Collect the Pieces (Lost Kings MC #25)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jigsaw

The ride to Margot’s place is a hell of a lot different in my cage. The old 4Runner handles like a tank, stiff and bouncy over every crack in the road. Feels like I’m steering a cinder block on wheels. It’s survived years of New York winters, potholes the size of craters, and my general lack of giving a shit, so I should be thankful it’s running at all.

I made one of the prospects give it a thorough detailing, so it’s clean for my girl and she won’t be brushing road salt off of her jeans when she climbs in. It’s not classy enough for my pretty little lady death. But it wasn’t built for class—it was built for survival. Just like me.

Wind whistles through the driver’s side window, a reminder that the seal is barely hanging on. I should’ve fucking fixed that.

I tighten my grip on the wheel. Driving always makes me feel like a raccoon trapped in a giant dumpster. I’m more than ready to be out of this steel cage. Unfortunately, I’ve got at least another hour to go to get to Margot’s and then an hour back to the clubhouse. I might be out of my skull by the time we get there.

Nah, I’m taking my frustration out on my trusty old cage for no reason. Am I worried about officially introducing Margot to the club as my girlfriend? Is that what’s giving me the itch to claw my way through the windshield? I’ve never had an ol’ lady. Never specifically brought a woman to the clubhouse to introduce her as mine .

In fact, I’ve talked a lot of shit about never wanting an ol’ lady and how I relish variety in my bedmates. I’m more than willing to eat my words if my brothers want to razz my ass—I deserve it. But I’d rather not have them say that shit in front of Margot. It’s one thing for me to tell her I never did relationships before her. It’s totally different to have it confirmed in grotesque detail over and over by every member of my club…and probably a few bunnies too.

Fuck.

Hope said the party should be bunny-free. Please let her be the one who had final say over the guest list.

I glance over at the passenger seat. A small brown gift bag with a red and black plaid ribbon tied around the twine handles waits for Margot. I’ve never gotten a girl a gift before. Usually, my presence is enough of a gift. But I saw it and immediately thought of Margot.

Will she think it’s weird or too much?

Too soon?

No. It’s practical. Useful. She’ll like it.

Finally, her house comes into view. I tap the brakes, grimacing as the 4Runner dips forward too hard. Forgot how stiff the front suspension is. Instead of detailing it, I should’ve replaced the shocks.

The parking lot’s empty, so I stop right by the porch stairs. Before I even take the key out, Margot’s trotting down the steps with a hot-pink backpack that’s almost as big as her slung over her shoulder and a long, wide Tupperware container tucked under her arm.

I jump out of the truck and meet her at the bottom of the steps. “I’m more than happy to come to the door, you know.” I slide my fingers under the strap and pull her bag off her shoulder.

“Yes, but I’m eager to see you.” She hooks her arms around my neck and lifts on her tiptoes to press a warm kiss to my lips.

“I approve.” I curl my free arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Do I really have you for the whole weekend?”

“Sure do. Paul promised not to let my dad call me for any reason.” The first hint of nervousness ripples over her face. She stands back and sweeps her hand over her outfit—sleek, dark jeans, dark green lace-up boots, and a green and blue flannel shirt—utterly fucking adorable. “I hope this is okay. I know I promised to wear something with easier access if you wanted to chase me through the woods.” The corners of her mouth curl into a hesitant smile. “But it’s supposed to be chilly.”

“Trust me, if I want to get those pants off, they’re gone.” I pinch the soft flannel material of her sleeve and rub it between my fingers. “You look perfect.”

“I talked to Shelby.” She ducks her head, almost shyly. “She said she was wearing jeans and a hoodie, so I thought this would be okay.”

Thank you, Shelby. I hadn’t even asked her to call Margot. “I’ve got a sweatshirt or two in the truck if you get cold.”

“Or you can keep me warm.”

Chuckling, I turn her toward the truck, open the back door, and toss her bag inside, then walk her to the passenger side. “I plan to. Don’t worry.”

I swing her door open and wince as the hinges squeak. “Ahh, it’s not really…” worthy of you. “In the best shape. It runs great, we won’t get stranded or anything,” I hurry to add. “But I usually only drive it in the winter, to get groceries, or big stuff.”

