by Kati Wilde
When I went into the kitchen, she’d been humming.
That’s the only thought in my head as I pound the heavy bag at the new gym. The place is dark and empty, not open to the public yet, and I’m supposed to run through that goddamn checklist but I can’t stop thinking about Jenny, and how she’d been smiling and humming and happy, and how I ripped that away.
And hurt her.
Never again. I vow it with each strike of my fists. Never again.
Never. Fucking. Again.
And I’ll make it up to her. Somehow. Because that’s the only thing that will make this pain go away. Not this sweat, not this burning ache in my shoulders and fists.
Just seeing her smile again. Just hearing that happy hum.
I don’t hear Blowback come in. The bastard’s quiet, like a goddamn mouse. Any other time I’d ask if he wanted to go a round up in the ring, because he’ll draw blood and I deserve to bleed, but the look on his face tells me shit’s about to go down.
I catch the swinging bag, my chest heaving. “What is it?”
Flatly he says, “Your father is the stupidest fuck who ever lived.”
Only if you don’t count the stupid shit I said this morning. But like father, like son. I start pulling off my gloves. It’s probably too much to hope Carlisle slipped on a patch of ice and cracked open his head. “So what’s the old bastard done?”
Blowback’s answer freezes my blood. “He pointed Lowery straight at Jenny.”
I can’t fucking breathe. “Is she all right?”
The warlord nods. “We’ve got time.”
There’s never time enough when it comes to Jenny. And that’s a question answered. What’s the old bastard done? What he’s done is kill someone.
He just better pray it won’t be him.
9
Jenny
When Saxon comes to the brewery, I know something’s gone wrong. Not just because a half dozen Hellfire Riders roll up behind him, but because the expression in his eyes tells me he’s beyond pissed—and it’s not the hot and dark anger that flares up when we fight. This rage is a frigid howling wind and Saxon’s the wolf at the center of it. Ice seems blow off him, sharp and feral.
I glance away from his face to look outside again. Frank Carlisle’s sitting in the passenger seat of Saxon’s 4x4. That might explain his rage but it doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.
I meet his eyes. “What’s going on?”
With a sharp nod, he gestures to the bikers who came in with him. “You said you were busy. So I’m bringing in some extra help.”
Bullshit. I sigh and shake my head. “Saxon.”
His jaw tightens and he grasps my hand, leading me through the door to the back of the barn. Hashtag glances over, then takes off when Saxon says, “Get the fuck out.”
“Saxon, damn it. Is he my employee right now or is he a Rider?”
“Today, tomorrow, he’s a Rider. This is club business,” he says, and just before I explode—“but it concerns you, Jenny.”
I settle back, waiting. So that’s why he brought me back here. So he can tell me what he needs to tell me without the others listening in.
His chest rises on a long breath, and I see now—his control is on a thin leash. So damn thin. He’s on a killing edge. “Carlisle used your phone yesterday.”
Frowning, I nod. “To call his prez, he said.”
“Well, he did. Then he called a bookmaker in Seattle about Friday’s game. And that bookmaker called the man in Portland who Carlisle owes money to. A reverse phone lookup ain’t hard, Jenny.”
Oh, shit. “So you think someone will be coming here?”
“Probably not. Don’t you be scared.” He catches my face in his strong hands, his intense gaze locked on mine. “The most I expect is he’d come in, maybe ask if you’d seen Carlisle around. But it’s not hard to draw a line from you, then to the Hellfire Riders on your property, and then to me. So I don’t know, maybe he’d look at you as leverage. At the very least he’d be looking hard at the ranch, and I don’t like thinking of him being anywhere near here.”
I don’t either. “So what will you do?”
“I’m going to leave some men with you. What you do with them, I don’t care. Tell them to stay out in their trucks, or put them to work wrapping your orders. Just so I know you’re safe here.”
Though I don’t think he’ll tell me, I ask anyway. “And you?”
