Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
JESS
Lucifer doesn’t have such a shining personality. He glares and grunts. No one would say he’s a conversationalist. But in the weeks that he’s been coming to the hospital, I’ve seen a different side of him. One that allows him to speak more than a few words and sometimes even smile.
I like it.
That’s not something I ever thought I’d admit, and it scares me. I keep having to remind myself that I can’t afford to get attached to him. That’s why I need to put an end to it.
Especially if I’m going to be discharged soon.
So, when he arrived a little while ago with dinner, I told him he didn’t have to keep coming by. I figured he’d be happy to be rid of me. That he could go back to doing whatever it is he does as the president of the Fallen Demons, and just forget I ever existed.
Well, until I don’t need his medical coverage anymore.
He’ll, of course, have to deal with me when it comes time for us to divorce, but who the hell knows when that’s gonna be.
Just because I’m on the verge of being discharged soon doesn’t mean I’m healed.
I still have a long road ahead of me that consists of physical therapy and possibly even more surgeries, but I won’t know about the latter until the scars on my legs mature.
Dr. Patel alerted me that reconstructive surgery might be in play if my scars prohibit my range of motion. Right now, I have limited mobility.
Lucifer turns around, placing his hands on his hips. His dark eyes narrow as he fixes me with a glare.
“What happens when you get discharged? What does a day in your life look like?”
The question catches me off guard. I guess I wasn’t expecting him to care enough to question why I suddenly didn’t want him around. I worry my lower lip between my teeth as I contemplate my answer.
I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve been too focused on surviving each day, on enduring the pain, on not crying during physical therapy when Marcus pushes me past what I think I can handle.
“I don’t really know,” I admit. “Marcus is recommending physical therapy five days a week.”
He jerks his chin. “Right, well, you can’t drive yourself to therapy, right?”
The question hangs between us, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Lucifer lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, and I can practically see the gears turning behind those dark eyes.
“Okay, well, let’s say for argument’s sake, you can’t.
What happens then? Are we going to rely on Tori, who is already stretched so thin she can’t manage to visit more than once a week? ”
The comment hits me like a slap. “That’s not fair.”
“You’re right, it’s not fair. To her. That’s why you need a fucking plan.”
Heat flares in my chest, defensive and immediate. I want to tell him that I have everything figured out, that there is absolutely no reason for him to question me. That I’m not his fucking problem.
But I don’t have a plan, and that realization sits heavy in my stomach. I’m just too angry to acknowledge.
“I have a plan,” I snap.
He crosses his arms against his chest and widens his stance. “Okay, let’s hear it, baby. What’s your big plan?”
The word baby rolls off his tongue with an ease that doesn’t match the hardness of his expression, and something in my chest does a stupid, traitorous flip.
“Don’t call me that.”
He scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “My apologies. I’m still waiting to hear that plan of yours, though.”
The condescension in his voice makes my blood boil. “I’ll figure it out. Just like I always do. I’m more concerned about where I’m going to work now that I don’t have a job and my bills have been piling up for two months.”
Lucifer’s entire demeanor shifts. His shoulders go rigid, and his eyes widen slightly, as if I’ve said something incomprehensible. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.” I lean forward, ignoring the twinge of pain that shoots up my leg. “Tori’s been floating all our bills. I can’t let her do that. She’s got a daughter to support. I need to work.”
He stares at me for a beat. “What the fuck are they shooting in your veins?”
I take offense to that too. He knows they’ve lowered the dosage of my pain meds at my own request.
“You know what? This conversation is over,” I tell him. “I don’t know why you even care. I get you feel some kind of responsibility as my boss, but you’ve paid your debt, okay? You can back off.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if that’s the same look he gives his enemies before he ends their existence.
“Well, you’re right about that. That’s why, as your boss, I know you worked twelve-hour shifts at the bar.
” His jaw ticks and he rolls his neck. “You can’t do that anymore.
You can’t be on your feet for all those hours.
Hell, you probably shouldn’t be on them at all. That can’t be good for your recovery.”
His concerns are valid, I just wish they weren’t his.
I mean, these are all things I should be considering, but the moment Dr. Patel told me I’d be getting discharged soon, all I could focus on are all the things I need to do to feel like me again.
It’s like I forgot I’m not the same person anymore.
The moment I leave this hospital, I’ll be starting over.
Rebuilding a life I struggled to build in the first place.
I steel my shoulders back.
“Well, bartending is all I know how to do. I’m going to have to make it work somehow.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and the raw honesty of them makes me want to disappear.
Bartending, waiting tables, smiling at strangers and making small talk—that’s the only skill set I’ve ever built.
I didn’t go to college. I never learned to type or file or whatever the hell people do in offices. I poured drinks and flirted for tips.
Lucifer goes quiet.
“You need a backup plan, Jess.”
The way he says my name makes something crack inside me. I don’t want his gentleness. I don’t want his concern. I want to be angry, because anger is easier than admitting I’m terrified.
“Okay, Lucifer, since you seem to have all the answers.” I throw my hands up.
“Tell me, what should I do? I don’t know how to do anything else.
Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll find a job that brings in the same kind of money I was making at Rodeo Roundup.