Why am I acting as nervous as a high school sophomore going on my first date?

“It’s got four wheels and a roof, I’m happy.” She grips the side handle and lifts herself up into the seat but pauses midway.

“Oh! Yeah. This is for you.” I pluck the bag off the seat and hand it to her once she’s settled inside. I slam the door and hurry to my side.

She’s still staring at the bag once I get behind the wheel.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Open it.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” she murmurs, as she gently tugs the plaid ribbon free.

“You don’t have to give me anything.” I reach over and rest my hand on her leg. “You coming up there with me tonight is already a gift.”

The sweetest smile lights up her whole face as she pulls out the long, flat box.

Please don’t think it’s weird.

I don’t want that smile to leave her face.

She pries the lid off.

A tiny wrinkle forms between her eyebrows as she takes in the hand-stitched leather case. Her fingers skim over the smooth surface before she unsnaps the button at the top and carefully tips it sideways.

Her eyes widen, and her lips part as the knife slides into her open palm.

“Oh, wow!” she gasps, tracing her finger along the handle.

I knew she’d like it.

The abalone shell gleams in the afternoon light, the swirling blues and greens shifting like moonlight over the ocean. It’s elegant but tough, just like her.

She rests the box and case in her lap and carefully flicks the blade open. “It opens so smoothly. I hate when I break a nail trying to work the blade free.”

“Yeah, it was designed to be easy for daintier hands to use.” I trace my finger over her knuckles, wanting her to understand that wasn’t meant as a criticism.

She turns the knife slightly, watching how the light catches the blade’s dark rippling pattern. “That’s from the layering, right? That’s what gives it the design—kind of like a fingerprint.”

I exhale a slow breath. She knows just by looking at it. Could she be more perfect for me?

“Yeah. It’s handmade Damascus steel, layered, welded, then hammered.” I tap the side of the blade. “It holds its edge. Stronger than it looks.”

Her lips curve into a small smile at that last part.

“It’s beautiful.” She picks it up, balancing it carefully in her palm.

Then her gaze flicks up to mine, sharp and assessing. “Jigsaw,” she says, almost like a gentle scolding. “This must’ve been expensive.”

I shrug. “I thought it suited you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“It’s small but elegant. Beautiful. And—most important— deadly .”

She laughs softly. “I really love it.”

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Good.”

“Will you be upset if I stick it in my pocket right now?” she asks. “Instead of putting it back in the box?”

“No, why would that upset me? I want you to use it.”

She shifts to the side slightly and wiggles her hand into her front jeans pocket. “Well, I don’t want to lose it.”

I should’ve gotten it engraved. Something sappy like “J loves M?” No, I haven’t actually said that to her yet. How weird would it be to give it to her on a knife? Maybe something funnier she’d appreciate, like slay all day ?

“I can take it and get your initials engraved on it if you’d like?”

“That might be nice.”

I twist the key in the ignition to get us moving. “We don’t want to be late for dinner or everyone will mercilessly rag on us.”

She turns and sets the bag on the back seat. “We wouldn’t want that.” I wait while she clicks her seat belt into place. “I thought it was just a bonfire? Like hotdogs and s’mores.”

“It started out that way but then Murphy said he was going to make chili since it’s chilly out.” I roll my eyes. “His dad jokes are reaching a new level of annoying lately.”

Margot titters with laughter.

“Heidi wanted to make cornbread to go with the chili—oh, and the chili meat is probably venison because a bunch of the guys hunt up at the property.”

“I like venison,” she says.

Thank God. I’d been bracing myself for a lecture about how mean hunting is. But I should’ve known Margot’s more practical than that.

“Shelby’s allergic to tomatoes,” I continue, listing off the bits of the menu I remembered, “so Trinity said she’d make mac and cheese.”

“Ooo.” Margot lets out a delighted moan. “I love homemade mac and cheese.”

“I’m sure there will be other stuff—I should’ve mentioned earlier that the menu expanded. You didn’t eat dinner, yet?”

“Nope. I was planning to stuff myself with s’mores.” She turns slightly, gesturing toward the back seat. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed, so I made a batch of inside-out chocolate chip cookies.”

