Chapter 12
Twelve
Hella
We pull into the clubhouse just as Jada walks out with Yana and Melissa following behind. Melissa stops at the threshold, leaning against the door frame, watching as Jada pulls me in for a hug.
I nudge my head, dragging my eyes away from Melissa. “How's my boy?”
She smiles, tucking her inky black hair behind her ear. “He's good, but he planned to stay at his friend's next weekend,” she says, watching me closely.
“That's my weekend.” I cross my arms, not willing to fight her on shit right now.
“I know, but he needs to get out, Hella. This,” she waves her hands airily to illustrate her point. “He needs a fucking break from it too, and Brent's a good kid. They live on the North Shore. He comes from a good home, so he'll be safe.”
“He's mine, Jada. You run that shit past me before you make plans for him on my weekend. I'll drop him off there to case out the joint.” Wo the fuck names their kid Brent these days. Shady as hell.
“Hux,” she sighs, placing her hand on my arm. “Brent's dad is a lawyer and his mum is a veterinarian. You can't roll up there on your big bad motorcycle with your big bad colours on your back. You'll terrify them and their neighborhood and eventually leave Garret with no friends. I'll take him.”
She has a point.
“I don't fucking like it, Jada.”
She sighs again. “I know, I know, but our boy needs friends and a life outside this club.”
“No, he doesn't.”
She rolls her eyes and I bend down, kissing her lightly on the cheek, cutting off the conversation. She knows the discussion is over, so she continues toward her car. When my eyes dart back to where Melissa is, she’s already walking back into the clubhouse.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I turn around just as Jada is about to get into her car. “Did you tell Melissa about Garret?”
Jada pauses, one foot in and one foot out. “Yes, and she knows about our history. She didn't ask any questions, though. Also, she's been drinking a bit.”
That means she doesn't know whether Garret is mine or not.
Don't fucking care either. If my having a son bothers any woman, she has no place on my dick.
Garret may not be mine by blood, but I claimed the little shit the minute Jada gave birth to him in the clubhouse.
I shit you not, she went from “I think I'm having Braxton Hicks” to “I need to fucking push”.
I had only just Googled what the fuck “Braxton Hicks” meant when she started pushing.
All the brothers were there, but Beast and I kicked everyone out before it got graphic.
We had 911 on the phone talking us through it until the ambulance got there.
Could fucking kill Checker, the sperm donor.
The fucker is lucky he's in Australia, that useless cocksucker.
Then again, I'm glad he's a fucking shitstain.
Garret is the best thing that ever happened to me.
I'd kill Checker if he came onto my turf; brother or no brother, that kid comes first.
I watch Jada's car pull away, the tension in my shoulders not easing. Melissa's reaction bothers me more than it should. I tell myself it doesn't matter what she thinks, but the image of her turning away sticks in my mind like a splinter.
Beast slaps my shoulder, cutting through my spiral. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I nod, heading toward the clubhouse entrance. “Just Garret shit.”
He follows, keeping pace. “Kid needs normal shit sometimes, brother.”
“Not you too.” I shoot him a glare.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Just saying.”
Inside, the clubhouse buzzes with activity. Brothers playing pool, prospects cleaning, old-timers telling the same war stories they've been recycling for decades. Even when they hang their patch, we made sure they know they’ve always got a home here.
I scan the room for Melissa, finding her at the bar with a fresh drink in hand.
She doesn't look up when I approach, though her body tenses, sensing me. She knows my presence without seeing me, a fact that should mean nothing but somehow means everything.
“He's mine by everything but blood.” Why the fuck did those words just fall right out of my mouth.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprise briefly replacing the practiced indifference. “I didn't ask.”
I glare. “You didn't have to.”
She takes a deliberate sip of her drink. “Why would I care?”
“You tell me.”
Her fingers tighten around her glass. “I don't.”
“Bullshit.” I move closer, invading her space. “You practically ran when you saw me with Jada.”
“You're delusional.” She shifts away. “I needed a drink.”
“Sure.” I signal Old Fella for a whiskey. “The kid's sperm donor is Checker, Australian brother from our Charter in the Gold Coast. Fucker left Jada when she got pregnant. I stepped in.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
It's a good fucking question, one I don't have an answer for. Why do I care what she thinks? Why does it matter if she believes Garret is mine?
“Because,” I say finally, accepting my whiskey, “I don't like assumptions.”
“Fine. Noted. Can I go back to ignoring you now?”
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “You can try. But we both know you're as shit at ignoring me as I am at staying away from you.”
She shivers, a tiny, involuntary reaction that sends satisfaction coursing through me. Her hate-filled glare only makes it sweeter.
“Fuck you, Hella.”
I grin, backing away. “You already did, sweetheart. And from what I remember, you loved every second.”
Her middle finger is the only response I need. I turn and walk away, letting her simmer in her anger and whatever else she's feeling. Because underneath that anger is something else, something that mirrors what's churning inside me.
Something neither of us is ready to name.