Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Jersey
I haven’t seen Slayer in a week which has me beginning to feel twitchy.
Anytime I ask LoneStar about him, I’m told he’s dealing with club business and the conversation ends there.
The dismissal is always the same—clipped, final, and delivered with a look that suggests I’m overstepping a boundary I didn’t even know existed.
Boston and Carolina are feeling it too. They haven’t voiced it, but I see the way they track the door every time it opens, their eyes searching for the one man who represents their safety.
Boston has become quieter, his exuberant shouts replaced by a cautious, watchful stillness that makes my heart ache.
We’ve kept up with the routine, the walks, the breakfasts, the scrapbooking, but the joy feels forced, a fragile veneer over a growing sense of displacement.
They look to me for answers I don’t have, and the pressure of it is staggering.
I’ve tried to occupy my mind, focusing on the kids and the impending parenthood classes Slayer mentioned, but the void he’s left is a physical presence in the trailer.
Every time the gravel crunches outside, my heart hammers against my ribs, hoping it’s him, only to be met with the disappointment of another brother passing by without a word.
The fear that I’ve somehow been discarded, or that the “perfect” woman he saw was just a fleeting illusion, is a constant, gnawing pressure in my mind.
The Kings have secrets that aren’t mine to know, but the isolation is stifling.
I’m used to hiding, but this is different.
I’m not hiding from predators in a dark house, I’m being kept in the dark by the people who promised to be my shield.
If Slayer doesn’t show up soon, if he doesn’t walk through that door and bridge this widening gap, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the walls from caving in on us all.
Between all of that, I’ve had Elodie’s classes to teach, and while the little girl’s inquisitiveness usually keeps me grounded, my mind still finds itself drifting due to Slayer's absence.
I clean my house for the second time today, my steps being shadowed by Carolina as she makes mental notes of how to properly wipe down counters and clear out the refrigerator.
The domesticity of the task usually brings me a sense of peace, a quiet control over my own environment that I was denied for so long, but today it just feels like a frantic attempt to scrub away the anxiety pooling in my gut.
Carolina is a diligent pupil, her eyes tracking every circular motion of my rag with a level of focus that is both touching and heartbreaking.
She wants to be ready for the baby, to prove she can handle the demands of a home, but I can see the same flicker of doubt in her gaze that I feel in my own heart.
Every time I open the fridge to reorganize the milk and eggs, my mind drifts back to Slayer.
Him being absent this past week, as well as the silence from that direction is starting to feel like a physical weight.
I find myself pausing, rag in hand, listening for the distinct roar of his bike or the heavy thud of his boots on the porch steps.
The absence is a hole in our new routine, a reminder that the safety we’ve found here is tethered entirely to a man who has disappeared without a word.
I try to project confidence for Carolina, explaining the importance of hygiene and organization, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Boston is in the living room, uncharacteristically still as he stares at the television, though I doubt he’s actually seeing the cartoon flickering on the screen.
He’s waiting, just like we are. The “big boys” at the clubhouse have locked themselves away for the most part, and we are left in this limbo, trying to build a future while the present feels like it’s slipping through our fingers.
I move to the living room to straighten the pillows for the third time, feeling Carolina’s presence right behind me, quietly asking questions and making observations.
Boston, finally reaching his breaking point, tosses the remote onto the couch beside him with a frustrated grunt and abruptly stands.
His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, his knuckles popping with each bend of his fingers as his eyes stray toward the window, searching the gravel lot for any sign of life.
“He’s been gone too long, Jersey,” he mumbles, his voice thick with a mixture of confusion and burgeoning anger that mirrors the loss brewing in my own chest.
“He’ll come see us as soon as he can, Boston,” I say, making a promise I’m not sure I can keep.
I reach out, wanting to offer some form of physical comfort, but my own hands are trembling so I place them back at my sides, not wanting my own anxiety to alarm him.
We are all shackled to the man in the clubhouse, and without him, the safety we've found feels like a house of cards waiting to fall. Carolina stops and looks up at me, her wide, trusting eyes searching mine for a truth I don’t possess, and for the first time, I feel like a fraud in my own home.
“I want to see my Bubba!” he thunders, stomping his foot.
The sound of his heel striking the thin floorboards of the trailer echoes like a gunshot in the cramped space.
It’s a manifestation of the frustration that has been simmering beneath the surface for days.
Boston isn’t just angry, he’s scared. I watch as his chest heaves, his breathing coming in ragged hitches.
Carolina flinches at the earsplitting volume, her hands flying to her ears to block out the sudden explosion of sound.
She looks at me, her lower lip trembling.
