Chapter Twenty-One #2
I was laughing at something Dalton said, and the oaf threw his arm around my shoulders, using his bulk to force me into a hug.
Most people knew I wasn’t great with touch, but Dalton had decided he was the exception at some point.
Still, I pushed against him half-heartedly and gave him a kick in the shins for good measure.
Then Jackson’s voice cut through the clubhouse like a knife. “You two need a room?”
The laughter died in my throat. The whole room shifted, conversations halting as eyes swung our way. I felt Dalton stiffen beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mac start forward, only for Hannah to lift a hand and stop him.
“Excuse me?” My voice was ice.
Jackson’s jaw clenched. “What? I’m just standing here while you two hang all over each other.”
Heat flooded my face—not from shame, but from fury.
He said that in front of everyone. “Hang all over him?” My words cracked sharp as a whip.
“First of all, I wasn’t hanging over anyone.
And, even if I was, what the fuck does it matter to you?
I can do what I want. I don’t belong to you Jackson Morgan. ”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, the weight of the room pressing down. Dalton lifted his hands, trying to defuse. “Hey, Holly was just laughing at my bad joke. That’s it. No need to start a fight where there isn’t one.”
“Damn right there isn’t.” My glare stayed locked on Jackson for one last beat before I spun and stormed toward the door, my chest heaving.
Behind me, I heard Dalton’s voice drop low, meant only for Jackson. “Dude, if you want her, biting her head off in front of everyone? That’s the fastest way to lose her.” Jackson muttered a slew of curses, and after a sharp word from Hannah, hurried after me.
I barged through the door leading into the garage with my head down, past a few of the members who were acting like they hadn’t heard anything. I could still hear Jackson behind me as I rushed outside. I didn’t make it three steps to my car before I slammed into a woman in heels and pearls.
Correction: not just any woman. My mother.
I stopped so fast, Jackson barreled into me from behind. His palm landed against the small of my back, steadying me before I went face-first into Ruth McCarthy’s Dior.
Her eyes went wide, darting between us, me flushed and furious, Jackson hot on my heels, his hand on me like it belonged there.
Right behind her was my father. The neurosurgeon who could remove a tumor the size of a grape from someone’s brain but would rather swallow glass than referee his wife in public. He didn’t say a word. He just looked.
At me.
At Jackson.
At the fact that Jackson’s hand was still on my back.
Jackson felt it. The shift. His hand dropped like he’d been burned.
The lightbulb flicked on in my mother’s eyes. Disapproval sharpened her features and she pursed her red lips.
“Mom—” I started.
She cut me off, her voice clipped. “What exactly is going on here?”
Before I could decide whether to lie or pick a fight, Hannah stepped out from the door behind us, wiping her hands on a towel.
She must have followed at a discreet distance to make sure I didn’t kill Jackson.
Which, for the record, was still tempting.
Even though the hand lingering on the small of my back was sending goosebumps up and down my spine.
Hannah took in the scene with one sweeping glance—Mom in heels, me cornered, Jackson stiff at my side, Dad trying to become one with the wall—and arched one brow.
“Well,” Hannah said, “if it isn’t Ruth McCarthy.”
My mother’s chin lifted a fraction. “And you must be Hannah.”
“Depends who’s asking.” Her small smile cut back the bite of her words but just barely.
Mom’s eyes flicked around the clubhouse, lingering on the patched leather vests, the half-fixed ceiling fan, the scratches in the bar top. She looked like she’d stepped onto another planet. Her knuckles tightened around the poundcake she carried, edges blackened beneath the neat ribbon.
“I thought I’d…contribute something,” she said at last, offering it out like proof she belonged.
Hannah didn’t take it right away. She let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, then plucked it from Ruth’s hands. “Brave, bringing dessert into my kitchen.”
“It’s homemade,” Ruth replied, defensive.
