by Debra Kayn
"You've been through hell," he whispered.
"So have you." She reached for him.
He shook his head. "No, Syd."
She pulled her hands back. "You only have nine months left."
"Yeah." He couldn't breathe.
"You really meant it when you said you'll come home and not be angry at me. We can go back to how it was before I went to JDH?"
Her underlying fear, unhidden from him, made him want to make damn sure he stayed alive and out of trouble. He needed to be on the outside, with her.
"It'll work." It would be different, there was no going back.
She nodded. "You look tired."
"Beat." He couldn't take his eyes off her.
She touched her forehead. "Can I see?"
He lifted his hair. The scar was no longer red and ugly like at her last visit.
Sydney flinched. "Please be careful."
"All the time." He felt time pressing down on him. Soon, they'd announce visitation was over. "Syd...you waited."
"Of course, I waited." She blinked rapidly. "I really want to talk to you. But, not here."
"Yeah." He exhaled, getting a grip. It was easy to lose himself when she was around, and prison wasn't a place to forget where he was.
Kylie returned and put two candy bars on the table. He picked one up and took a bite.
"Thanks," he said, chewing.
Kylie sat down and whispered, "You're welcome. A-and thank you. For letting me stay with my sister."
"You're Syd's family." He took another bite, knowing Sydney had no idea why he pumped up on sugar at the end of the visit. Most attacks took place during transport from and to his cell. Hyped up on sugar, he'd be stronger and have more energy to protect himself. "Who brought you today?"
Only two visitors were allowed in, and he'd had to put their names on the list for approval. Besides his immediate family, Keeffe, and D-Con, he kept everyone else away.
"Kylie." Sydney grinned. "She drove your truck. Chief said it was okay."
He harrumphed. It was his father's way of giving his approval. Whatever happened after Sydney started babysitting at the club had moved Chief into giving Sydney more leeway.
"Visitation is ending. Please tell your loved ones and friends goodbye. You have five minutes," said the male voice over the loudspeaker.
He held perfectly still, leaving his trash on the table. His cock pulsed, aware that his chance at touching Sydney had come.
"Jett." Sydney stood, shaking her head. "You can't."
He'd take the punishment for one kiss. It wouldn't delay his release, only stop him from attending visitations. There was no way in hell he'd be able to stop with only giving Sydney a hug.
He held her gaze and stepped to the side toward her. She skirted the table, keeping an arm's length away from him, unaware of the others witnessing the chase.
"I'm not going to let you ruin my chance at seeing you again," she whispered, grabbing Kylie's arm. "I can't. You can't."
"Syd," he growled.
"I'm sorry." Her eyes filled with tears. "I can't let you sacrifice your release for me."
Her tears stopped him. He held perfectly still, tense and vibrating, and finally said, "Nine months."
"Mm-hm." Her voice cracked. "Nine months."
She headed toward the exit. The strength she had was enough for both of them.
He walked to the guard and lined up without taking his gaze off her.
Losing sight of Sydney as the door closed, he looked forward and walked out of the room. Stronger and more determined to make it back to her.
Chapter Thirty
Chief's voice filled Jett's head. He stood over the toilet, his back to the bars with the cell phone hidden under his hair on his ear.
He flushed the toilet at the same time he said, "Exchange Freddy for Cash. He's worked hard enough to put him on a trial run."
Going over the setup for the next run with his father gave him something to think about while serving his sentence. Half tuned to Chief and listening for the two-clang warning from Burgess's cell announcing a guard coming up on the walk, he rolled his head on his shoulders trying to relax his shoulder muscles.
"There's unrest with our contact club," said Chief. "We're moving forward with extra eyes."
Thankful for the throwaway cell phone smuggled into his cell, he could receive enough information from Chief to figure out what was really going down on the outside. News of trouble in Komoon Motorcycle Club put the whole route used for the shipment of chopped bikes in danger. A frustrated member could try and hurt the Komoon club by snitching them out to the Feds.
