by Malcom, Anne
But Cade had put out the same threat if anyone touched her. Both siblings were likely to make good on their threat, but Cade would not only take his manhood but his cut too.
He didn’t exactly choose the lesser of two evils.
But his dick had stayed attached to his body and his cut stayed on his back.
Rosie’s features softened, as she revealed the kind, and bleeding heart she hid underneath her murderous and beautiful exterior.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
A lot of the men in the club had been her family too. Her and Cade had shit for a mother, their dad died in an old club war, so she grew up amongst it all. She had hundreds of uncles, brothers, cousins.
And she loved them all.
This cut her.
Even deeper because he knew that she blamed herself for what happened. She was the one that pissed off Fernandez in the first place. Pissed off being she spent almost a year in Venezuela, picking off as many of the human traffickers as she could, trying to shut down one of the biggest and most dangerous flesh peddling cartels in the world.
That was Rosie.
And as she was fearless, she wasn’t heartless. No, her big heart was what got her in, and out of trouble. Not one fucking patched member in the entire country blamed her, least of all Jagger.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know what you lost. Because of—”
“You’re gonna stop right fuckin’ there,” Luke hissed, snatching her hand in ruthless tenderness. He brought it to his lips, not giving a fuck about what that kind of thing would look like in front of Jagger and half the club.
Jagger had a respect for the man. Because he didn’t hesitate to kill now, and because he wasn’t trying to get the rest of the club behind bars. And because he wasn’t afraid to show his woman affection, no matter who was watching. What they had, shit, a cold-hearted fucker like Jagger could taste it.
Only because he’d had a version of that sweetness on his tongue, no matter how long ago, that shit embedded itself. Like muscle memory. Like a parasite, sucking away at your soul.
And now he had the source of that sweetness locked in his room at the clubhouse. He was rotting quicker than death.
“This is not your fault,” Luke hissed at his wife, oblivious to the shit swirling in Jagger’s head, oblivious to anyone but the five foot nothing piston wearing a mini skirt and stilettos in a warehouse full of illegal weapons.
“Second that,” Jagger cut in, mostly because he meant it but also he couldn’t witness their shit. However fucked up it was, it was copasetic, and all he had was fucked up. He wasn’t a jealous guy, but for some reason, seeing two people he respected in whatever version of a happy ever after those in this world were afforded made him want to kill someone.
“No way is this your fault,” he said, meaning every word. “You know the men in these charters would’ve done the exact same thing as you, though likely not as effectively.”
She scoffed, looking at him but not letting go of her husband’s hand. “Of course you wouldn’t have been as effective as me.” She paused her bravado fading. “I brought this war to the club.”
“Said stop,” Jagger said roughly. “You are part of this club, your wars are our wars. We’ll fight to our last man.”
There was a chorus of agreements from behind him. Rosie was beloved, feared and respected in every charter in the country.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, don’t get all Braveheart over it.” She narrowed her eyes. “And stop kidnapping high-ranking members of his crew and torturing and killing them. Unless you get useful information. Which you didn’t. Because you won’t. These men are trained to die before they give up information.”
“Well they’re gonna die regardless, so we were really just being efficient,” Claw cut in with a grin.
Rosie grinned back. “Well as much as I appreciate you trying to be efficient, efficiency could fuck up our whole operation.”
“What operation?” Swiss cut in, not smiling. “We’ve had nothing since this shit happened.”
Rosie didn’t react to the obvious hostility in his tone, despite the fact Luke did, glaring at the man in question and going on guard.
Jagger didn’t blame him. Swiss was a cold motherfucker. Named that way because he was a fucking Swiss Army knife when it came to killing and torturing. He had a plethora of ways to inflict pain and end a life. He wasn’t Army, Navy, or Special Forces. He was a fucking psychopath.
Rosie smiled. “You haven’t anything to do since you’ve been chopping off the digits of high ranking soldiers in the cartel.” She tilted her head. “I know probably peanuts considering your...skills, but we’ll have the rest soon enough. I know none of you have virtues, but pretend you at least have patience, for me?”
Swiss rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. Rosie could even charm psychopaths. Which made sense, considering Fernandez kidnapped her and she managed to get out of his clutches without a fucking scratch. Probably one of the first women in history who could boast such a thing.
“Cade know you’re here?” Jagger asked conversationally.
Rosie scowled. “I’m a grown ass woman, he’s not my fucking keeper. He’s got enough to brood about over in Amber, like how shiny his hair is or if his grunts are manly enough.”
“So that’s a no,” Jagger deduced. “He won’t like you taking point on this.”
Understatement of the fucking century. Cade adored his sister, he’d gone through hell with the women in his life and he’d move heaven and more accurately, hell to make sure that happened again. He had a family to protect and Cade was a man who needed to be in control.
Rosie could not be controlled.
“Cade doesn’t like the color pink, but that does not stop his entire house being decorated in that shade since his daughter is currently obsessed with it,” she shot back. “He is not Oz, All Great and Powerful.”