“It’s the holidays, and since my father’s visiting me, I’m having lunch in town with him.” A faint snarl rolls through the reply. “Someplace real visible. Then I’m going to take him to a motel and make sure people know he’s staying there through Christmas.”
Using Carlisle as bait. Or making sure that whoever’s after him doesn’t have a reason to leave town and look for him out at the ranch.
Saxon’s voice softens as he continues, “I don’t know how long it’ll take, Jenny. A couple of days, maybe. I intend to send Thorne and Zoomie to stay with you at the house tonight.”
Not just any Riders, not when I’m at home. He’s making sure they’re the two I’m most familiar with—a man I call my uncle and one of my best friends. “All right.”
I see his relief as he nods. “Good. And tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Were you planning to open the store?”
“I was.” I always get last-minute customers coming in to buy kegs for their holiday parties. “But do you think I should—”
“Don’t close up. Just, maybe you could let Hashtag mind the front if anyone comes in.”
“I can do that.” Lifting my hand, I lay my palm against his jaw. “And thank you for looking out for me.”
His jaw clenches tight, and even before he opens his mouth, I know what he’ll say. Don’t thank me. Because he’ll say it’s his fault Carlisle is here in the first place. He’ll say it’s his responsibility to clean up any trouble the Hellfire Riders get into. He’ll say he doesn’t want gratitude from me.
But I don’t care why he looks out for me. It just matters to me that he does.
Then all at once he drags me close, burying his face in my hair. “Jenny,” he says hoarsely. “I love you so fucking much.”
My heart shoots up into my throat, huge and aching—but before I can say a word, he pulls back and kisses me hard.
Hard, but not nearly long enough. Lifting his head, he searches my face for a long moment, his thumb tracing my tremulous smile. “Stay safe, princess.”
“You, too,” I say softly, then watch him go.
And know that nothing will be right until he’s back again.
10
Saxon
After more than twenty-four hours of sitting in a motel room and watching the parking lot, I don’t know if I’m snowblind or if I’m just so damn tired my eyes are telling my brain to fuck off.
Checkout time was a few hours ago, so the traffic through the motel parking lot slowed in the early afternoon. But now it’s picking up again as holiday travelers start checking in. It’s a shitty place to stay over Christmas Eve, but I suppose most of them will be going out again to spend time with friends or kin.
Thank fuck I haven’t had to spend much time with my kin. The motel has two levels and is shaped like a “U” around a parking lot—so from my room on the second story of the north leg, I’ve got a direct view of Carlisle’s room on the south leg. I’ve pushed the table over to the window, kept the sheer curtains open just enough to look out without giving anyone a good look in, and have seen a whole shitload of nothing all day.
Until a truck pulls in to the parking lot below. Not Lowery. Thorne.
He knocks on the door a minute later, a caddy of coffee cups in hand. I take one, and after a glance at Bull, who’s snoring away on the bed, Thorne sets the caddy down and takes the other cup for himself.
He eyes the motel room door across the way. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn. “Anything yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You sleep at all?”
“Not
much.” I tried to rest the night before while Bull kept watch but I didn’t get a wink. Instead I just kept thinking about Jenny.
I know she’s fine. The brothers looking after her have checked in regularly. But it’s hell lying in any bed but hers.
He pulls up the extra folding chair we brought in. “Jenny left the house pretty early this morning.”
“She’s been working hard.”
“Girl works harder than almost any other I know,” he agrees, still looking out the window. “Is that why you two didn’t put a tree up? I couldn’t help but notice the house looks pretty damn bare this year. Just didn’t have time?”
Anyone else, I’d probably tell him to fuck off and keep his eyes on his own business. But Thorne knows Jenny—maybe better than anyone else.
“She didn’t want it,” I tell him. “And I didn’t want to push her.”
He hums low in his throat, nodding again. I figure he’s got more to say, so I wait, and for about five minutes the only sound in the room is Bull’s snoring.
