Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Jersey
The absolute malarkey of this situation is beyond anything I can fathom.
It’s… it’s, bullshit. For the better part of an hour, I’ve been forced to watch the agonizing way Slayer tries to find even a shred of comfort.
I’m spitting mad, an emotion that used to be foreign to me but is becoming a common occurrence whenever it involves Slayer and the internal politics of his brothers.
“Jersey girl,” Slayer rasps, his voice rough and commanding. “Where’d you go?”
I snap my gaze back to him and lock my arms across my chest, my shoulders hunched with the weight of my irritation. “I haven’t moved an inch, Slayer. I’m right here.”
“I beg to differ,” he counters, a smirk tugging at his bruised mouth. “You’ve been over there huffing and puffing like a steam engine instead of actually using your words with me.”
Leaning forward in my chair, I let my breath out in a jagged hiss. “I’m beyond mad, Slayer. I’m livid.”
“I figured that out for myself, babe. But I need to know if you’ve got the strength to handle that fire without it consuming us both.”
“Oh, I’m navigating it just fine,” I snarkily reply, my tone laced with the trademark sass I’ve finally found the courage to voice.
He glances up at the ceiling and mumbles something I have a hard time deciphering, his jaw tight as he fights to keep his composure.
The kids shuffled off to their room an hour or so ago, exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of his return, leaving us here alone in the dim light where I’ve been seething in silence while he tries to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist. “Talk to me, then,” he rasps, his gaze finally dropping back to mine, heavy with an exhaustion that goes bone deep. “Lay it all out. Don’t hold back.”
“What do you want to talk about, Slayer? You want me to tell you how Boston was beside himself for seven straight days, not knowing if his Bubba was even alive? Want me to tell you that Carolina has been sweeping the floor with her feet as she paces until her ankles are swollen, not sure how to settle her man when he started having a meltdown because he thought you’d abandoned him?
” I stand up, too restless to stay seated, and begin pacing the narrow confines of the living room.
“I had to be the one to look them in the face and lie, Slayer. I had to tell them you were ‘busy’ when I didn’t even know if you were in the clubhouse or a hospital.
” My voice cracks, the weight of a week’s worth of forced composure finally shattering.
“I had to pretend everything was normal while I was falling apart inside, wondering if you’d been hurt or if you’d just decided we weren’t worth the trouble anymore.
You brought them here because they needed a home, but you can’t have a home when the foundation disappears without a word. ”
He rears back as if I’ve slapped him in his face.
The color drains from him, leaving the bruises on his face looking even more vibrant and localized.
He winces as he tries to shift in the chair, a low groan escaping his lips that he can’t quite catch in time.
He looks at me with a mixture of pain and a deep, churning regret. “Feel guilty enough, Jersey.”
“Good!” I snap, though the word tastes bitter in my mouth.
I stop my pacing and face him, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them into my armpits to keep him from seeing.
“You should feel guilty. You left us in a limbo that was worse than the facility they came from. At least there, they knew the rules. Here? Here, they have nothing but your word, and you took that and vanished the second things got hard with your brothers.”
He closes his eyes, his head dropping back against the cushion of the recliner.
The silence in the trailer is thick. I can see the toll the week has taken on him—the way his ribs are protesting with every scant move, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
My fury is still there, a hot, pulsing thing, but it’s being crowded out by the sight of him so broken.
“I can handle your anger, Jersey, but you need to watch what you say to me. The accusations you’re making are bullshit.
” His voice is a low rumble, laced with a warning that makes my skin prickle.
He’s defensive, his own guilt ever-present and weighing on him, but I’m not backing down. Not this time.
Flinging my hands up in the air, I ask, “How am I supposed to know that? All I’ve had is my imagination to work with!
” The words erupt from me without further thought.
“I’ve spent every night listening for your bike, every morning checking the porch, and every single second of the day trying to convince your brother that you hadn’t just decided we weren’t worth the trouble.
You left us in the dark, Slayer. You didn’t give me a choice but to imagine the worst possible scenarios because the truth was a luxury you didn’t think I deserved. ”
“Low blow,” he whistles.
“Low but true,” I argue. “You can’t do that to us then saunter in here like nothing happened.
It’s… it’s wrong! You brought them here because they needed safety, Slayer, but you’re the one who made them feel the most unsafe by not staying in touch, you can’t just turn your protection on and off like a light switch when the club demands it. ”
I watch him wince as he tries to shift his weight in the recliner, his hand flying to his ribs as a low groan escapes him.
My heart pinches, a traitorous urge to comfort him warring with the anger coursing through me.
“I’m not a club girl, Slayer,” I whisper, my tone dropping to a lethal octave.
“I’m the woman who’s holding your family together while you’re out bleeding for your brothers.