Jagger shook his head.
He knew that Rosie was not in danger. Well, for Rosie.
They were all in danger.
But she had a husband who would die for her. They had a security team back in L.A. full of highly trained motherfuckers. Plus, that bitch had connections all over the country, probably more than the Sons of Templar.
And they needed every single fucking one if they were gonna take down Fernandez and survive.
She glanced around their warehouse. “This is the shipment from the Russians?”
Jagger nodded once.
It was normally an offense punishable by death, talking about this shit with a woman and with an ex fucking cop present. But things were far from normal these days.
And Rosie was somewhat of a permanent exception.
“You’re running them out to the clubs tonight?” she asked, walking over to an AK-47, loading a magazine, releasing the charging handle, then emptying the clip in their designated testing area.
Gunshots echoed off the walls for a beat before she put it down and waltzed back over like she was on a fucking catwalk.
And damn did she work it.
Jagger had appreciated this for a long time. Enough to be tempted.
But now, he barely fucking saw this.
All he saw was Caroline. Even now. Which was dangerous. His head needed to be in the game.
“Good,” she said, as Luke yanked her into his side, death glaring his brothers, who Jagger guessed had been checking her out.
They were only human.
He glanced to an expressionless Swiss.
Well, most of them.
“You’re gonna need more.”
Only half of this was for personal use. The rest was to sell. The club needed all the money they could get. War was expensive.
Jagger nodded. “The Russians are coming in a few days.”
“Great. Good. We’ve got intel that Fernadez is gonna be stateside within the next two months. Could be a trap. Almost certainly is. But you know what happens when you try and trap the devil?” She gri
nned. “All hell breaks loose.”
Jagger shook his head again. Almost grinned.
Almost.
“Now, let’s talk happier things,” she continued. “I hear you’ve got a woman locked in your room at the clubhouse.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, not even bothering to wonder how Rosie knew. She was like that Tyrion Lannister on that show Macy made them all watch, she drank and she knew things. And apparently she considered holding a woman captive as good news.
“Just wait until after all this shakes out before the wedding, we don’t want a gunfight at the reception.” Her eyes glowed. “But that’s gonna happen regardless.”
Jagger stiffened. “There’s not gonna be a wedding,” he clipped.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course there is. I thought it might’ve been Sarah, I tentatively cheered for you, but I knew it wasn’t her. Not enough drama. But now a reporter, world famous and kick ass mind you, being held captive by an old flame she thought was...farther south, should we say? Or north, depending on how well someone knows you.” She winked.
This time Jagger reacted. Because yeah, he was shocked. Rosie was not acting like this was new information, who he really was. He wondered how long she’d known. Probably longer than he’d like to admit.
“That information doesn’t exist,” he said through gritted teeth, mindful of his brothers listening. Not that he wanted to keep it a secret out of anything but shame and cowardice.
She shrugged. “Skeletons don’t sweep under the rug very well. Nor do they stay in closets very long. I know my way around a closet.” She waved her hand at her outfit as if that explained shit.
She gave him those kind eyes again. “Your secret’s safe with me. Unless I don’t get invited to the wedding, then I’m making a Podcast or something.”
He crossed his arms. “It’s not like that, Rosie, seriously.”
She sighed. “It’s always like that.”
She kissed Luke. “Tell him, honey,” she said sweetly.
Luke held his wife tight and glanced at Jagger. “Not somethin’ you can tell, unfortunately, it’s something you’re gonna have to learn the hard way.”
Because Jagger was a coward, he didn’t want to learn the hard way, he took a run delivering guns, as if the road could clear Caroline from his veins.
Chapter Thirteen
Caroline
I didn’t see him for five days.
I told myself that was welcome, that was a good thing. I didn’t need distractions from him or the past he carried around with him.
I needed Hansen to trust me.
I needed the story.
And then I needed to get the fuck out of here.
Even if I was falling into some kind of routine. Even if, in a weird way, I was liking my work at the bar. Liking the way that Blake spoke to me in gruff curses and sexist remarks and soft eyes. Mine and Claw’s banter that bore no evidence of the fact he’d been willing to kill me a fortnight ago. The fact that Macy came to have coffee with me every day, bringing her beautiful little sons and all of the Lord of the Rings movies for us to get through.
Somewhere between Middle Earth and Mt. Doom, I told her everything.
I had never given so much of myself while on a story.
Or ever.
I didn’t have close friends, apart from Emily. And the only reason she knew about my sordid past was because vodka shouldn’t be drunk on an empty stomach. I hadn’t mentioned a word after.
Neither had she.
I had friends in the industry, most of us didn’t get close because we might’ve been friendly, but we were also competition. We all wanted the story, the scoop. And even those I wasn’t in competition with, I needed to detach from, because the possibility of them dying was high.
And there also wasn’t much opportunity to get deep and meaningful in the middle of a warzone. In the middle of a story.
