Chapter 15 Seneca
Chapter fifteen
Seneca
We’d barely swept the glass from the linoleum when the bakery door blew open, the little bell above it chiming as if this was just another midnight bread run.
Muffler, the only prospect on the payroll dumb enough to take a shortcut through active crossfire, stumbled in first, dragging Jenna Smart by the elbow.
Every head in the bakery turned. Damron and Nitro stood by the register, arms folded, faces like masks carved out of meat.
The other Scythes clustered in a ragged horseshoe around the fresh blood on the floor, all silent, all watching.
For a second, nobody said a word. The overhead fluorescents stuttered, catching the dust, throwing halos over the scene like it was a crime reenactment, which I guess it kind of was.
Jenna was a wreck, and I took a long, slow look because it was the only pleasure left to me.
Her hair, always perfect, was stringy with sweat and stuck to her cheek in a way that made her look suddenly young, almost scared.
The pantsuit, Armani, if I remembered right, was wrinkled and flecked with something that might have been pastry or vomit.
The left heel of her red-bottomed shoe had snapped clean, and she limped with every step, trying to mask it with angry dignity.
“Found her in the alley,” Muffler said, trying not to show his pride. “She was making calls. Figured you’d want to see her.”
Jenna jerked her arm free, massaging the spot with knuckles white as bone.
“You Neanderthals have any idea what you’re doing?
” She looked around, eyes blazing, and for a second, I thought she’d claw her way through every patch in the room.
But then she saw me, and something broke behind her irises.
A tiny flinch, like she’d seen a snake instead of a man.
Damron cut in, voice flat. “We’re done with the families, but we got unfinished business with traitors.” He looked at me, then at Jenna. “You want her, Seneca? She’s yours.”
I crossed the room in three steps. Jenna didn’t move, but her mouth worked through a thousand retorts she didn’t bother to say. I grabbed her arm, at the same spot Muffler had, a fresh red bruise forming under my thumb, and steered her out into the lot.
The night was colder than I remembered. My bike waited at the curb.
Yeah, she could turn on me in a heartbeat, but what did it matter?
I thought Catherine and I would become a lifelong thing, and then she walked away.
That’s what happens when you put trust in something, especially a relationship.
It showed me once again that just fucking without the emotions was the safest bet.
Why let things get all messy? If we hadn’t been outgunned, maybe things would have gone differently.
If she hadn’t walked away so easily, maybe I could have done something to stop the shitshow.
“You can’t just manhandle me,” Jenna snapped, but it didn’t have the old bite. She sounded winded, like the altitude of things had finally gotten to her.
I didn’t answer. I just shoved the spare helmet at her and waited. She glared, then jammed it down, the chin strap hanging loose.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“Safe house,” I said. “Club rules. We need to make sure Los Alamos is clear of Martinis.”
“And Bellinis,” she added.
She hesitated, then climbed on behind me. Her hands hovered over my hips, as if physical contact would give her syphilis, but the second I twisted the throttle and the rear tire snapped loose in the gravel, her arms clamped around my gut like she was riding out a hurricane.
The city was empty. We cut through dead traffic lights and ran two blocks of sidewalk without seeing another living thing.
Jenna’s grip never loosened. She held on like a drowning woman, fingers digging under my jacket, nails finding skin.
The way she pressed her face into my shoulder, I could feel the little gasps of her breath, rapid and shallow.
Under other circumstances, I might have gotten hard.
Tonight, it just made me want to ride faster, to see if I could shake her off at seventy.
I took the scenic route, up past the water tower and down a switchback that overlooked the valley.
I wanted her to see how far we were from help.
I wanted her to feel the distance, to know that if she screamed, nothing but the coyotes would answer.
When I finally slowed at the turnoff, she didn’t let go right away.
The safe house was a prefab double-wide, sagging on cinder blocks, surrounded by a weed patch and three busted Fords in various stages of cannibalization. I cut the engine and waited for Jenna to find her feet. She slid off, wobbled, and caught herself on the seat.
“Charming,” she sneered, but it was all reflex. She eyed the windows, the shadows, and realized I’d brought her somewhere where the cell coverage died at sunset.