Brikken could go down.
His hand tightened on the phone. "Stay aware. We don't need anyone else locked up at this time. Business is good."
More than good. They'd almost doubled the number of motorcycles getting sent to California since his incarceration.
"Right." Chief sighed. "The boys are coming next visitation."
He flushed the toilet again, muffling the sound of his voice. "Keep Sydney busy for me. She's having a hard time with the distance between us."
"Will do." Chief paused. "Things are good?"
"Yeah." That's all he'd say about Sydney over the phone. "I've got a bar on the battery left."
"Got you. I'll talk to you Thursday if not before. Watch your back, son."
"Always." He flushed the toilet, disconnected the call and powered down the phone.
He turned around, looked out the bars in both directions as far as he could. Once the coast was clear, he stepped up on his bunk and lifted the fluorescent light cover higher. He slid his hand up into the fixture and set the phone on top of the support beam. There were only a few places he could hide contraband, and he changed locations after each use.
Before next visitation, he'd break the cell up into pieces and flush them down the toilet. The vacuum on the stainless-steel shitter would suck anything down. His brothers would then deliver another cell to a guard that Brikken bought favors from, and he'd find a new phone under his pillow.
It was that easy to get communication into the prison. Luckily, numerous Brikken members had spent time on the inside. They knew which guards would turn their back or run an errand for money.
He tossed his one towel on the floor, bent over and balanced on the tips of his toes and his hands. As he performed pushups, he thought over the information his father gave him. He never doubted Chief's role as president, but it was his job to try and find another way, another angle, another solution.
Trained at an early age to think outside the box for the betterment of Brikken, he'd gone through every training exercise Chief gave him. Though at the time, he had no idea Chief groomed him for the position of president.
The lessons started young. From learning how to ride a motorcycle to getting caught stealing parts for the bikes they shipped off. Chief's way of teaching was to put Jett in the position of needing to save his ass, on his own.
His arms bunched. He pressed up, stretching his biceps, before lowering himself down again.
Thirty-six.
Thirty-seven.
Thirty-eight.
He'd forced Sydney to learn her own lessons, and maybe he'd been wrong. While he'd been raised from day one under Chief's guidance, Sydney came to him a sixteen-year-old girl—a rebel, herself. Despite the hardships, he'd pushed her away, and she'd thrived.
Forty-five.
Forty-six.
It was impossible to leave her. He'd tried getting her out of his head. There were a million reasons why she'd be better off without him.
Yet, she had him running downhill, going faster and faster, with no way to slow down. The momentum of their relationship had him falling fast.
Fifty-one.
Fifty-two.
Damn, she looked good last time she came to the prison. His muscles strained. As much as he hated her coming in this fucking cesspool, he couldn't deny himself the sight of her. Her sweet voice calmed him.
Fifty-eight.
Fifty-nine.
Sweat broke out on his back. He powered through the monotonous exercise. It was the only way to wear off the frustration of not having Sydney beside him.
He wanted to go home.
Sixty-five.
Sixty-six.
Sixty-seven.
His life settled around him. He had his woman, his home, and all he needed was his place in the club.
Seventy-four.
Seventy-five.
Positive he'd made the right choices for his life, he planned on making sure Sydney understood she belonged to him.
Eighty.
Eighty-one.
Eighty-two.
Once he got out, he'd show her exactly what it meant to be his woman. She'd be protected, honored, and loved. In the same respect as Rollo's wife and Chief's woman. The Stanton men loved completely and proudly.
Ninety-five.
He'd need to close his circle and trust no man. He wouldn't make the mistakes of others.
Ninety-eight.
He strained, pushing himself up.
Ninety-nine.
Gritting his teeth, he lowered himself one more time.
One-hundred.
He pushed himself to his feet, not wanting to lay on the filthy prison floor. Sweeping up his towel, he moved to the toilet and found the sliver of soap he bought out of commissary and proceeded to wash the rough, dingy material in the toilet water.