Cookies? I’d been too nervous about giving her the knife, I didn’t think to ask what was in the box. “Inside-out cookies?”

“They’re fudgy chocolate cookies with white chocolate chips. Sometimes I put pecans in them too, but I wasn’t sure if anyone was allergic to nuts.”

“Those sound awesome. Give me one now.”

“What! No. They’re for the party.”

I turn toward her and smoosh my face into pleading puppy mode. “Come on, please ? You know how much I love cookies.”

Laughing, she turns and stretches, reaching for the container. After some muttering and cursing, she settles back into her seat and hands over a dark brown cookie speckled with white chips. The sweet, chocolaty aroma hits my nose and my stomach grumbles. “They look tasty. Smell good too.”

“I’m happy with how they turned out.”

I bite it almost in half and groan with happiness. They’re chewy at the edges and softer in the middle. Too good to share. “You leave these right where they are tonight. They’re all mine.”

“No!” she laughs and slaps my thigh. “They’re for the party. I’ll make you your own batch next time I bake. Promise.”

I’m too busy munching on the other half to complain. “Mrfkay,” I mumble around the cookie.

Margot uncaps the bottle of Coke in my cupholder and hands it to me. I take a long swig and hand it back to her. “Thanks.”

I hit a jagged piece of road and from the corner of my eye, catch Margot bracing herself against the door.

Shit.

My sour mood about the truck roars back to life. For fuck’s sake , she’s going to think the only kinds of vehicles I like are death traps. “Sorry.” I tighten my grip on the wheel. “The suspension is kinda stiff. Gonna be even bumpier when we reach the clubhouse.”

“I’m fine.” She bounces once in the seat, testing it like it’s an office chair she plans to bring home. “Don’t forget, I’m used to my tiny classic car. It’ll rattle your teeth on rough roads sometimes.” She leans forward, staring straight ahead. “Besides, I really like how high up this sits. I don’t feel like a bug some monster truck could drive right over.”

She’s just being nice, but her words take the edge off of my frustration.

After that our conversation dwindles down to not much. It’s not the usual comfortable silence we’re able to share. It leaves me tense and itchy. I glance over at Margot a few times. Her hands are clenched tight in her lap and she’s staring out the window with a grim expression.

“You all right?” I ask, reaching over and resting my hand over hers.

She slowly unclenches her fists.

“Margot, what’s wrong?” I try again.

“Are you sure you want to take me to your club?”

Why is she asking me that now?

“Uh, yeah.” I wave one hand toward the windshield. “We’re literally halfway there. Why would you even ask? I thought you were excited?”

“I mean, now that you know what I am…about my side hobby .” She draws out the words for emphasis, as if I can’t figure out her meaning.

If only she could understand how well she’ll fit in. “What you are is a deeply compassionate person with a strong stomach and even stronger sense of justice. You’ll be right at home.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Anyone else posing that question would clang my danger alarm. Not Margot. “Anything.”

She hesitates for a few beats as if she’s rethinking her question. “The night your club came to— borrow the facilities — who went into the retort? Were they random club enemies or was it more…personal?”

We’re already in that crime together, so I don’t hesitate. “Both. But what sealed their fate that night was that they kidnapped Charlotte’s brother and chopped off his toe.”

“Holy hell. Really?”

“Yup. Sent it to Charlotte in a fucking box.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s a tough little dude. But I’ve overheard Charlotte say it was bothering him for a while, he just didn’t want anyone to know.”

“That’s awful.” She’s silent again. Probably debating if the loss of a pinky toe was worth killing over.

“They were also holding a girl, June, hostage and did some pretty heinous stuff to her.” I glance down and frown, brushing my hand over my side. “They stabbed Rooster…”

“Wow.” She blows out a breath. “I read about motorcycle clubs and how a lot of disputes stem from petty beefs over territory or perceived insults. But that’s a lot more than riding through town wearing your colors and not calling ahead.”

Pleased she remembered that bit of protocol, I nod. “That’s an interesting way to put it. You’re right. Some clubs aren’t very level-headed and beef over dumb shit.” I consider my words more carefully. I want Margot to feel comfortable in my world, not live in fear that we try to murder each other. But I also want to be honest with her. “My first charter could be that way sometimes. It’s gotten them into trouble more than once over the years.”