I unlocked the door and gestured her inside.
She hesitated, just long enough to prove to herself that she had a choice, then walked in. I followed, and the door swung shut with a sound like the click of a coffin lid.
Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and the sweet-sour funk of spilled beer.
The only light came from a single bare bulb, swinging gently from a cracked ceiling.
The furniture was all thrift-store specials—one threadbare couch, two mismatched kitchen chairs, a table ringed with cigarette burns.
I shoved the table aside and pointed her to the farthest chair.
She sat, crossing her legs. “What’s your angle, Wallace?”
I leaned against the wall, arms folded, letting the silence stretch.
“You want to rough me up? Threaten me with your biker friends? I’m not scared of you.”
I grinned. “You’re terrified.”
Her jaw clenched, and her hands went to her lap, fingers locking tight.
We stared each other down. For a minute, I saw her as she’d probably been at law school. Probably the queen bee, the one who always knew just how to twist the knife in your back and smile while she did it. She’d lost some of that now, stripped raw by whatever she’d seen in the bakery.
“I didn’t sell you out,” she said, quiet. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s not how the records look,” I replied. “You were taking money from both sides.”
She looked away. “You think any of this was my idea? I was supposed to keep Bellini safe, not drag her into a gang war. They had my family, Seneca. You know what that feels like?”
I thought of my brother. “Yeah. I know.”
She laughed, brittle. “Sure you do.”
I let her sit with that. After a minute, she started to cry, silent tears leaking down her face and spotting her suit.
I could have reached out, could have comforted her.
I didn’t. Instead, I went to the sink and poured two glasses of tap water.
I handed one to her, and she stared at it like it was a live grenade.
“What now?” she whispered.
I shrugged. “Now we wait.”
She nodded, but there was no hope left in her eyes. She finished the water, set the glass on the table, and folded her arms over her chest.
I watched her until the bulb overhead buzzed itself out and left us in the dark.
Jenna hovered near the door, holding her purse in front of her like it might stop a bullet, or me. She took a shallow breath, probably trying not to inhale whatever died in the carpet. I watched her, silent, until the silence had the weight of a closing door.
She moved first, aiming for the armchair by the window, but I got there before her and sat on the edge of the seat, elbows on knees, hands dangling between. She hesitated, then perched on the only other chair, a folding metal thing with foam peeling from the seat.
“Talk,” I said. It came out more bored than angry. My adrenaline was spent. My nerves had been peeled to wire, and now I just wanted the story.
She started with her hands, rubbing them, twisting the rings, checking for cuts that weren’t there. “I was coming to warn her,” she said, voice tight. “I knew they’d go for Bellini next, after the house thing failed.”
I let her talk. She needed to talk.
“I parked out back, walked around. I thought I’d see you both in the kitchen or something. I just—” She looked up, and the eyes that had cross-examined a hundred witnesses now couldn’t meet mine. “Then I went inside and saw you sleeping in her bed.”
Her throat worked hard, like she was swallowing a pill that didn’t want to go down. “I didn’t expect that,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to care about her.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in, shallow, measured. “I was going to warn her. That’s all. But then you and her.” A trembling laugh, ugly and raw. “Of course it was you. Why wouldn’t it be?”
I stood and walked to the counter, picking up the glass from earlier and rinsed it in the sink. I needed to move, to keep my hands busy, so they didn’t find her neck.
“Why didn’t you just call?” I asked.
Her voice sharpened. “You think phones work when two separate crime families are hunting you and have a fucking bounty on your head? I burned my last one after the first shooter showed up. I was running, Seneca.”
I nodded, watching the water swirl the soap and grime down the drain.
Jenna’s hands balled into fists in her lap.
She stared at them as if expecting to find the answer tattooed on her skin.
“I know what you think of me,” she said.
“I know I’m the villain in your story. Fine.
But I wanted you to know I wasn’t just—” She stopped.
“I wanted to see you. Even if it was the last thing I did.”
That should have sounded like a plea, but it didn’t. It sounded like an admission, the kind you made when you had no more moves left.