Hannah peeled back the wrap, sniffed. “Smells like it put up a good fight in the oven.” She turned back towards the kitchen, and Mom followed dutifully behind her. “We’ll figure out how to save it.”
I glanced at my mom as a flush crept into her cheeks, not embarrassment, but irritation.
She wasn’t used to anyone, especially not another woman, cutting her down in public.
For a long, tense moment, nobody moved. Dad studied the area around us like he might be expected to perform surgery later.
Jackson shifted at my side, but Mac caught his eye and shook his head.
The whole clubhouse was watching without watching, everyone pretending to mind their own business while the real show played out in front of them.
Finally, Mom exhaled through her nose, setting her jaw. “We’ll see,” she said, but the edge in her voice wasn’t as sharp as before.
Hannah smirked, satisfied. “Oh, we will.”
And just like that, the battle lines were drawn—not enemies, not allies, but two women who loved me in completely different ways, trying to figure out if they could stand each other long enough to fight on the same side.
The air in the clubhouse went sharp, brittle.
You could’ve heard a pin drop if not for the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.
Every man in the room suddenly remembered he had somewhere else to be.
Chairs scraped. A cue ball clacked into a pocket.
Boots scuffed the floor as the Saints made themselves scarce, one by one, until the place was nearly empty.
Dad stepped forward after the two women had disappeared back into the kitchen. “You’re the Marine,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. I jerked my attention back to him as he scrutinized the man standing next to me.
Jackson straightened like someone had yanked an invisible string up his spine. “Yes, sir.”
Dad’s gaze did what it always did. Catalogued. Assessed. Measured. The way Jackson stood slightly in front of me but not possessively. The way he wasn’t fidgeting.
“How long are you home?”
“A few weeks, sir.”
“Mm.”
Silence stretched. The kind that made most men squirm. Jackson didn’t.
“My daughter,” Dad said evenly, “has worked very hard to build something for herself.”
“So have I, sir.”
That made Dad’s eyes lift properly. And I saw it. The smallest shift. Not approval. Recognition. A beat passed. Then another. Finally, Dad nodded once. “Good.”
Behind us, Mom’s voice floated out of the kitchen—tight and controlled. Hannah’s answered, lower and sharper. Dad glanced toward the noise like a man spotting an incoming storm and deciding he did not, in fact, need to be outside for it.
“I’m going to…look around,” he said mildly.
Translation: I refuse to be Switzerland in that kitchen.
He stepped past Jackson, paused just long enough to clap Mac lightly on the shoulder. And just like that, my father disappeared into the garage like he hadn’t just silently evaluated the boy I’d nearly strangled five minutes ago. I watched him go.
“Coward,” I muttered affectionately.
For a minute I just stood there. Unsure where to go.
Eventually, I sighed, and, resigned to my fate, I turned and followed Denim and Dior towards the smell of food and burnt cake.
I claimed a seat at the now-empty table.
Jackson stood in the doorway, looking like he was already halfway gone.
I caught him with a glare sharp enough to pin him in place.
Don’t you dare, my eyes said. He stayed, taking a seat next to me.
Mom’s eyes snapped to me. “Holly, we need to talk. Privately.”
“Actually,” Hannah said, crossing her arms, “I think it’s time we all talk. Together.”
Mom turned her head, slow and deliberate. “Together?”
Hannah’s smile sharpened. “You love your daughter, but I do too. This girl’s got fire. Wants to build something that matters. I told her I’d help keep her pointed straight.”
My mother blinked, surprise breaking through the disapproval for half a heartbeat. “She…told you about that? About her shelter?”
“Damn right she did,” Hannah said. “She’s not just daydreaming. She’s putting in the work.”
Mom studied her, pearls glinting, suspicion warring with something softer. “And you think you’re the right person to guide her?”
Hannah leaned in, not an inch of ground ceded. “I think I’m someone who won’t pat her on the head and tell her it’s sweet but unrealistic. She doesn’t need coddling. She needs pushing. And I can do that.”