I had regulars, and a face that people liked to look at.
Now I’ve got scars, a limp, and a shit ton of trauma. ”
The words spill, and once they start, I can’t stop. “So please, enlighten me. What’s the backup plan for someone like me? Because from where I’m sitting, there isn’t one.”
Lucifer’s expression changes. The hardness in his eyes softens. He takes a step closer to the bed, and I notice the way his jaw works, the way his throat moves as he swallows.
“I’m suggesting you let someone help you.”
The offer hangs in the air, and I feel my walls slam back into place. “I can’t keep asking people for help.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because you said it yourself—it’s not fair to Tori.”
“I’m not talking about Tori.” His voice drops. “I’m talking about me.”
The room suddenly feels too small. I stare at him, my mouth slightly open, unable to form a response.
“I get you want things to go back to normal. That you crave your independence. I even admire the fact that you’re eager to go back to work, but you need to be realistic or you’re going to set yourself up for failure.
” He drops his arms to his sides and turns his head, his gaze pinned to the window behind me.
“The club is rebuilding Rodeo Roundup, but it’s gonna be at least six months before we get it back up and running. ”
As desperate as I am for a paycheck, I don’t know how I could ever go back there, and as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I realize how truly fucked I am.
What if I have PTSD? I might not ever be able to step foot inside a bar without reliving everything that happened to me.
There’s no magic pill that erases trauma.
I’m in therapy, but it would be really na?ve of me to think that just fixes everything.
“You could work for me,” Lucifer says, jarring my attention back to him. Although I don’t think I heard him correctly because did he really just offer me a job? That can’t be right.
“What?”
He slowly brings his gaze back to me. “At the clubhouse.”
For a second, I actually consider it. “What would I do? You do realize I’m not a biker, right? Like I don’t even know how to ride a tricycle.”
“I’m not looking to hire you as my second in command, Jess,” he growls, clearly losing his patience with me.
“Most of the guys crash at the clubhouse on the regular. I got a couple of saddle bunnies that keep it clean, but it’s more of a part-time gig for them .
. .” His voice trails, and he lifts his hand to scratch the stubble lining his jaw, a gesture I’ve come to realize he makes when he’s stalling.
“ . . . Let’s just say their forte isn’t cleaning, but they do it from time to time. ”
I’ve never heard of the term saddle bunny before, and I’m not sure I should ask him to elaborate. Some things are better left unsaid, and I think this may be one of them.
“Anyway,” he continues. “The place could use a regular cleaning. There’s a bar too.
Right now, we mostly have the prospects man it, but that’s something you could do too.
You wouldn’t have set hours, and there are plenty of rooms that you can use to rest when you need a break.
” He pauses, and his hand falls away from his face.
“You’d be safe there. The clubhouse sits on a gated compound. ”
“So, what you’re saying is no one can throw a Molotov cocktail through the window?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I shake my head in disbelief. The man is a master at concocting elaborate schemes. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. After all, this is the same man who forged documents and broke all kinds of laws to marry me so I’d have medical insurance.
“No.” The word comes out flat, final. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to become some charity case to you.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not charity.”
“Lucifer, you just created a position for me on the spot.” I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s fucking charity. You heard me say I don’t have a job, and you immediately fabricated one.”
“You’re reading too much into it,” he accuses. “You need work. I have a place that needs upkeep. That’s not charity. That’s a fucking transaction.”
“A transaction?” I push myself forward in the chair, and pain lances up my left leg, but I don’t care.
“You’re offering me a job that didn’t exist five minutes ago, telling me I can rest whenever I want.
Assuring me I’ll be safe behind some fucking gate.
That’s not a transaction, Lucifer. That’s you building me a padded room because you feel guilty. ”
“I’m not doing this because I feel guilty.”
“Then why?” I challenge. “And don’t you dare play the wife card.
You’re my husband on a piece of paper that means nothing to either of us.
So tell me, Lucifer, what is this? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a man who can’t stand the thought of someone he barely knows suffering on his watch. ”
His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I watch the tendons in his forearms pop.
“You’re right,” he says, and the calm in his voice is more terrifying than any shout.
“What happened to you happened because of me. Because of my club. Because some fucking piece of shit set my bar on fire with you inside it. So, yeah, maybe I do feel guilty. Maybe I lie awake at night thinking about the fact that you almost died because I’m a selfish fuck.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s a good enough reason for me to want to make sure you don’t end up homeless and starving because you’re too fucking proud to accept help. ”
“Leave,” I say.
Lucifer goes completely still.
“What?”
“You heard me. I want you to leave.” My voice is steady, even though my hands are shaking in my lap. “I appreciate the dinner and all the visits. But I need you to go.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
He stares at me for a long, terrible moment. Then something in his expression changes.
“Yeah, fine,” he finally says, his voice low and controlled. “I’ll go.” He turns toward the door, then pauses. “Enjoy your fucking dinner.”
The door doesn’t slam behind him, but it might as well have. I stare at the containers of food he brought—all untouched, and my eyes begin to burn.
I won’t cry.
Not until later, when the night terrors return, and Lucifer isn’t there to help me chase the demons away.