“Is that the reason you and Rooster left?” she asks. “Bad decision making?”

I nod once, then let out a dark laugh. “That, and the old president wanted to pump him full of lead for dating his daughter.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Rooster’s big, white ass wishes I was joking.”

“I’ll never tell anyone you shared that with me,” she says in a solemn tone, understanding my club might not approve.

Even so, I need her to understand the stakes. “We try not to drag the women into club specifics.” Sometimes that’s easier said than done .

“Kinda hard to do that when someone sends your wife her brother’s toe ,” she points out.

“Uh, yeah,” I agree. “Each brother decides for himself how much he shares with his ol’ lady.” I swallow hard, wary of even the potential sting of betrayal. “If she ever betrays the MC, he’s the one who suffers the punishment from the club.”

“What form of punishment?”

“Depends on the depth of the betrayal.” Am I really sharing this much detail with her already? Worse, am I doing it right before I take her to hang out with the club for her first visit as my girlfriend? Truth is, if an ol’ lady snitches to the cops, they’d probably both end up six feet under. “Most punishments come in the form of cash or blood.”

“So, a fine or a beating?” Her voice is full of curiosity, like she’s trying to swallow our brand of family justice. “No permanent disfigurement?”

Good God, her mind is fascinating and sharp as a blade. I want to crawl inside her brain and live there. “Like cutting off a finger or something? No. If we strip someone’s patch, and they don’t end up in the ground, they have to get rid of any and all Lost Kings MC ink. Method is up to them.” I gesture to my arms and shoulders. “But you’ve seen how covered a lot of us are.”

“Covering all that ink could be disfiguring in its own way.”

“Right, and if they don’t do it in a specific time frame…” I let the idea hang for a few beats. “Then we do it for them?—”

“And not in a neat, artistic fashion, I assume,” she says with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

I tilt my head to the side in answer.

When she doesn’t say anything, I glance over.

She lifts her eyebrows, silently demanding more detail.

“I’ve only seen that happen once,” I say. “When I was a prospect in Washington.”

“Let me guess, the president wanted you and Rooster to watch, so you’d fully grasp the price of betrayal?”

My brothers have no idea how much Margot’s going to deserve that property patch I’m giving her one day. “I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. It doesn’t happen often, though,” I hurry to add. “Club here spends a lot of time vetting brothers before we vote them in, and they get their full patch. Especially now.”

“Now?”

I sigh and shift my gaze to the approaching highway sign. Our exit’s coming up. Can I finish this before we get to the clubhouse? This story might be giving Margot too much history.

Fuck it.

“Our old president was a little too busy enjoying the benefits of his position instead of actually running the club. Some bad apples slipped into Downstate’s barrel. Or they turned rotten over time. He paid a price for his laziness.” Sway got a fucking bullet to his head and somehow survived. But it opened his eyes to what a piece of shit his VP Shadow had been. “He’s retired now.”

“Did he have to cover his ink?”

“No. He didn’t betray the club and get kicked out…it’s complicated and not really important. Our national prez strongly encouraged the retirement and appointed Z to take over.”

She nods slowly. “How political.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’re a regular outlaw democracy.”

“You’d die for your brothers?” she asks.

“Yes.” I flip my blinker on and slide into the exit lane.

“Would they die for you?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “They’d die for you too, Margot. Because you’re mine.”

Her laughter’s lighter than before. Teasing. “Not because I have the keys to the oven?”

“That doesn’t hurt,” I answer honestly. “But it’s not important enough to take a bullet.”

Margot

Betrayal. Punishments. Cash. Blood.

The words repeat over and over in my mind. A grim reminder of the world I’m about to visit. I wish I hadn’t asked Jigsaw so many questions about the club. Now I’m even more nervous that I won’t fit in.

As he steers the truck through back roads of Empire County I never knew existed, a dark weight of disappointment or regret hovers over me. Except for college, I haven’t ventured far from Pine Hollow in my life. Jigsaw has lived in different states and traveled all over the country, seeing places I’ve only read about or visited through YouTube videos.

So much of my life has been consumed by death instead of actually living.

