feet as he buries his face in my neck. “Bubba! You’re alright?” he cries, his voice thick with the fear he’s been carrying from my absence.
I catch his weight and pull him in, completely ignoring the searing fire that erupts through my torso as my mangled ribs howl in agony at the impact. He carries the scent of Jersey’s house, fresh laundry, a grounding mix that finally settles the static in my head. Looking past him, I see Jersey framed by the doorway, her small stature bathed in the trailer’s soft light. Her face is a mess of relief and a mounting fury that tells me my reckoning with her is only just beginning.
“I’m good, Bubs,” I murmur, lying through my teeth while I hold him tight, the physical wreck of my body a cheap cost for the calm finally settling over him. I can feel the frantic thud of his heart against my battered chest, making me feel like an utter asshole.
A woman’s voice, sharp with sassy attitude, slices through the yard. “Where the hell have you been, Slayer?”
I lift my head slow, catching her eyes with a look that’s probably too heavy with the affection I’m still trying to find a place for. “Hey there, Jersey girl,” I rasp, my tone sounding like I've been swallowing gravel.
