Chapter Twelve
Jet
The clubhouse feels off today, too quiet in some corners, too loud in others, like the whole place is holding its breath.
It feels charged, like a live wire waiting to snap. Conversations stop when I walk in. Eyes flick away too fast. The laughter that used to fill this place is gone.
Even Devil looks restless, her normal fire burning low. She’s in the kitchen, making something she calls a toastie. It looks like a grilled cheese to me, but who am I to argue with the president’s ol’ lady?
“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
She glances up, that Aussie twang rough around the edges. “Nothing you need to worry about, love.”
Which means it’s everything I should be worried about.
Lucy and Lyric sit at a table with coffee gone cold in their hands. Both of them are tense, eyes fixed on the window like they’re waiting for something or someone.
“What’s happening?” I ask again, louder this time.
Devil blows out her cheeks, leans on the counter, and levels me with a look. “The Russians are playing dirty, the feds are sniffing around, and half our men are about to ride out with itchy trigger fingers. You wanted honesty, there it is.”
My stomach twists. “And if the feds come here?”
“Then we burn what needs burning and keep our mouths shut,” states Lucy.
It’s said so calmly it chills me more than the words themselves.
I move toward the back hallway, but Devil blocks me with a hand on my arm. “Stay put, Jet. Justice will be back soon. Let him deal with this.”
“Justice?” The name slips out before I can hide the flicker of emotion it carries. “He’s not my keeper.”
“No, he’s not,” she says, her voice softening. “But he’s the only one around here who looks at you like you’re not part of the mess.”
The clubhouse doors slam open before I can answer. Voices rise. Boots echo. The sound of chaos closes in.
Through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of Justice in his cut T-shirt clinging to the hard lines of his chest. He looks like he’s been carved from stone, every inch of him rough, solid, and impossible to ignore.
The door to the room where the brothers hold Church is open, voices spill out into the hall. Creed’s voice cuts through the noise, low but sharp enough to carry.
“Ivanov’s man’s feeding the feds information. I want his name before the sun sets.”
Justice nods once. “Working on it.”
Reaper mutters something about the docks, about loose ends, and Creed barks back, “No loose ends!”
The words hit like a gunshot.
Justice’s eyes find me across the room as I peek out the kitchen door. I don’t look away this time.
He crosses the floor, and even with the surrounding noise, it feels like the air folds in on itself. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.
“Where should I be?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“There’s no such thing.”
That earns me a flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
The MC members leave in groups. Reaper is barking orders, Winchester tosses out boxes of ammo, Creed is on his phone. The compound’s coming alive, and it’s not in a good way.
Justice’s jaw works, tension in every line of him. “Pack a bag,” he says finally.
“Why?”
“Because it’s about to get ugly, and I’m not watching you get caught in it.”
I cross my arms. “You think running fixes things?”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping low. “But distance gives me a chance to keep you breathing.”
He’s so close now I catch a trace of cologne, it smells dark and clean. And damn if I don’t like it. The scent sticks, curling through my head long after he steps back.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
We ride for hours.
The sky darkens, heavy clouds swallowing the sun. The wind tears through my hair as I cling to the back of his cut, the thrum of the Harley vibrating through every bone in my body.
We pass fields, then suburbs, then city streets that feel too normal for what’s happening beneath the surface.
Justice doesn’t speak. Neither do I.
When we finally slow down, the sign ahead flashes familiar — Greenwood. The name makes my hear beat faster, so fast it feel as though it my come out through my ribs.
My mother lives here.
He parks in front of a weather-beaten house with peeling paint and curtains that have seen better days. Justice kills the engine and the sudden silence roars louder than the bike ever did.
“Why are we here?”
“Because you need to see her,” Justice says.
The words knock the air out of me. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do,” he says, unflinching. “You’ve been carrying ghosts. Time to bury at least one of them.”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “You don’t get to decide that for me!”
“I’m not deciding.” Justice’s voice softens, but there’s weight behind it.
“I’m giving you a choice. You’ve been trapped long enough, Jet.
First by those bastards who hurt you, now by your own fear.
I’m not trying to tell you what to do or to save you, I’m here to make sure you remember you still can be saved. ”
The street hums faintly with cicadas and distant traffic.
He nods toward the house. “She’s inside, she knows we are coming. Go on.”
I glance at him, at the man who’s trying to do something good in a world that doesn’t reward it.
“You coming in with me?”
He shakes his head. “Not this time.”
The words sound final.
My boots hit the pavement, my legs feel shaky. Every step toward the porch feels like walking through glass.
At the door, I pause, hand hovering over the screen door handle. The last time I saw my mother, I was broken, angry, and ready to disappear. She had buried one child already. What will it do to her to see the other walk out of hell?
I look back, Justice is still there, standing beside his bike, watching. Not pushing.
And for the first time since that night in the Wheelers’ compound, I breathe.