“How many states have you visited?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Probably all of them? Except Alaska and Hawaii. And the ones in the middle.” He swerves one hand between us like an airplane. “Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma. No desire to see them. But I only traveled through a lot of those places to get to the next stop. Like when I’ve been on one of Shelby’s tours. Didn’t always have a chance to see a lot of stuff.”

“Still, that sounds like fun.”

“It’s a blast. When I’m traveling with the club, we usually rough it. Sleep in tents and stuff.” He laughs. “The older brothers started putting a stop to that. Wrath says he’s too big to be sleeping on the ground.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound appealing.”

“You have somewhere you want to go?” he asks.

“Everywhere.” I glance out the window again. “Somewhere.”

He clears his throat. “We can do that. Not roughing it on the bike,” he hurries to add. “Fly somewhere, I mean.”

Why does that simple promise cut through my doubts so easily? “I’d like that.”

The roads look more familiar now. Jigsaw must’ve gone some back way I’ve never used. After a few more miles, I recognize the big rooster mailbox at the end of Teller’s driveway.

“That’s Teller’s house, right?” I ask.

“Yup. In case you couldn’t tell, Rooster got him the mailbox.”

That must’ve been a moment. “It’s cute.”

Not too much farther down the road, Jigsaw flips his turn signal on. The anxiety growing in my stomach expands like a balloon. He turns onto a road that stretches into the trees, but then he makes another sharp left and approaches an open gate. The truck bounces slightly as it moves from the dirt to the paved driveway.

Straight ahead, a golden Buddha statue seems to greet us with a serene expression that seems odd for a motorcycle club whose emblem is a grinning skull wearing a crown.

“Oh my gosh, that’s huge!” I laugh as we pass it, the vehicle following the driveway’s gentle curve to the right. The truck lurches as it climbs the steep hill. A huge building that almost looks like a log cabin but is the size of a boutique hotel comes into view.

“My goodness,” I breathe out. “ That’s your motorcycle club’s clubhouse?”

“Were you picturing a shack in the woods?”

“No, but I wasn’t expecting this either.”

“Legend has it that it used to be a spiritual retreat center or something before Upstate bought it.”

“I believe it.”

“Don’t, um, get too excited. Downstate’s clubhouse isn’t this nice.”

I open my mouth to ask why, what’s the difference, but he already mentioned their last president wasn’t as dedicated.

“Under our old president, Upstate and Downstate didn’t mix that much. I hardly ever came up here, but since Z took over as president, the two clubs mingle a lot more.” He lets out a short laugh. “I think we’ve finally moved past that awkward blended family stage.”

“Why not just merge them into one club, then?” Unless two iron-willed MC presidents don’t want to consolidate leadership. I better not say that out loud.

“Honestly—I think we’re moving in that direction. Especially since Upstate built a new clubhouse down in Empire. Some of the guys have houses and stuff down near Union, though. And we have a few businesses down there too, but yeah, I think eventually, that’ll happen.”

“The club doesn’t tell you where you have to live, though, right?”

“No. As long as we get to church on time and we’re available when needed, we can do whatever.”

It still sounds restrictive. But I guess it’s not my business. Besides, who am I to judge when I’m basically on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?

Motorcycles are lined up tight against a tall, wooden fence—its rough planks shadowed by towering pine trees. The fence itself cuts a clear boundary between the clubhouse parking lot and the looming forest, with wide dirt paths branching off at each end, disappearing into the woods. Across the asphalt, two sprawling garages sit in a loose L-shape. One has its massive bay doors thrown open, bright lights flooding the interior where folding tables have been set up. Tucked around the far side of that garage, a narrow trail sneaks into the thick evergreens. Beyond the brush, the silhouette of a small house or cabin peeks through the foliage.

Jigsaw glances over, then follows my line of sight. “They built Sparky a small cabin over there for him to do his ‘special baking’ without it stinking up the whole clubhouse.”

It takes a second for that to sink in. “Oh! Where he makes the pot brownies. Got it.”

“Yeah.” He scratches his jaw, gaze lingering on the cabin. “Murphy wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of Sparky leaving ‘treats’ lying around where the kids might find them.”

I wince. “Yikes, that would be bad.”