Finally he says, “I’ve got two Christmas stories for you. Now, you can take them as your veep giving you advice or just take them as an old man’s ramblings.”
I know better than to take anything Thorne says as ramblings. He’s been around too long, seen too much. And he wouldn’t be my veep if I didn’t trust what he said.
“All right,” I tell him.
“The first one is about Red and Angela and Jenny. And how the first year after Angela died, Red tried to give Jenny a Christmas that was exactly what Angela’d always given. But it wasn’t the same. And he was fucking miserable. He would have been anyway, but trying to make their Christmas just like it was made it worse. Because it wouldn’t ever be the same again.”
“Jenny knows that. It’s why she’s skipping this year. She said the next year was better.”
Thorne shakes his head. “It wasn’t better. Angela was still gone and it wasn’t ever going to be better. But what made it different was that Red didn’t pretend it was the same. That year, he made a Christmas for him and Jenny. And they started making their own traditions. Now there’s no Red and Jenny. There’s you and Jenny. And of course she knows it won’t ever be the same—but my point is, you’ve got to start making your own traditions, too.”
My chest is aching. “We will.”
“And that brings me to my second point. You’ve got to be careful what traditions you make, because they’ll sneak up on you. The second story I’ll tell you is about me and my wife. Our first year, we ended up snowbound out at our place. We couldn’t get out to buy groceries, and by the time Christmas Day rolled around, Molly was down to tomato soup from a can and some grilled cheese sandwiches. So we’re eating them for our Christmas dinner, and all the while we’re making plans about the next year. That we’ll buy everything ahead of time, we’ll have that ham she’d been hoping to make, even if we have to kill our own damn hog. And being with her, making those plans, was so damn perfect. I wouldn’t have traded that first Christmas for anything.”
He pauses for a long moment, his gaze staring out the window, but I’d bet he isn’t seeing anything but his wife and that long ago day.
“Now, the next year comes around, and it’s all just like we planned. A big ham dinner, a big fucking tree. But it didn’t feel right—though I wasn’t saying anything, because I didn’t want to hurt her by telling her something was missing. Hell, I didn’t even know what was missing. Then that night she came to me with some tomato soup and grilled cheese, and all at once it was right. And we still make those soup and sandwiches. We do our thing with the kids, all that traditional shit—like that dinner I invited you to—but every Christmas night Molly and I have our own dinner, and until that moment it’s not Christmas to me.”
Stopping to take a swallow of his coffee, he glances over. “So you can make traditions without meaning to. What you’ve gotta be careful of is that you and Jenny don’t make a tradition out of grieving Red. She’s gonna grieve for him, regardless—but skipping a year might not make it better. Instead she might just end up feeling guilty next year, because maybe she’ll feel like resuming celebrations means his death doesn’t matter as much as it did the year before. And you know our girl.”
“That she’ll take on loads of guilt real easy? Yeah.”
He nods. “So that’s all I have to say. You make your own traditions. And you be careful which ones you make. All right?”
“All right.” Though I doubt it’s that easy.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes—and both notice the new arrival at the same time. A tall blond man getting out of his car with a pizza box in hand. He covers his hair with a red delivery cap.
Thorne gets up. “Is that our guy?”
“Looks like,” I say, then shake my head when Thorne reaches for the gun holstered at his back. “You won’t need that. Blowback’s over there.”
He frowns, watching Lowery climb the stairs. “A fucking pizza delivery. Is anyone stupid enough to open a door for that?”
“My father probably is.” Which reminds me of the last time food showed up at that door—a story I enjoyed too damn much. “When Bull went over there to take them lunch, he said Blowback had Carlisle tied to a chair and his mouth taped shut.”
Glancing away from where Lowery’s knocking at the other door, Thorne shoots me a look that’s half amused, half disbelieving. “Was he worried Carlisle would say something to tip Lowery off?”
“Just tired of listening to him, I guess.”
The room door opens a crack. Lowery shoves his way inside. The door slams.
