Chapter Two #2
I shrugged. “Because I got a hit. Haven’t looked at it. Not my business.” I gave him a firm look. “Besides, you’re not worrying about club shit. I’m your sister. I know you better than you know yourself, and yes, it’s a scary place in your mind.”
“Brat,” he grumbled, but scrubbed a hand over his face as he did. “You know I have to find out. I just don’t want…”
I sighed. “You don’t want your kid to know you’d been in prison and snub you before they even met you.”
“It’s a real fear.”
“Well, it’s done now. Like I said, I used a different name and stuff. You can access the email as well as I can. You control what she knows about you. Unless Lavender already told her child. Assuming she has one. Like I said, I haven’t looked at the hit.”
My brother sighed, closing his eyes. He looked at me and I thought he was going to say something but there was a knock at the door.
Knuckles opened the door before Knight answered. “Got Jag all set.”
“Yeah.” Knight picked up a keycard from the top of his desk. “Glad the girls set him up in the back corner away from everyone. Still close enough for us to know if he’s in trouble so we can help him, but he’ll have some privacy.”
“He’ll be fine. Just needs some time to adjust.” Knuckles glanced at me and grinned. “You talked to Hannah yet?”
“I just got here.” I smiled back at the older man. “I’d planned on touching base with her and the others before I left. They at Haven?”
“Yes. Had a new family arrive today. They’re making sure everyone is settled.”
“Oh? I’ll go help. I’m good at making emergency stuffies for kids. It’s my specialty.”
Knuckles chuckled. “You and all the old ladies. And most of the guys. Tiny’s the worst.”
“Tiny’s the best. Penny really hit the jackpot with that one.” I stood and turned back to Knight. “We’ll finish this later. Yes?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You’re so cute when you get all grumbly.”
He scowled at me. “I am many things, you little hellion. Cute is not one of them.” He pointed a finger at me in warning. “Don’t go spreading rumors either. I’m not cute.”
“You’re totally cute.” I followed him out. As I stepped into the hallway, I nearly collided with a big man I didn’t recognize, who was walking past. Up close, the intensity of his presence was striking. Knight stiffened slightly beside me.
“Jag,” Knight said with a nod. “This is my sister, Ada. She’s here from time to time, so you might see her around.” I nearly groaned aloud.
“Rhys. Stop.” I turned to look up at Jag. “He’s an asshole making sure you know I’m his sister so you won’t hit on me. He does that to every single new member of this club, so don’t take it personally.”
Jag’s gaze shifted to me, direct and assessing. I met it without flinching or looking away. I’d grown up around dangerous men. I knew how to hold my ground. I also knew when I was in trouble. I was definitely in trouble.
After a beat of hesitation, Jag held out his hand to me.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” I took his hand automatically.
His palm was calloused, his grip careful, as if trying not to squeeze too tightly.
His face remained impassive, but something in his eyes shifted momentarily, perhaps in surprise at my lack of fear or discomfort.
He was right to be surprised, because this was the scariest man I’d ever seen.
And considering my brother had nearly every square inch of his body covered in tattoos -- including the whites of his eyes -- I thought I had something to compare him to.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the man looked…
dead? Like he’d lost part of himself along the way.
It was more than that haunted look some of the men I’d seen over the years had.
This was something that scared him so badly he’d retreated into himself.
“Likewise,” I said. “The people here are wonderful. I hope you like it here.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure I will.” I watched him as he turned to go. My brother cleared his throat beside me, drawing my attention back.
“Stay away from that one, Ada,” Knight said quietly. “He’s not like the other guys. He’s got something… dark… inside him.”
“I figured that much out on my own,” I replied, my eyes still on Jag’s retreating back. Then I turned back to Knight and smiled. “But thanks for the warning.”
I stepped out of the clubhouse into the afternoon sun, squinting against the sudden brightness.
I headed toward my car, needing to go to Haven to see what the new arrivals needed, but a movement near the line of motorcycles caught my eye.
Jag crouched beside a weathered Harley. I thought Knight had mentioned the club had kept Jag’s old motorcycle all these years, a gesture of loyalty I found surprisingly touching.
Though I’d never met the man, he was a symbol of everything that went wrong with the club nearly four decades ago.
I wasn’t certain what had happened, but Knuckles respected him above almost everyone in the club from what I’d heard.
Before I could reconsider, I found myself walking toward him.
I didn’t hurry, but made sure he had enough time to know I was headed his way.
I hadn’t been around many newly released long-term guys, but it didn’t take a genius to know startling someone who’d just come out of prison after nearly four decades never worked out well for anyone.
He didn’t look up, but the slight pause in his movements told me he was aware of me.
He continued his inspection, pointedly ignoring me. A less perceptive person might have been offended, but I recognized the defensive mechanism for what it was.
“That’s not paranoia,” I said casually, stopping a respectful distance away. “That’s hypervigilance you feel.”
He stilled, not looking up. For several seconds, he remained frozen, then slowly straightened to his full height. When he turned to face me, his expression was blank, but his eyes had sharpened with attention.
“You an expert on ex-cons? Some kind of shrink?” His voice was clipped, defensive, with an underlying edge that would have made most people retreat. I wasn’t most people.
“No,” I replied. “But I recognize institutional damage when I see it.” I hiked my thumb over my shoulder to the clubhouse.
“I’ve been very involved in my brother’s life.
Before and after he went away. Knight wasn’t in prison nearly as long as you, and he came out different.
” I shrugged. “I read up. Tried to understand what was going on in his mind. I never really figured it out, but I did find ways for me to change my behavior so he’d be more comfortable. ”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “That right?” he said, his tone flat. He wiped his hands on a shop rag, his movements precise. “You got a psychology degree to go with whatever else you do?”
I smiled slightly. “No degree. Just tried to help my brother and apply those same alterations to my behavior when I was here until everyone got used to me.” I gestured to the bike with my free hand. “She’s beautiful. Knight mentioned they kept her for you.”
The change of subject seemed to throw him, if only for a fraction of a second. He glanced back at the motorcycle, and something in his expression softened minutely.
“Didn’t expect that,” he admitted, running his hand along the fuel tank with unexpected gentleness. “Thought she’d been sold off years ago.”
“The club takes care of its own,” I said, echoing what I’d heard countless times from Knight. “Even when its own can’t be here to take care of their stuff.”
Jag’s eyes returned to me, studying me with renewed intensity. I met his gaze steadily, neither challenging nor submissive. Just present. His discomfort at my perceptiveness was visible only in the slight tightening around his eyes, but I didn’t look away or apologize for seeing him clearly.
“Wasn’t always like that. Not when I went away.” He glanced off, his features hardening.
I could tell this wasn’t a subject he was ready for and, honestly, not my business. Instead of making him more uncomfortable I gave him a gentle smile. “See you around, Jag,” I said, taking a step back. “Take care of that bike.”
He didn’t respond verbally, but I felt his attention follow me as I walked away. The weight of his gaze on my back was tangible, like the heat from a fire at a distance. Not burning exactly, but unmistakably present.
At my car, I glanced back over my shoulder. He was still watching me, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. Our eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither of us looked away. Then I slid into my car and started the engine.
As I pulled out of the compound, I checked my rearview mirror.
Jag remained motionless beside his motorcycle, tracking my departure with that same intense focus.
Something about our brief interaction left me unsettled yet strangely energized.
Most men at the compound were easy to read. Jag was different.
I’d always been good at reading people. It was both a gift and a curse. But Jagger Kross was a book written in a language I only partially understood, with entire chapters redacted. And despite my brother’s warning, I found myself curious to learn more.