Chapter 8 #2
She must be having the same thoughts as me if her pinkening cheeks are any indication.
The air in the trailer feels thinner, heavy with the weight of the words we haven’t said and the physical pull that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
Every time she looks at me with that mixture of vulnerability and dawning trust, it’s like a physical blow to my solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me and leaving me reeling in the wake of her soft presence.
This morning on the porch wasn’t just a fleeting moment, it was a shift of my world, moving me toward a future I hadn’t dared to imagine until she stepped into it.
I watch the way she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her movements slightly jerky as she tries to refocus on the kids.
She’s putting on a brave face for them, but I can see the flicker of the same fire that’s currently consuming me blazing in her eyes.
It’s a dangerous distraction, but I can’t help but want to stretch this moment out, to let the heat of her gaze steady me before I have to face the cold reality of life.
If she’s feeling even a fraction of the current humming through my veins, then we’re both in deep shit, and I find myself hoping that we are.
The silence in the trailer is thick, vibrating with the unspoken admission that passed between us on the porch this morning.
I can still feel the ghost of her fingers laced with mine, a grounding heat.
Clearing her throat, Jersey suggests, “This is the perfect time for our outing. The birds are more active during this time of the day and are always chirping. If you want to see them in action, we need to get a move on.”
“You heard the lady,” I announce, clapping my hands to break the spell.
Boston and Carolina jump into action, their excitement acting as a buffer against the tension between Jersey and me.
As they scramble for their shoes, I catch Jersey’s eye one last time, a silent promise that no matter how hard the hits are tomorrow, I’m coming back to her—to them, my family.
As we breach the small hill and head into the thickness of the trees, I notice two figures heading our way.
Icer, always Elodie’s shadow, has little man strapped to his chest which always causes me to laugh.
The sight of the club’s most lethal enforcer wearing a baby carrier like a tactical vest is a contradiction that never gets old.
Elodie, for her part, looks perfectly content, her tiny hands occasionally batting at Icer’s while he maintains a vigilant, stone-faced watch over his surroundings.
Beside me, I feel Jersey stiffen, her steps faltering just a fraction as they approach.
“He hates me,” Jersey whispers, her voice barely audible over the crunch of dry leaves under our feet.
She shifts slightly, putting a little more distance between herself and the approaching mountain of a man.
Her shoulders are hunched, that old habit of trying to make herself invisible resurfacing the moment Icer’s cold, blue gaze tracks in our direction.
“He doesn’t hate you,” I contradict, reaching out to gently squeeze her arm, wanting to ground her before she retreats entirely into her own head.
“He just doesn’t know what to do about you.
” Icer is a man of few words and even fewer social graces, the presence of someone as soft and jumpy as Jersey seems to short-circuit his usual survival instincts, leaving him in a state of perpetual, silent observation.
“Why is that?” she questions, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
She watches as Icer stops a few yards away, nodding once to me before adjusting the straps on the carrier with a tenderness that most people would never guess he possessed.
“I know he doesn’t like being followed, but back then, he was my solace, my silent protector.
” The irony isn’t lost on me—the man who once stood between her and the shadows of her past is now the one she’s most afraid to face in the light of day.
It’s a complicated dance of shared history and current hesitation, and I can only hope that they both find a way to navigate it before the pressure of the compound snaps the fragile peace we’ve built.
“Have you told him that?” I ask, watching the trio as they bend over and examine something on the ground.
My eyes drift to Icer again. He’s crouched low, pointing out a cluster of wildflowers to Boston and Carolina who have abandoned us and joined them.
The lethal enforcer, a man who usually carries the weight of the club’s darkest deeds on his shoulders, is currently a study in patience.
It’s a jarring sight, seeing him operate in the same orbit as people who possess such unfiltered innocence.
He’s careful, his movements deliberate so as not to spook them, yet the wall he’s built around himself remains impenetrable to Jersey.
“Can’t talk to someone when they scowl at you and step around you at any given opportunity,” she sighs, her voice thin and laced with a long-standing hurt.
She looks away, focusing on a distant line of trees, her fingers worrying the hem of her sleeve.
It’s a nervous tic I’ve come to recognize, a sign that she’s retreating into that internal crawlspace she built for herself years ago.
To her, Icer’s silence isn’t just a personality trait, it’s a dismissal.
She’s spent her life being a nuisance to the people who should have loved her, and Icer’s inability to find common ground with her feels like a confirmation of that old, toxic narrative.
“Jersey, the man is an enforcer. He lives in the grit and the shadows,” I remind her, trying to bridge the gap.
“He sees you, and I think he sees something he doesn’t want to break.
He isn’t stepping around you because you’re a problem, he’s doing it because he doesn’t know how to exist in the same space as someone so... soft.”
She doesn’t look convinced. The history between them is a tangled mess of gratitude and fear, and I can tell that until Icer finds a way to lower his guard, Jersey will keep hers firmly in place.
We stand there in the humid Texas air, a silent audience to a trio that represents the very future I’m determined to protect.