The air crackled between them. It was pearls against apron. Two women from different worlds circling, testing, daring the other to blink first. I glanced over at Jackson.
His jaw was clenched tight, the storm still written across his face, but when his gaze dropped to me, something shifted. The anger bled out of him, replaced by a flicker of something else, realization.
My hands were trembling. I hadn’t even noticed until he did something about it.
Beneath the table, out of sight of the two women still sparring, Jackson reached for me. Big, rough palm closing around both my hands at once, steadying them. Steadying me.
I froze. But then the tightness in my shoulders gave way, the air rushing out of me in a shaky breath. Slowly, I let him wrap his hand around mine, grounding me the way no words could.
Hannah kept talking, Ruth kept bristling, but the tension in the room softened at the edges. Two women who had nothing in common except me found themselves circling toward some uneasy truce, while Jackson and I sat silent, tethered under the table like a secret.
Eventually, I couldn’t take the air anymore. I slipped my hands from his, pushing up and heading for the porch. The screen door creaked behind me as the heavy summer dusk swallowed me up. I sucked in a lungful of air that didn’t taste like motor oil and pride.
The boards creaked again a few minutes later. Jackson.
I didn’t look at him. “If you came out here to defend what happened tonight, don’t bother. I’m still pissed.”
“I know.” His voice was rough, ragged, the temper gone but the strain still in it. “I know, Holly. I just—fuck.” He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t. But you drive me out of my mind.”
“Not my problem,” I shot back, arms folded tight.
He turned, eyes fierce. “No, it is. It is, because I can’t fucking breathe when I think about losing you, and I’m not even yours. You laugh with Dalton, and it’s like I’m already—” He cut himself off, shaking his head hard. “Christ, I sound insane.”
“You do,” I said. But the way his voice cracked, the way he couldn’t stop pacing, it knocked something loose in me.
He kept going, words tumbling. “I’m not making excuses. I’m just—fuck, Holly, I can’t think straight around you. I’ve been in fights that should’ve killed me, and none of it scares me half as much as you do.”
It threw me. The honesty. The rawness. Jackson Morgan, the one who swaggered and smirked like the world couldn’t touch him, rambling like a fool over me.
So I kissed him.
Quick. Just a press of my mouth to his, stealing the words right out of him.
He went rigid. Frozen.
Panic snapped through me, and I spun, ready to bolt. Like I always did. But this time, his hand was faster, snapping around my waist and yanking me back like I was already his.
This kiss wasn’t quick. It was searing. Hungry.
His mouth claimed mine, his hands anchoring me like he was terrified I’d vanish.
My fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer, closer, until the world blurred out.
I forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything but him.
Against my better judgement, my hand found its way to the back of his head.
I ran my fingers through his hair, pulling on him like it was possible for us to get any closer.
He groaned, his grip on my hips tightening as he deepened the kiss.
When his tongue pressed against my lips, I didn’t hesitate before opening to him and the moan that came from me was a foreign sound.
When we finally broke apart, I was gasping, forehead pressed against his chest. I closed my eyes, my brain working overtime to memorize the taste and smell of him. Heat and smoke, pine and musk. His heart slammed against my skin, wild and uneven, matching mine.
I glanced up, dizzy and dazed, and caught sight of movement in the window.
Two silhouettes ducked back like guilty teenagers caught peeping. Pearls and apron.
My jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
Jackson followed my gaze, and when he realized what I’d seen, his shoulders started to shake. A laugh broke out of him, low and unsteady.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, pressing my hands to my face. “My mother and Hannah Mills. Peeping Toms.”
Jackson grinned, brushing his thumb across my cheek like he couldn’t stop touching me. “Guess we put on a good show.”
I groaned into my palms. But when he leaned down, lips brushing mine again, I didn’t stop him. Instead I tucked my hands into the back pockets of his jeans and let the feel of him anchor me.