Forty-Seven
JENNA
The goddamn woman’s touch still pulses on my leg as I march through the dining area and kitchen to get away from them both.
Know my fucking place. Who the fuck is she to tell me that?
And why the fucking fuck did it trigger me so bad?
The knocking of the washing machine breaks through my spiraling thoughts as I pass the laundry, and for whatever goddamn reason, seeing that humble appliance do its thing has me about ready to explode.
I’m fucking done with all of this. With the guilt every time I eat food somebody else paid for.
With the inconvenience of having no change of bra or panties.
With the goddamn sting of overstaying my welcome yet being too tangled up in this shit to leave.
And with people—men mostly—directing the course of my life.
When I was younger, I had a dream that I’d leave our stupid little town and move to some big city. Didn’t matter which one. I just figured I’d go where the people were so that I could take the time to watch them go about their lives. To be inspired.
To fucking figure out how to live a life that was my own.
Sad. Goddamn sad that I felt incapable of getting deep with myself and figuring it out alone. That I thought I needed to let other people influence me into knowing what I should be doing.
Now? “Fuck!” Now I want to pull the pin and watch this shit explode so that it’s dealt with, once and for all.
I want to be freed from this.
I want another shot at life. I want a first shot at living my life.
Stalled at the rear entry to the house, I stare at the door that leads outside.
I don’t even know what I’m doing. What do you want to do?
Drawing a deep breath, I get still for a moment, the nearby sounds of people in tense conversation drifting from the parlor.
How do I end this possessed merry-go-round?
Twisting to face the front of the house, I resume a swift march toward the stairs. My feet carry me up the short flight and straight toward the left corner.
Straight into Fang’s room.
I tear the door of his wardrobe open and peruse the small selection of road wear he has hung from the rail.
It’s far too big for me, but something is better than nothing if shit goes south.
The hanger clatters to the floor, and I thread my arms through a collarless, leather number.
The base of the jacket reaches below my hips, but hell, maybe it’ll help keep me warm when the wind bites.
I snatch a dusty helmet off the top shelf—fingerprints still evident from when Darla and I put everything back. It feels so long ago, like another lifetime.
Where would I keep my keys if I were him?
I can’t imagine Fang carrying them in his pocket at all times.
He doesn’t seem that prepared, the type to think ahead in such a way.
I start with the nightstand, move to the set of drawers, and frown at the wardrobe.
Awareness tickles at my periphery, and I slowly turn my head to look at the thin strip of wall behind the door in the corner of the room.
Sure enough, on a brass hook above a second hook holding a worn satchel are his keys. My mind draws a shining halo around them, and I beeline for the small chain.
Now the hardest part.
The back door echoes shut as I reach the base of the stairs and peer both ways.
Most people are still asleep after such a long night, exhaustion taking its toll both mentally and physically.
I dash past the parlor before Reno or Mongrel notice and almost run smack into a young guy with wild red hair.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He lifts both hands and steps aside.
Dude doesn’t even question my choice of attire or wild look as I dart down the porch steps and across the yard.
I slip into the open barn where they house the bikes and look at the lineup.
I’ve barely seen Fang on his ride, at least close enough to take in any details.
The key in my hand is no key at all, and my gut sinks with frustration before I realize why—because his fucking bike will be keyless like most newer models are.
Heart in my throat, I press the button for remote start and jolt when a bike three over rumbles to life. The metaphorical countdown clock starts ticking over my head. I dash past the first two bikes and throw a leg over Fang’s before hastily pocketing the keys.
I didn’t grow up in the club, but I’m no stranger to a motorbike. I have experience, just not recent. And not with anything this powerful.
I didn’t get this far to chicken out.
My ankle stings when I kick the stand in too hard, and I tentatively knock the shifter down to first, hand squeezing the clutch. The bike jerks beneath me as the gear engages. I lift my gaze to the clubhouse, a teensy bit of relief when nobody darts toward me. Yet.
Gently, I test the throttle to gauge its sensitivity, then ease it on a little more bravely to carry myself into the yard.
It really is like riding a bike, albeit a much heavier and dangerous one than the idiom intended.
Muscle memory kicks in, and while this beast is way different to the little two-stroke I rode as a kid, the theory is the same. My confidence builds, the steering an easy reach for my shorter arms, and I idle past the clubhouse.
Right as Fang bursts out the door.
So many emotions run riot across his face that it’s impossible to pick just one. But regardless of how he looks, I know one definite thing as I twist the throttle on and knock it up a gear—I’ve broken a golden rule. Committed a cardinal sin.
I’ve stolen a one-percenter’s bike.
I only hope they understand why in a few hours. See that my intentions were good before they make the call that puts me six feet under.
If I even make it there.