“That never happened,” Jigsaw says quickly, as if he’s worried I’ll assume the worst about his brothers. “But?—”

“They wanted to be safe. I get it.” I nod, still staring in the direction of the cabin. “That was smart.”

Just how much money does the club have that they can afford to build an entire house for one member to bake pot brownies?

That seems way too intrusive to ask, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

Jigsaw ends up backing the truck into a grassy spot along the driveway.

Anxiety over meeting everyone rushes in and pushes out my curiosity about the clubhouse. I drag my sweaty palms over my jeans, then flip the visor down and check my hair in the mirror. My lipstick’s faded and I pull my purse into my lap, searching for my lip gloss.

The passenger door swings open, letting in a rush of cool air. “What’s wrong?” Jigsaw asks.

“Nothing.” Nervous with him watching, I quickly swipe the mauve-pink gloss over my lips, screw the cap on, and toss it back in my purse. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His gaze drops to my lips. “That color’s pretty on you.”

I’ve only ever had women compliment my makeup. Boyfriends I’ve had either didn’t notice or complained. “Thanks.”

He takes my hand and helps me down from the truck.

“There ya guys are!” Shelby jogs over the parking lot, her cowgirl boots hitting the pavement with hard thwack, thwack, thwacks . Rooster’s following behind her at a slower pace.

Jigsaw laughs. “Where’d you even come from, songbird?”

“Sparky’s cabin.” She stops in front of us and whips her head around, her blonde curls fanning around her. The light scent of sandalwood and blue tansy fills my nose for a second. How about that? I use the same shampoo. Maybe we’re meant to be friends.

“I assume he’s doing a lot of baking for tonight?” Jigsaw asks.

“Ohhh, yeah.” Shelby nods slowly. “Be careful. He’s got brownies and these big sugar cookies with green M others are open or open with items inside.

“You can store your purse in one of these.” Shelby points to the lockers. “You just gotta carry the key around all night.” She tugs one key out of the lock of an empty locker and dangles it by the stretchy band it’s attached to.

“I just leave mine up in our room.” She pats the front pocket of her hoodie. “Keep the important stuff in here.”

I clutch the narrow strap of my small black purse. “I’ll keep it with me for now.”

We each do our thing and meet at the sinks. I blink at my reflection—paler than usual, eyes a little too wide, hair flat. I smooth my hands over my cheeks, as if I can swipe some color onto my skin. It doesn’t help. I still don’t like what I see. I pull my gloss out and lean closer to the mirror to dab it on.

I screw the gloss shut and drop it into my purse.

Shelby meets my gaze in the mirror and gives me a reassuring smile. “Come on, we wanna get there before the guys eat all the food on us.”

I nod, but my feet feel heavier as I turn toward the door.

As we step into the hallway, the sound of low voices and laughter, punctuated by shrill screams from babies or arguing children, fills the hallway in waves. A chorus of familiarity from people who consider themselves family.

“That’s the yoga room.” Shelby points to a closed door as we pass it. “We’ll probably have class tomorrow morning while the guys are in church. You should join us.”

“Oh. I’d like that. I don’t think I brought anything to wear for yoga, though.”

She shrugs. “Someone’s always got extra clothes around here. We’ll find you something if you want.”

Another hallway stretches to our right. Shelby points. “Gym, laundry room, and I’m not sure what else is down there.”

She pushes the double doors open, and I’m immediately overwhelmed with the size of the dining room. It’s more suited to a college dining hall than a retreat. One very long table—or more likely several tables arranged together—splits the space in half. A shorter round table set up near one end has tiny, colorful chairs around it and toys scattered over the top.

A long buffet has been set up against the wall, underneath large windows where weak late afternoon light beams. Against the back wall, an actual bar is set up with more bottles than most actual bars probably carry. In front of it, there’s a table set up with coffee and tea.

Shelby nudges me. “I need to check on something in the kitchen real quick—we usually sit on this end. Jiggy should be down here soon.”

“Oh, sure. Go ahead, I’m fine,” I say, still staring at the scene in front of me.

Brothers in black leather vests just like Jigsaw’s prowl around the table, some greeting each other with laughter and complicated handshakes or back slaps. Other brothers pull out chairs for their wives or girlfriends—some doing it one-handed because they’re carrying a kid in the other arm.

