8. Rae
8
RAE
"You okay?" Jamie leans against the doorframe, arms folded over her oversized T-shirt.
I nod. “You can come in if you want.”
She pushes off the timber, her lanky limbs carrying her toward where I lie in the center of the bed, a pillow cradled on my chest. "Figured you might be up here to escape the witch." She settles on the edge of the bed, hands pressed between her knees. "Can't blame you if you were."
"She spat at my feet when I walked past her just now." I wipe the side of my finger beneath my eye, sure it's clear how much of an epic fuck-up I am. "They still here?"
Jamie nods once. "They'll be gone soon, though. Tyke's talkin' with Marco, and then I'd say he'll take the woman home before she starts any more fights downstairs."
"People don't like her, huh?"
A small smile curls on one side of her mouth. "Not if they can help it."
“What did she do?”
Jamie chews her lip, staring at the floor. "I only heard a bit of it, but she wasn't loyal when she was here. Slept around, you know what I mean?"
“Yeah.” I clutch the pillow in a death grip. Is that what these people think of me? Am I just another slut whoring herself out to their men? “The club really honors loyalty as a trait, huh?”
"Ain't that what they found places like this on?" she muses. "Knowing you can trust your brother?"
I study the girl before me. We haven’t had much opportunity to talk before now. I’d seen her around, helping the prospects or talking with her father, but she's not the kind of girl who willingly places herself as the center of attention. Perhaps that's why she dresses the way she does, hiding her body like that.
It doesn’t take much of an imagination to know that she’s a knockout underneath all that loose cotton.
Her father's dark and critical gaze flickers over me, but there's no ill intent. A gentle jaw and delicate chin soften the harshness of her features, and fuller lips invite curiosity but don't overwhelm her face like half the artificial beauties across social media. Gentle waves add body to her dark blonde hair—pulled back in a thick, loose braid—but the strands don't appear colored. Just lightened by time in the sun.
“Can I ask you a question?” My fingers flex and roll the edge of the pillow.
“Sure.” She sets a palm to the comforter, leaning her weight closer.
“What’s your future here?”
Jamie pulls back as though offended.
"Did that not come out right?" I frown. "I just— I meant, what's a woman's place in a club dominated by male roles?"
She swallows, slow and loud. “You’re asking why I’m not a property bitch?”
"A what—no." I bury my face in one hand. "Jesus. Forget I spoke. I'm sorry."
Her gentle fingers on my knee nearly have me leap off the bed. "It's okay. It's a fair question for an outsider."
An outsider. The fears and doubts that brought me up here in the first place bubble in my chest, a hot, boiling pit of pain. I flare my nostrils, bringing the pillow up to meet my chin and hoping the sense of security will stave off my frustrated tears.
Fuck, I’m sick of crying. But I know why I do, and I know that no matter how many hours I sit here reciting positive affirmations to myself, proving my critical inner voice wrong, it won’t change a thing.
For the next week, I’ll hate myself no matter what. And there’s only one thing that can end that.
“If Mom hadn’t died, I don’t think I’d be a part of the club like I am,” Jamie states, unaware of my internal meltdown. “Dad had no choice: either he raised me here—where he could keep an eye on me—and kept his place in the club, or he gave us both up.”
“Both?” Does she have a sibling?
“The club and me.” She turns her head and pins me with an apathetic stare. “The Reapers keep us fed and housed. If he’d walked away, handed in his patch, he wouldn’t have been able to provide for me, and the state would have taken me from his care."
“But the state left you in the care of a known criminal anyway?” The government fucking confuses me sometimes.
Jamie grins. "Daddy ain't ever been booked. No record means nothing to go on should anyone want to push his association with the Reapers."
“How the fuck does he manage that?” I laugh, awkward and unsure if it’s the right thing to do.
Given her smile, it's okay. "He was a cop once." Her hand slices through the air, dismissing this fact as though it's not innately curious. "Anyway. The reason why I came up here…"
I offer a flat smile, pulling the pillow close again.
“Maddie will be okay.” Her downcast gaze belies her words. “She’s tough, and she can hold her own.”
"Doesn't mean shit when your opponent is stronger than you." Flashes of my fiancé force my eyes to shutter, and I frown until the memories fit back into the box I assigned them. “Why do you think he has her?”
“Fox?”
I nod.
Jamie rises from the bed and wanders across to the set of drawers. "I don't know." She lifts my hairbrush and aligns it better with the small container of clips beside it. "Are you worried it's because of you?"
I twist and rise to sit cross-legged. “Makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”
“Not really.” She smoothes her palms along the front of the timber as though brushing away any lingering dust. “Growin’ up under the feet of these men taught me a few things, and one of those is nothing’s ever guaranteed. Safety, peace, promises. There’s always someone trying to best someone else, and when they lose, those grudges last years.” She turns to meet my eye. “Sometimes decades.”
“So, you’re saying this could be over some shit that went down a fucking long time ago.”
“They have a lot of history.” Jamie spins, resting her palms against the drawers behind her and leaning on them. “You hungry?”
“Not really.”
She twists her lips. “Wanna watch something?”
“I’m okay.”
A disgruntled sigh falls from her lips. “You can’t stay up here all night.” She darts her eyes toward the door and hesitates before moving into the hallway, reappearing a few moments later. “Marco and the witch just walked out. You’re safe to come hang out with the rest of us while we wait on news.”
As though confirming her point, the rumble of an engine passes the window, followed by the rattle of the huge steel gate.
I glance at the framed nightscape. What little moonlight there is paints the edges of the clouds outside in dull shades of silver.
I envy their freedom to come and go—Marco and Charlene.
And yet, I crave the security of this little square room more than I should. I feel tethered to this place. Tethered to the two men downstairs.
None of which makes any sense when, despite it all, I still feel exactly how Jamie described me.
An outsider.