The conditions he was forced to live in were bottom of the barrel. He kept the toilet as clean as he could to make sure his towel and socks were halfway usable.
They'd stripped him of his underwear and T-shirt upon arrival to the prison. Anything not white wasn't allowed. He had a jumper, slippers, socks, towel, toothbrush.
The sweat he'd created dried on his skin. The chill in the air only took the cold deeper into his body. Nothing helped him get warm. Exercise only masked the achy temperature.
He needed Sydney.
He needed the warmth of her love.
In prison, all he could hear was the constant taunts, the soul-sucking depression, the urgent pulse to fix the pain he caused Sydney.
Chapter Thirty One
Sydney nudged Kylie with her elbow and shared a grin outside the Brikken clubhouse. With only Stassi wanting to come play with them tonight, Johanna had retrieved her daughter after an hour and told them they could go home early.
That never happened on a Saturday night, unless the Brikken men were going on a ride the next day. No one mentioned the men leaving, but without Jett involved, she couldn't expect anyone to volunteer the information to her.
"Let's do something special." Kylie skipped ahead and walked backward in front of her. "Name one thing you want."
"Jett." She swung her purse over her shoulder.
Kylie groaned. "Not who...a thing. Something we can splurge on in celebration of your birthday last weekend."
Since getting permission to use Jett's truck whenever they wanted, Kylie used any excuse to go to the store. Not the nearest store, but the one at the bottom of The Hill, where her ex-boyfriend, Milo, worked stocking shelves while he waited to head off to college soon.
"Oh, let me think." She tapped her chin. "Root beer floats?"
"Perfect." Kylie danced into position beside her as they reached the truck. "I'll even use my money to buy you a travel mug for coffee since you wouldn't let me buy you a gift."
"You know how I feel about birthdays. It's like celebrating that I'm one year closer to death," she muttered opening the door.
"Would you stop that? You're twenty-one, not eighty-one." Kylie hurried around the truck and slid into the driver's seat.
She put her foot on the running board when she heard her name called. "Hang on a second."
Turning around, she covered the glare of the floodlight with her hand and peered around the yard of the clubhouse, spotting a woman waving her arm above her head. Not recognizing the voice, she stayed by the truck and waved back that she'd heard and would wait.
An older woman slowed as she came into view. "I have something for you."
Not recognizing the woman, she hesitantly became curious. "For me?"
"Yes." The woman stopped and inhaled deeply. "I’m sorry. I haven't introduced myself, and you're probably thinking I'm a crazy woman. I'm Karla."
"Hello," she mumbled.
Karla laughed at Sydney's confusion. "I'm Jett's mom."
"Oh." Sydney sagged in relief. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Syd—nevermind, you already know my name."
"Jett told me about you over the phone, and that's why I'm here." Karla smiled.
His mom was a beautiful woman. One of those women with gray hair that remained slim and classy while wearing Boho shirts and sandals with a pair of jeans that left people guessing their age.
"He wanted me to give you this." Karla held up a plastic Safeway bag. "It's for your birthday, though after finding out what he wanted me to do, I realize I've failed as a mother, and I hope when your next birthday comes around, he ups his game and gets you something...more special."
Curious, she took the bag and opened it up. Before she could see what was inside, coldness permeated the bag, freezing her hands. Recognizing the frozen bags of sugar snap peas, she laughed.
"He remembered." She pulled one out and showed Kylie in the truck, making her laugh, too. "Thank you so much for doing this for him. He knows these are my favorite things to eat. He doesn't agree with my taste in food, but yeah...this makes me really happy."
"I'm glad." Karla stepped back and smiled. "I'll let you two get on with your night. I'm going to say hi to whoever is inside the clubhouse and then head home myself. I just wanted to make sure I got that to you before you left."
"Thank you again, and it was nice to meet you." She climbed up into the truck.