And here I was, in the middle of both, and getting deep and meaningful with a woman I only just met, a woman who used to fuck Liam.
Her reaction to the story was not the same as Scarlett’s. Though they were both good women, they were very fricking different women.
Scarlett was all hard edges, barely letting anything in, mainly so nothing got let out of all those carefully locked closets full of skeletons. I knew that because that was me too.
Macy was the opposite. She was soft. Warm. She let me in, she let my pain in and made it her own. She was crying about one-minute into the story.
Then she turned dry-eyed after giving me yet another hug. I was beginning to get used to it, like I was used to waking up in a biker compound, not being allowed anywhere but the bar I worked. I was getting used to the violence.
But I was not getting used to Liam’s absence. Though I had almost fifteen years of practice.
“Get to know him,” Macy said when I finished. “He might not be the man he was, but he’s a good man. You might even like him.”
I already knew I liked him. Whoever he was now. That was the problem.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Because the more I get to know this man called Jagger, the less he is Liam. And when I know Jagger fully, it’s gonna be unavoidable, I’ll have to accept that he’s not Liam, that Liam’s really gone. In a way that is worse than before. What if I can’t forgive him?”
I did it. I voiced that great fear from a little voice inside me. Confessed it to a woman I barely knew.
Macy smiled sadly and squeezed my hand. “Human beings are capable of some of the most horrific things,” she said. “So I think it stands to reason that human beings are also capable of forgiving some of the most horrific acts.”
This time I cried.
And Macy hugged me.
And I let her.
Scarlett texted me every day, now she was back in Amber.
Not saying poignant and soulful things like Macy.
The first day...
Unknown: Have you boned him yet?
Me: I’m guessing this is Scarlett.
Me: And no. We’ve got the complicated issue of him pretending to be dead.
Scarlett: Sex won’t uncomplicate it but at least you’ll get an orgasm. You both need it.
I’d rolled my eyes and smiled. But a smile was a big thing these days. The rest of the texts were along the same vein, sometimes her talking about the other old ladies, just chatting. I got the feeling that Scarlett was not a woman to text someone and just chat.
Neither was I.
But I needed it.
I couldn’t admit that I was beginning to like some of the members of the Sons of Templar, and becoming friends with their wives.
I couldn’t have that personal connection to them, because that would taint my story. Taint the truth. Though, the truth was always going to be tainted.
My story was going nowhere fast. I was witnessing things people already knew about biker clubs, the scantily clad women, the drinking, the violence—there was a cage fight every Wednesday night that I’d been invited to the week previous—and in the daytime hours, they ran a garage.
But they were doing other things.
Running guns like Jagger had admitted.
Torturing enemies like I’d witnessed.
They were gearing up for retributions toward the man that ordered the massacre of the entire club.
I had heard back from my friend, a source that I would never disclose, and he said the Fernandez had deep pockets and no soul. He owned every government official that could be owned, and his client list had hundreds of international dignitaries, movie stars, everyone you wouldn’t expect to participate in human trafficking, really.
I knew all this, or at least a version.
My source did tell me something interesting, latest reports had him in Russia. And the Sons of Templar dealt with the Russians for their guns.
It could be a coincidence...
I snapped my laptop shut as the door opened so hard that it fell off one of its hinges. I jerked off my bed—Liam
’s bed—immediately, with an instinctive reaction that had become second nature when I’d had to be prepared for my hotel to be bombed while covering a story.
But this wasn’t an explosive.
Not in the form of a bomb at least.
It was a bomb in the form of a human.
In the form of Liam.
But I needed to stop looking at him like he was Liam. Because he was Jagger. With muscles and ink and scars and a motorcycle cut to remind me of that. I might’ve been able to convince myself of this fact had it not been for those eyes. Those green eyes shining like carved emeralds from his hard face. Every time I met those eyes, I could never think of this man as Jagger. He was Liam to me, still. Or maybe I was holding onto that shred of naiveté that other people called hope. Hope that I was not in a biker compound with strangers. That Liam was here. That Liam would protect me if things got bad. And things were going to get bad. There was something in the atmosphere, a thickness I’d felt countless times.
And the bad, it was here.
It was here in the form of Liam—of Jagger—breaking down a door with blood covering his hands and death in those emerald eyes.
I rushed forward even when my survival instincts told me to stay back.
“No,” he growled, voice guttural as I got close. It was strange, it was somehow, distant, almost removed from his body as he spoke. He glanced down to the hands he’d put up to bar me from coming closer. They were stained crimson.
A quick scan at his body told me it wasn’t his.
My body relaxed even though it told me things I shouldn’t want to know.
“I need to wash this off,” he said, looking down to his hands, speaking mostly to himself.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
His eyes moved from his hands to me, running them up my body. I was in leggings and an oversized tee. It was his tee. I hadn’t intended to torture myself by wearing it, but my hands had acted of their own accord, reaching into his drawers after my shower, lifting the fabric to my nose.