It’s an unexpectedly domestic scene.

And I stand right inside the doorway with my back to the wall, hands clasped in front of me. The same stance I usually take when I’m working at a service. Still as a statue. Observing everything.

“What’re you doing?” Jigsaw’s warm voice pulls me out of observation mode.

“I…” How can I explain that I’m more comfortable lurking outside of events than being a seated guest at the table? The night he took me to the racetrack was different. Outdoors and less formal.

“Come on.” He slides his arm over my shoulders and steers me toward the table.

Shelby’s returning from the kitchen, and she lifts her arm high, throwing a big wave. “Jiggy there you are!” She hurries over, her cowgirl boots thudding against the terrazzo floor. “Come on.”

I’m introduced to several people along the way. It’s almost a relief to sit in my chair and fade into the background.

One of the biggest men I’ve ever seen cups his hand over his mouth and shouts, “Form an orderly line. Serve yourselves!”

“Wrath’s gotta direct traffic now?” Jigsaw says to Rooster.

Rooster’s lips tilt with amusement.

A burly man with a tidy beard and red hair leans forward. “He just loves bossing people around, everywhere.”

“Margot,” Jigsaw says. “You remember Murphy? He’s our VP upstate and he made the chili tonight.”

“Hi, Murphy.”

A tall woman with long, dark brown hair, carrying a wiggling baby, sits next to Murphy. “She’s feeling sassy tonight,” she says, kissing the top of her daughter’s head.

Murphy holds out his arms, taking his daughter and tilts his head toward the woman. “Margot, this is my wife, Heidi.” He settles the baby in his lap. “And this is Brittany.”

“Oh! I remember Brittany from the wedding. My goodness, she’s gotten so big.”

“Tell me about it,” Heidi laughs. “Hi, Margot. It’s so great you were able to come up tonight.” She waves her hand around the table. “Sorry things are a little more chaotic than usual.”

Murphy squints at her. “Are they though? Seems about normal to me.”

Dinner is a long, leisurely, but lively affair. The chili leaves a pleasant zip on my tongue, smoky and rich, with just the right amount of heat. Thick, creamy mac and cheese balances it out, each bite decadent and buttery. Golden cornbread crumbles easily between my fingers, slightly sweet, the perfect companion to soak up the spice.

The room hums with energy, conversations overlapping, laughter spilling freely. A few of the guys tease Murphy about using too many chilis.

I shake my head vigorously. “This is excellent, Murphy.” I dab a napkin over my lips. “The heat sneaks up on you but in a good way.”

“Thank you.” He nods.

“Stash is just mad because he thinks a sprinkle of black pepper is too spicy,” Dex says loud enough to be heard all the way down the table.

Laughter drowns out Stash’s response. Dex’s girlfriend pokes his side and smiles at him.

Jigsaw warned me the guys love to pick on each other, and he wasn’t wrong. Their banter is relentless, the insults sharp—but underneath it all, there’s an unmistakable bond. Even their rudest jokes land with the warmth of familiarity, not cruelty.

A shiver of envy works over me. I lost my mother young. Never had playful siblings who knew me well enough to develop cute inside jokes. But these bikers—the same men who delivered several bodies to my crematorium under the cover of night—laugh easily, share stories freely, and pull their wives and girlfriends into the fold like they belong. The affection they all have for one another is palpable.

Under the table, Jigsaw slides his hand over my leg, gently squeezing my thigh. “You all right?”

“I am, yes.” I clutch my stomach. “I’m trying not to stuff myself so I can save room for s’mores and cookies later.”

After finishing his dinner, one of Jigsaw’s brothers grabs a cup of coffee and returns to the table. Instead of sitting, he stands behind his chair and surveys the room.

Shelby elbows my side and discreetly points her finger. “That’s Ravage. Ten dollars says he’s conjuring up something obnoxious in that head of his.” She says it with more affection than annoyance, as if it’s regularly scheduled programming.

“So. Now that we’re all seated around the table.” Ravage claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “And filled our bellies—thanks to the hard work of Trinity, Heidi, Murphy, and Shelby.”

Trinity lifts her head. “And Swan, Stitch, and Layla for helping us out in the kitchen.”

