10. Rattle Some Snakes #2
"Shit," Jiggs slurs as he reaches for the dropped tray. "I'm so sorry, Savannah, I?—"
"She's fine," Miguel interjects, dropping to his knees with a napkin in hand. "Go sit down, you drunk fuck."
Jiggs scratches his head, flashing me an apologetic frown. "Seriously, Sav. Sorry."
"It's alright," I say, squatting down to collect all the shattered pieces of glass. "Accidents happen." Miguel tries to help me, but I move his hand away. "Please don't; I can do it myself. Sit back down."
"You're bleeding," Miguel notes, dabbing the napkin on the cut. He fishes a small piece of glass from the straps of my heels. Holding it up, he adds, "You should really consider wearing different shoes while working."
"I like these shoes," I say, picking up my pace as I collect the glass. I should not be talking to this man. "It's just a little cut."
"I know a great shoe store in San Diego," Miguel says, following me as I stand up. He grins. "I think you'd love it. I can take you this weekend if you'd like?"
"Uh—" Under normal circumstances, I would never decline an invitation for shoe shopping, but given the fact that I'm broke and he's a cartel member, the logical part of my brain wins. And I let it. "I can't this weekend. I have plans. "
Miguel raises a brow. "Really? And what do you have planned to do in this bustling town?"
"I'm..."
"What happened?" Jesse asks, appearing behind my shoulder, and I can breathe easier for some reason. He looks at the broken glass on my tray and then down on the floor. "Jesus, Savannah. I fucking told you that you needed sneakers." He sighs, casting Miguel an uneasy smile. "I've got this."
"What—" Jesse takes the tray from my hand and latches onto my wrist. Dropping off the broken glass, he marches toward the clubhouse doors. "What are you doing?"
"Come here," he grunts, turning the knob and aggressively dragging me behind him.
"We're fixing this problem." Several bikers give me curious looks as he bulldozes through the lounge and down a hall toward an office.
I stand awkwardly in front of a shoddy desk as Jesse rummages through a wardrobe. "Where are they?!"
"What are you looking for?" I ask in a meek tone, taking in my surroundings. Collector rifles and dated photos of biking rallies hang from all four walls; various documents, maps, and charts are spread across the office table. "Jesse?"
"Got 'em!” He pulls out a pair of star-studded black combat boots and gives them a good dusting. He drops the shoes by my feet. "Try these on." He yanks a pair of rolled socks from the bottom drawer and tosses them at me. "Here."
"Those your shoes?" I ask, catching the socks mid-air. "'Cause I doubt we're the same size." I glance at his Blundstone boots, swallowing. "Definitely not the same size."
Jesse blinks. "You seriously think those are mine?" He picks up one shoe. "There's fucking tassels."
"I don't know." I shrug. "Maybe you went through a tassel phase or something; how would I know?"
"I—" Jesse closes his eyes, exasperated. "Just put on the fucking boots, Savannah."
"I don't want to wear a stranger's shoes," I protest. "I'm fine; I'll be more careful 'round Jiggs. Promise. Can I go now?"
"These were my mothers, and you're fucking bleeding," Jesse grunts, placing his hand on my shoulder and forcing me to sit down on a chair. "Shoes. Now."
"These were your...your momma's?" I ask, holding up the boot and checking the size. "Hey, we're the same size." I bite my lip, a feeling of sympathy bubbling in my chest. "You uh—you miss her?"
Jesse swallows. "What?"
"Do you miss her?" I ask, taking off my heels and slipping on the pair of socks. "How long has it been since she...passed?"
"How do you know about that?" he asks, the tendons in his neck tensing. "Did Marlow..."
"Andy mentioned it in passing," I divulge shamelessly, unlacing the boots before shoving my foot inside. "Hmm...I kind of like 'em."
"Andy, huh?" Jesse clicks his tongue. "Great. Fucking big mouth."
I frown. “Did you not want me to know? "
Jesse sighs. "I don't like having my personal life talked about."
"That's fair," I say, chewing on the inside of my lip. "Sorry for asking, I wasn't trying to?—"
"No." Jesse leans against his desk and runs his hand through his hair. He lets out a melancholy breath. "It's fine, I just—" He peers down at me, hesitating before whispering, "Of course I miss her. I miss her every fucking day."
"What..." I clear my throat, treading lightly. "What was she like?"
Jesse snorts. "She was a handful." He gives me a softened side-eye. "Always had to be right, never took no for an answer, and couldn't cook for shit."
"My type of woman." I smile, stroking Jesse's arm in comfort. "I think I would've liked her plenty."
"Most people did," Jesse says, briefly glancing at my hand. He flinches but doesn't move. I don't either. "Town lost a great woman when she died."
"My nana was like that," I say, smiling at the memory. "Definitely left a mark on every heart she encountered. My poppa was devastated when she passed."
"'Least your nana had your pops," Jesse grumbles. "My mom only had me."
I frown. "What about your dad?"
"Parents divorced when I was eight," Jesse reveals, his phone ringing in his pocket.
He answers the calls, tone stone cold, "What happened?
" Jesse leaps from the desk, eyes wide as he paces, and my own heart flutters from his nervous energy.
"Where? How many?" He bangs his fist against the wardrobe, then opens the doors, retrieving a pistol from the top shelf.
"Fuck, we're coming. Stay there." He sticks his head out of his office and yells, "Tiny! Rocco! We've got a problem."
My eyes spring open, pulse skittering with nerves. A problem? "What...what happened? What's wrong?"
"Nothing; get back to work." Jesse's chaotic movements elevate my already heightened anxiety as he gets ready for what looks like a bloody battle.
Knives, guns, bullets. The whole shebang.
He gently moves me out of his way and shoves three clips into his vest pocket. "Go back to the bar—we got this."
"Got what?" I ask, my heart beating frantically. I wrap my hand around his bicep, silently begging for the truth. "Please tell me what's going on. Is my brother okay?"
Jesse swallows as Tiny and Rocco enter the office. "I don't know," he whispers to me, then snaps his head at the boys. "We gotta go right fucking now."
"What happened?" Tiny asks, clocking his pistol.
"Snakes," Jesse spits. He looks down at me. "Don't wait up."
"Why—" But he's already gone.
My head spins as I reenter the bar and somehow end up at Marlow's table, my vision blurred with all the worst case scenarios.
"Ayy," Marlow hollers. "Savvy!" She stares at me for a minute before asking in a flatter tone. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"I...I don't know—" Motorcycles rumble from the parking lot, drawing our attention out the windows. "Jesse got a call, and he...he just left with Tiny and Rocco." Pippa swallows, gripping her drink tighter. "Apparently, there's a problem."
"He say what?" Marlow asks, nervously tapping her nails against the table.
"All he said was snakes ," I say, swallowing. "What...what does that mean?"
"Shit." Pippa pulls out her phone, as does Marlow. "Means we're not sleeping tonight."
"Wh—" My voice catches in my throat. "I don't..."
"Snakes means Vipers," Marlow explains, calling Beau.
"And that's never good news." She grunts when there's no answer.
"Fuck's sake." She looks up at my white face and passes me her drink.
"Chug this and focus on something else." She points to Poe's table.
"He needs another beer. Go work, Sav. I'll get someone to give you a ride home when you close. "
"I—"
"Just do it, Savannah," Pippa says in an experienced, motherly tone. "There's no point in worrying. Nothing we can do."
But I do worry. I worry for the next six hours of the shift. I worry the entire night as I sleep alone in Jesse's house.
I worry when he's not there in the morning.