Karla waved. "We'll see each other again. I'm sure of it."
Encased in happiness, she set the unwrapped present on the bench seat and buckled herself in. More than anything, Jett remembering her favorite food showed he'd been paying attention all those years ago.
A quick stop at the gate and Kylie drove away from Brikken property. Sydney turned on the radio. "Let's go to the store."
She wasn't the only one who deserved to be happy. Milo and Kylie's relationship was sweet. They both liked each other but realized they had different goals at the moment. As someone watching from the outside, she couldn't help but compare their relationship with her and Jett. She'd never set out to fall in love with an older man, but now that she had, she wouldn't trade Jett for the world.
Behind them, two bikers followed them. The noise from their engines was louder than the truck on the county road. Sydney couldn't contain her smile, and their escorts couldn't sour her mood.
"STANTON?" OLSON RATTLED the bars. "Soon that cell won't protect you."
Jett latched his hands behind his head, laying on the cot. Only a cinderblock wall separated Olson from him. In his head, he went over his motorcycle. Each part, each bolt, each chain link, trying to focus on something else besides Olson's endless taunts. He couldn't count how many times he'd torn apart his Harley and put it back together again without touching the bike.
"Count your days, man." Olson laughed. "Jersey says...you remember Jersey, right?"
Jett's forehead throbbed, and he sat up on the cot, putting his feet on his prison-issued slippers. Bitch whipping the man with a homemade chain in the yard made Jett remember the damage he'd done.
"He's out there. Probably sampling your girls," said Olson.
Ignore him. Push it away. Shit talk. Don't mean nothing. He rubbed his hands over his head, sweeping his hair back.
"Damn pretty things." Olson chuckled. "Never thought you'd have daughters that fucking fresh."
Sydney and Kylie. Word had gotten back about their visit with him and made the rounds. He fisted his hands, trying to release the tension battling inside of him. Olson thought they were his daughters.
To
correct Olson would only show his weakness. He stepped over and flushed the toilet, drowning out the other man's taunts.
But, he couldn't keep flushing. Olson would realize that he'd found a rip in the barrier Jett put up. He had to remain strong.
"Jersey's probably found your girls by now." Olson laughed. "What's one more rape, huh? Motherfucker likes them young."
Jett ground his teeth together. He walked to the farthest corner of the cell. An area he stayed out of because his last cellmate used the corner as a urinal.
"Man, I'd like to see that fucker sink into your girl. Bet she's got a nice, wet, tight, box."
Jett's neck stiffened, and he shook his arms at his sides.
"Word is he's already there, knocking on the door." Olson paused. "Out there on Turbeck Road..."
Jett lunged toward the bars and pressed his body against the iron rods at hearing the location of his house. He stretched his arm as far as he could, reaching for Olson. Rage blurred his vision. He roared, wildly trying to grab Olson through the bars so he could snap his fucking arm off.
"Lost it there, man. Jersey's probably popping their cherries. Man, I would love to feel their sweet pussies covering me. Riding me up and down."
Jett pulled his arm back in the cell and punched the cement wall. Over and over to the cackle of Olson describing what Jersey was doing to Sydney until there was nothing left of his hand but a hanging bloody mess.
Stumbling, he fell against the cot. Reaching under the mat they called a mattress, he searched for the rip and shoved his uninjured hand inside and removed the hidden cell phone. He went to the corner, stood over the toilet, and called Chief.
"Son?"
"Get the girls," he whispered hoarsely. "Get the fuck over to the house and take them to the clubhouse. Put them on lockdown."
Chief talked on a different phone, issuing orders, and came back to Jett. "What are we heading into?"
"Jersey and fuck knows how many others," he answered.
"Jersey? From Sparrows?"
"Yeah. Fuck." He squeezed his eyes against the sweat running into his eyes. "Don't let anything happen to them, Chief. Promise me, don't let them be touched."