Murphy lifts his hand. “And Teller for donating the deer meat.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rav rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s awesome. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Aw, he tried to be polite,” Shelby laughs. “Lasted about fifteen seconds. Good for Rav.”

Rooster chuckles and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“Now, for the most important question on everyone’s mind.” Rav rubs his hands together, a playfully devilish gleam lighting up his eyes.

“Here it comes,” Jigsaw mutters.

“Tell us about our brother, Margot,” Rav says. “Is Jigsaw treating you right or do we need to kick his ass?”

I cough and choke, my mouth full of chili, and quickly reach for my glass of lemonade.

At the head of the table, Rock and his wife are busy helping their daughter, but Rock stops and frowns in Ravage’s direction.

“Can we eat in peace, instead of doing…whatever you’re doing?” Teller scolds.

Ravage flicks his hand in the air like he’s batting away the suggestion of inappropriateness. “I’m not talking about in the bedroom, we’ll get to that later.” He steeples his hands under his chin like he’s having difficulty maintaining his composure. “Is Jigsaw a good boyfriend? Does he know how to open doors? Bring you flowers? That’s all we want to know.”

A few of the guys snicker or cough.

“Who is this we you’re referring to?” Teller asks.

“No way Jiggy’s doing any of that,” someone mutters.

Charlotte leans forward and turns toward me. “ This is Ravage being respectful,” she whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear. “In case you’re curious.”

Still feeling like a bug under a microscope—even though half of the people at the table are paying more attention to their dinner than me—I smile to acknowledge Charlotte.

“It’s probably the most respectful he’s ever been.” Wrath crosses his arms over his chest and squints at Ravage. “You all right, bro?”

“I’m excellent.” Rav’s gaze remains trained on me. “Margot, please enlighten us?”

“Knock it off,” Jigsaw growls.

Rooster makes a squeezed and twisted fist gesture that seems mildly threatening, then points at Rav.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind answering this one.” I sit up straighter and rest my hands in my lap. Jigsaw said sticking up for myself would work best here. I just hope I don’t accidentally insult anyone in the process. “To answer your first question, I don’t like flowers, so that wouldn’t be an item on my ‘good boyfriend traits’ list. As to your second question, I learned how to open doors when I was four or five. I can show you how if you need help.”

The brothers howl with laughter, some even slapping their hands against the table.

Jigsaw grins and kisses my cheek.

Rav nods as if he’s pleased.

Another brother, Stash, I think, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I thought all chicks like flowers?”

“Well, I can’t speak for all chicks .” I roll my eyes again. This time, the women at the table laugh. “But I have to order a lot of flowers at work. Then I have to deal with moving them and transporting them to another location.” A sneeze tickles the back of my nose just thinking about it. “They’re delicate and expensive, so I always have to be careful with them. They’re also messy and leave residue everywhere.” I sigh. “Although, I’ve become an expert at removing pollen stains.”

My gaze skitters over the beautiful, full-color sleeve of roses Z’s wife has covering one arm. “I prefer paintings or pictures of flowers. Bonus—they last longer too.”

“She’s right,” Heidi says. “They die so fast. It feels like a waste of money.”

I blow out a breath, relieved no one seems insulted by anything I said.

“Hush, little hammer,” Ravage says to Heidi. “We all know Murphy isn’t romantic enough to buy you flowers.”

“No, he buys me cars and jewelry,” Heidi says, leaning in to pop a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “And deadly weapons.”

“We can all agree that’s much more romantic.” Lilly raises her water glass.

“Damn,” one of the guys says. “If I ever bring another ol’ lady around, you keep all that to yourselves. I don’t need you to set high expectations for my future woman.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be an issue for you, Butcher,” Z says. “Moving on.”

More laughter rolls around the table.

The conversation shifts to other topics. Jigsaw leans closer to me. “See, you’re doing fine. And now I know you don’t like flowers.”

I pat the knife in my pocket. “I think you already suspected since you picked out a perfect gift for me.”

Jigsaw was right. Ravage’s teasing had been aimed at him more than me. But as I reach for another piece of cornbread from Shelby, I catch Ravage watching us, mischief still glinting in his eyes.

He’s not done with me yet.