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“I never missed Dad’s funeral, and we were close. We visited each other twice a week, and we phoned every day. Dad came to Pierre, or I drove to him. Dad enjoyed keeping things separate. He hated socialising with folk, so I didn’t get to meet the other shop owners with whom Dad shared a row of shops. We Montgomerys don’t mix well with strangers.” I felt the need to defend myself.
“Don’t have to explain,” Jett rumbled.
“Clearly, I do. Everyone back there thinks I deserted Dad. But I’d never do that, not even when Dad sent me to England to study. I didn’t want to go, but Dad attended Oxford and wanted me to follow in his footsteps. When I returned, Dad insisted he wished me to be independent, but I wanted to come home. He bought an apartment in Pierre for me as a compromise. But I really craved home.” Sadness coloured my voice.
Jett’s arms tightened around me, and tears choked me again.
“I know why Dad didn’t want me to come home, home. Dad understood he didn’t have long. Doctors told him two years, and he outlasted the estimate by eight more. Dad wanted me to build a circle, a network of support, but I couldn’t. People can’t relate to me. Strangers think I am standoffish, rude, and priggish, but I’m not.” I broke off, and Jett stared at me. Yes, I was rambling, I knew it, but I was so scared I could not stop.
“I am shy and get nervous easily. Being a child prodigy meant I missed most of the nuances of social niceties that came with growing up. Most of the time, I studied with my nose in a book alone. I’d never been to a bar until today, and I was uncertain how to act.” Tears fell down my face as I told this handsome guy all my shit.
“Sin,” Jett whispered.
“I didn’t know anyone at Dad’s wake. I was unsure how to be friendly. And then that man Drake said awful stuff, which wasn’t true and…” A sob escaped me. Jett’s arm tightened. “I miss my dad,” I wailed.
Jett tucked my head back into his shoulder as I wept again. Jett held me tight as I sobbed for a full ten minutes. Finally, I stopped with a huge breath and rubbed my fists into my eyelids. Jett’s brown eyes studied me, and he gave me a half-smile, which made my eyes widen.
“Oh god, what must you think of me?” I exclaimed. “I don’t even know your name, and I’m dumping everything on your lap.”
“Alexander Cutter. The MC calls me Jett.”
“I like that. Jett, it’s cool, MC’ish.”
Jett grinned, full on this time, and I was mesmerised. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
“What does prospect mean? I watched Sons of Anarchy.” Yeah, the rambling continued. By now, I was so far out of my comfort zone it wasn’t funny.
“Prospect means I’m a brother in training, basically. Get the shit jobs until I make full member.”
“Crap jobs? Is the MC like Sons of Anarchy?”
“Shitty things, cleaning up the clubhouse, including puke, doing food runs, doing runs other brothers don’t want to do. Looking out for old ladies because they’re a handful.”
“Drugs? Guns?” I asked, referring mentally to Sons of Anarchy.
Jett shook his head.
“Don’t touch the club. Drake keeps Rage clean and likes to keep the streets around here safe.”
In my muddled mind, I didn’t pick up on what Jett said, which basically admitted they were vigilantes.
“You’d best be getting back. They’ll wonder where you are.” I wouldn’t lie. I’d no idea what to do in this situation, and it grew uncomfortable.
The door opened, and then booted feet clanked on the wooden floor. I lifted my tear-stained face and saw Drake and the Native American standing before me.
“Meet Sinclair Montgomery,” Jett blurted at the curious looks on the two men’s faces. Drake blanched as his words came back to bite him, and the Native American looked shamefaced.
“Sinclair?” Drake rumbled.
“Yes, I’m Sinclair. As you can see, I attended Dad’s funeral,” I whispered, nestling deeper into Jett. More than a little afraid of the enormous guys towering over me, Jett offered comfort.
“Thought you were a man,” Drake replied.
“Guessed that.” I nodded, and another tear fell down my cheek. Drake’s gaze took in my tear-stained red face, the death grip on Dad’s cardigan, and how I was snuggled up in Jett’s arms.
“Apologies. Assumed Sinclair meant a son, did not know to look for a daughter,” the Native American said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, my nose buried in Dad’s cardigan.