Then nothing.
Thorne begins pacing, watching the windows across the way. No movement. No lights showing through the curtains. “You sure about this?”
I nod. “I figure Blowback will probably wait until dark to get rid of the body. So you can call Anthill, tell him we took care of his problem—and to come and pick up his baggage. I don’t want to see Carlisle around here again.”
We both go quiet as the door opens across the way. Blowback comes out wearing a Santa hat and carrying a bulging red sack over his shoulder. Judging by the size of that bag and the way the contents are heavy enough to make the warlord stagger a little going down the stairs, it’s not hard to guess he’s got Lowery’s body in there.
“Sweet baby Jesus.” Thorne whistles through his teeth. “What the hell do you say to that?”
Fuck if I know. “Maybe he’s in a rush to get home to Zoomie.”
Yawning and scratching his belly, Bull joins us at the window. In the parking lot below, Blowback loads Lowery’s body into the back of his rig, then reaches into the red bag and fishes around until he pulls out a crushed, blood-stained pizza box. Opening it up, he scoops out a slice and takes a bite while walking to the cab of his truck.
With another yawn, Bull looks to me, then to Thorne. “Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.
And heads back to bed.
11
Jenny
I don’t park my car in the garage when I pull up to the house—the overhead door rattles too much as it opens and is directly beneath my bedroom. Saxon’s a light sleeper and I don’t want to wake him. Judging by the exhaustion I saw on his face when he came into the brewery to kiss me and tell me everything was taken care of, he probably drove straight home to rest.
And it looks as if he did. When I tiptoe up to my bedroom, he’s sprawled facedown across the bed. For a long moment, I just look at him, my heart filled so full. I don’t know how I ended up with this man. I don’t know what I did to ever deserve him. But I am never letting him go.
I will let him sleep, though.
Quietly, I head back downstairs. The house is silent. Almost too silent after days spent working with Hashtag, listening to him caroling along to all of those Christmas songs. Now it’s Christmas Eve and the house is dark and cold.
In the kitchen, I try to warm up by starting a fire and making some hot apple cider—the same kind my m
om used to make for me on Christmas Eve. She and my dad would drink mulled wine but she’d give me hot spiced cider. After she died, my dad continued making the cider, but for both of us. No more mulled wine for him. After she died, I don’t think he ever drank it again.
Though my heart aches with the memory, thinking of it doesn’t bring real pain. Instead it brings soft heat to my cold skin, comforting warmth with every sip.
My gaze sweeps around the kitchen. No lights, no tree. I thought they’d hurt too much to have, but it almost hurts worse to know how heartbroken my mom would be if she knew I was huddled in a cold kitchen, how sad my dad would look if he walked through the front door.
It’s too late to do much. But I should do something. Not just for me. For Saxon, too. What was it his mom said? It was important to always have something.
So we will.
No gifts, though. I already told Saxon not to get me a present and there’s no time left for him to order anything. Christmas decorations, then. And dinner tomorrow. I check the fridge. One of the prospect’s duties is picking up groceries for the prez, and a glance assures me it’s stocked with everything we need—including a pecan pie. Perfect. I’m going to kiss Bottlecap the next time I see him.
A tingle of excitement grows in my chest. I grab my coat and head for the garage. My dad kept the Christmas lights above the—
The ringing of the doorbell shatters the quiet. Oh, shit. I race to the front door, stopping just long enough to glance through the peephole—Frank Carlisle, shit, shit—and see his hand rising as if he’s about to knock.
I pull the door open but don’t move out of the doorway. “Frank.”
“Jenny.” He looks relieved to see that it’s me. I don’t blame him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.” I look beyond him, where a truck sits in the driveway next to mine, its headlights off but the dome light on. Whoever’s inside doesn’t seem to care what’s going on in my doorway. The way he’s frowning down at his lighted screen, I guess he’s having difficulty getting a connection. “Just passing through on your way back home?”