The peace I’d worked so hard to establish over the last week is fraying, being torn apart by a silence from the clubhouse that feels more like a physical threat than a simple lack of communication.
“I know, Boston,” I whisper, stepping toward him and holding my hands out in a gesture of peace.
I want to tell him that his brother’s just a few hundred yards away, but I also know that the distance may as well be a thousand miles if the clubhouse doors remain barred to us.
“I want to see him too. But we have to be patient. We have to be big boys and girls, remember?”
He doesn't answer, his gaze remaining fixed outside the window. “Something’s wrong, Jersey.” I suck in a breath because he’s voicing my own thoughts that I’ve tried to keep buried deep.
“LoneStar would tell us if something bad happened, Boston,” I state, injecting as much conviction as I can muster into my statement.
I cling to the hope that LoneStar’s loyalty to Britton will keep me in the loop, that I won’t be left stumbling in the dark while the world outside these gates goes up in flames.
But as I stare at the dark, imposing silhouette of the clubhouse, the reality settles in my chest like stone.
In this world, the truth isn't given, it's bartered. And for all the kindness they’ve shown me, for all the space they’ve given me, I’m still just an outsider pressing my nose against the glass, forever watching the happenings of the club from the cold side of the pane.
I glance over to the table that sits by my front door, staring at my phone, begging it to ring.
The screen remains dark, a cold slab of glass that offers no comfort.
Each time I’ve tried to call Slayer, it’s gone straight to voicemail, his deep, gravelly greeting mocking my growing desperation.
Like Boston, who is currently pacing the small living room with a restless, frantic energy, I’ve had e-fucking-nough.
I can no longer play the part of the patient, compliant guest while my nerves are being shredded by the unknown.
I need answers, not just for my own sanity, but for the two people currently looking to me for a safety I feel less sure of with every passing hour.
Marching over to the sofa table, I grab the device and bring up my call log, the glow of the screen illuminating the frustration etched into my face.
I press LoneStar’s number and place the receiver up to my ear as I prepare myself to demand the truth, regardless of the club’s protocols or the translucent boundaries I’m undoubtedly about to cross.
“Jersey,” he answers, sounding out of breath and I instantly feel bad, knowing that I've interrupted his and Britton's alone time. The guilt is a sharp, familiar sting, a reminder of the years I spent making myself small so as not to be a burden, but I swallow it down. Inhaling, I remind myself that I’m just as important and so is Slayer. My needs, and the needs of his brother and Carolina, are not secondary to the club's iron-clad silence. I can’t be the perfect woman Slayer saw if I’m too afraid to fight for the man who saw her.
“Where is he, LoneStar?” My voice is steady, a contrast to the shaking of my hands.
I don’t leave room for “club business” or vague reassurances this time.
I need a location, a status, a sign that we haven’t been abandoned.
I watch Boston stop his pacing, his eyes locking onto me with a desperate hope that nearly causes me to stumble.
“Jersey,” he grinds out, his tone sounding weary and strained. “We’ve talked about this. There are rules, protocols that have to be followed. You’re safe, they’re safe. That should be enough for now.”
“I’m sick and tired of getting the runaround, LoneStar.
He’s not answering his phone and that’s not like him.
Not at all. His brother misses him, I miss him.
Don't you get it? If he’s hurt, if something happened during that business you keep mentioning, I have a right to know.
Boston has a right to know. We aren't just guests anymore, you said it yourself, we're family. Start treating us like it.”
My chest heaves as the words tumble out, months of being the quiet, compliant observer finally snapping under the weight.
I look over at Boston, who has stopped his pacing to watch me with wide, hopeful eyes, and I know I’m doing the right thing.
If being family means sharing the burden, then I’m ready to carry my weight, but I won't do it while being blindfolded by the men who claim to be our protectors.
“What the fuck?” he whispers from the other end of the phone line. “Jersey, are you shitting me right now?”
Swallowing, I say, “I most certainly am not.”
His voice becomes dangerously low when he says, “When he’s able to talk to you, he’ll call. I’m done with this. He’s good, that’s all I can tell you.”
The line clicks and goes dead, leaving me standing with the dial tone buzzing in my ear like a swarm of angry hornets.
I pull the phone away and stare at the dark screen, my vision blurring with a mixture of fury and absolute heartbreak.
“He's good,” LoneStar said, but that doesn't explain the week of radio silence or why the second-in-command of this club is being kept under lock and key. I feel Boston’s presence behind me, his hand tentatively touching my shoulder, and I force myself to inhale a shallow, shaky breath. We’re still in the dark, still waiting, and the family I just fought for feels more like a fortress with the drawbridge pulled up tight.