I looked at her, really looked, and saw what was left of the woman who was supposed to defend me. I came back to the armchair, sat again. She watched every step.
“We had something too, didn’t we?” she said, voice soft now, close to breaking.
Was that true?
She stood, and the movement shocked me with how normal it was. Just a woman getting up from a bad conversation, needing to change the subject before she broke. But instead of pacing or yelling, she walked to me, slow, and knelt down in front of the chair.
I could have stopped her. I didn’t. I would have if Catherine had not walked away so easily. She’d claimed it was to save my life, but I wasn’t so sure. Something in her eyes said she wanted to be back with the Bellini family.
Jenna put her hands on my knees, fingers curling into the denim. I watched her, expressionless, as she looked up at me and found nothing but old pain in my eyes.
“Please,” she whispered, so low I barely heard it. “I need this.”
She undid my belt, slow but not teasing, just methodical.
Her hands trembled as she worked the button, then the zipper, and when she reached inside, the touch was cold, clinical, but also desperate.
I was half hard already, the friction of the ride and the nearness of her making me swell.
She drew my cock out, the shaft thick and flushed, and for a moment she just held it, palm up, like she was offering it to a judge or a priest or maybe just the god she’d stopped believing in.
She bent forward, lips barely grazing the head.
Her hair was in my lap, the scent of shampoo and sweat and a hint of something floral that clung even after the day she’d had.
She ran her tongue around the tip, slow, then took me in, inch by inch, her mouth hollowing out to fit.
She was practiced, but there was no showmanship, none of the theatrics she’d used on me before. This was need, raw and unadorned.
I let her work. My hands found the back of her head, fingers sinking into the roots, not pushing but guiding, giving her the anchor she seemed to want.
She took me deeper, and when I hit the back of her throat, she gagged once, then recovered, breathing through her nose, the discipline of old habits making her better at this than anyone had a right to be.
It felt good, god, it felt better than it should have.
Her lips were soft, her cheeks hollowed around me, her tongue tracing the sensitive underside until I shuddered.
But every time I looked down, every time I saw the arc of her neck and the glint of saliva threading from her chin to my jeans, all I could see was Catherine and the line of her collarbone, the way she’d looked at me in bed, the taste of her still on my lips hours later.
Jenna’s hands worked my thighs, kneading, desperate to pull me further in.
I wanted to lose myself, to forget, but the past wouldn’t let me.
Even as my hips bucked, even as I groaned, the memory of Catherine—the fucking judge, the woman who’d let me ruin her—clung to the inside of my skull like a tick.
I let Jenna work until I was right at the edge, the pleasure blurring the outlines of the room, the old anger and loss and guilt all fighting for space inside me.
When I came, it was a shock, a hard spasm that left me dizzy.
She took every drop, swallowing, then letting me slip from her mouth, gasping for air.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and looked up, eyes red, face blotched with humiliation and triumph. “See?” she said, her voice hoarse. “It’s not over.”
I walked to the far end of the room and stared out at the moonlit dirt patch, the nowhere we were stranded in. I wondered if Catherine was sleeping, if she was safe, if her father had locked her away behind some five-inch-thick steel door that even a nuke couldn’t open.
Behind me, Jenna’s breath evened out. I heard the faint sound of her standing, of her heels on the ruined vinyl floor.
She didn’t speak, didn’t try to touch me.
For a while, there was just the humming of the bulb, the faint tick of the cooling pipes, the rawness of two people who’d tried to fuck away their ghosts and failed.
She went to the bathroom, closed the door, and I listened to the sink run. When she came out, her face was scrubbed raw, no makeup left, hair slicked back behind her ears.
“You gonna kill me?” she asked, voice flat.
“No,” I said, and I meant it. I was so fucking confused. Both women were fucking with my head. I studied Jenna for several minutes. Studied her hard, and despite the darkness, I could see it clearly now.
“Let me ask you something, Jenna.” I stayed where I was and crossed my arms. “When you saw Catherine and me in bed, who were you really jealous of?”
Jenna stood and walked toward me. She hugged herself, looking impossibly small. Things were about to change drastically.