If you want me to keep doing that, you have to start treating me like I actually matter. ”
“You matter,” he grumbles, his voice rough and laced with a defensive edge. He avoids my gaze, staring instead at the far wall as if the answer is written on them. “And we don’t have club girls, Jersey, too much drama. That’s not what this is and you damn well know it.”
“I’m making a point here, Slayer. I’m using biker lingo to bridge the gap between your world and mine because my regular words don’t seem to be getting through to you.”
“Biker lingo,” he repeats, the tension in his jaw finally easing as a flicker of humor begins dancing in his hazel eyes. It’s a reluctant spark, one that acknowledges the absurdity of our argument.
“Yeah, I’m using words that are easier for you to understand how I’ve been feeling. Since ‘loyalty’ and ‘communication’ seem to be club secrets, I figured I’d try speaking your language.”
“Then I guess biker lingo works,” he muses, letting out a heavy, shallow breath. He reaches out, his large, scarred hand hovering in the space between us as if waiting for permission to bridge the distance. “I hear you, Jersey girl. Loud and clear.”
“Good,” I say, nodding my head.
“Good,” he repeats, his voice lower than mine. “Come sit next to me, baby.”
I hesitate, my gaze flickering to the bruised mapping of his ribs beneath his thin shirt. So thin that I can see everything through the fabric. The physical cost of his silence is laid bare before me, a tapestry of purple and sickly yellow that makes my own chest ache in sympathy.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“The only hurt I’m feeling is the distance between you and me,” he counters. “Come help me with that.”
I move toward him with measured, cautious steps, hyper-aware of the proximity and the heavy, static charge between us. When I finally lower myself onto the edge of the recliner beside him, the heat radiating from his body grounds my frantic nerves.
“Better?” I ask, patting him on the shoulder. He smirks at me then eases me closer to him, placing my head on his shoulder as his fingers start combing their way through my hair.
“Is now,” he remarks.
“You’re staying here, with me, so I can keep an eye on you,” I announce.
“Is that right?” he questions, the amusement in his voice clear.
“Yes. It’s clear you need someone watching over you and taking care of you until you fully heal,” I state, looking up at him with a conviction that surprises even me.
“And you’re the best person for the job, Jersey girl?” His blue-green eyes are searching mine, looking for the hesitation that usually defines me.
“You bet I am,” I adamantly declare.
“Then here’s where I’m gonna stay,” he maintains, his voice dropping to that gravelly range that makes my toes curl. Again. “With you, in your bed with you sleeping beside me.”
“I’m what now?” I squeak out the question, my heart hammering against my ribs at the sheer audacity of his demand. The idea of sharing such an intimate space is… staggering.
“Beside me, Jersey,” he reiterates, his gaze unyielding. He knows exactly what he’s asking, and he’s not offering a compromise. “Anything else, and I’ll go back to the clubhouse and stay in my room.”
“I’ve never slept beside a man before,” I admit.
“Then I’m happy to be your first,” he says, satisfaction laced in his tone.
There is a possessive, grounding quality to his voice that makes my pulse skip.
He isn’t just talking about a bed, he’s claiming a place in my life that I’ve never allowed anyone else to occupy.
For a man who usually communicates in grunts and sharp commands, this level of intimacy is a revelation.
“I bet you are,” I harrumph, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
I want to sound annoyed, but the truth is that I’m vibrating with a mixture of terror and a desperate, burgeoning heat.
My hands are still tucked into my armpits, a physical barrier against the magnetic pull he exerts on me even while he’s battered and bruised.
“Don’t be surly about it, Jersey. You and I both know where this has been heading for a long time now.
” He reaches out, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over my jawline.
The touch is light, mindful of his own physical limits, but it carries the weight of every shared glance and near-miss we’ve had since I arrived at the compound.
He’s calling me out on the walls I’ve built, seeing right through the sass to the woman who is finally ready to stop hiding.
“If you say so,” I counter, pouting, though the fight is draining out of me.
The anger that sustained me through his week-long absence is being replaced by a profound need for the safety he represents.
I look at the dark bruises on his face, even as minimal as they are, and realize that I’d rather be in that bed with him, watching over him, than anywhere else.
“I say so,” he announces. “Show me your room, baby girl.” It isn’t a request, it’s a directive, delivered with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what he needs to heal.
He uses the arm of the recliner to help push himself up, his face tightening with a pain he tries to hide from me.
I step in close, my shoulder providing the stability he needs as he finds his footing.
I swallow past the fear and say, “Alright.” The word is a bridge, a final crossing over the threshold of the solitary life I’ve lived.
Purposefully. As I lead him down the narrow hallway toward the one space I’ve always kept entirely for myself, I realize that I’m not just showing him a room—I’m inviting him into my heart.