Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(98)
Because some truths are so f*cking brutal it's blinding to look at them head on, I thought. I had to think fast, scramble to find my words, something to shut down the battle brewing.
“I already told you. Before he died, dad made some big mistakes. Terrible mistakes. The cancer really screwed up his head. He took some things from people he really shouldn't have. I don't like them either – they're bastards. But they've got their reasons for being pissed...”
Jackie closed her eyes and shook her head, annoyed with all my half-answers. If only she knew the half-assed answers really were the best ones I had. I didn't have a clue what was going on with Brass' MC, the cartel, and the money, not to mention all those phantom whispers about a war. A big part of me didn't even want to know why we were in this shit storm.
What did it matter? Knowledge wasn't power here. Right now, all I cared about was clawing my way out, and dragging Jackie with me to the safe, distant shore.
“Reasons?” Jackie repeated, rolling the word sarcastically on her tongue. “They must be pretty f*cking good to go along with this and live here with this * like nothing happened.”
My face tightened. “Knock it off. Daddy wouldn't approve of that language, and neither do I. You've still got some growing up to do, sis. I know this doesn't make sense right now. One day, it will. I'm trying to do what's best and it's really f*cking hard.”
I ran a hand over my face. So much for leading by example.
Jackie turned away from me, pulling her feet up to her chest. It was over. When she went fetal, I knew we were done talking.
Damn. Not at all the way I wanted this to go, but staying here trying to reason with the most flawed logic in the world wasn't going to help us get away from the Grizzlies' claws faster.
I got up and padded to the door, stopping one more time on my way out. “Stay here. Be good. I promise I'll keep working on the tutor thing so you'll have something to pass the time without thinking about this crap.”
No response. I pulled the door shut behind me and headed for the bathroom. It was a quick shower, cranked up as high as the building's water heater could manage. I let the hot droplets steam off my skin, ignoring the tears mingling with the shower near the end.
When I cleaned up and changed, Brass was waiting for me near the door.
We got on his bike and headed for the clubhouse. It was getting easier to keep my small hands around him, secretly admiring his taut muscles beneath my fingertips. Of course, I hated myself for loving anything at all about this * taking me to a job I never asked for.
Just before we hit the highway, he told me to cover my eyes. The man still didn't trust me to see where his clubhouse was. I did what he asked, tucking my face deep into his back. Hot, angry breaths steamed up around his neck, and I knew he could feel them when his skin rippled, the stubble on his face brushing my cheek several times.
Monsters shouldn't feel this good.
When we pulled into the massive garage, I got off and followed him inside. Brass led me to a small closet in the smelly hallway. I found a bunch of long neglected cleaning crap inside, but at least it contained all the gear I needed to make a dent in this place's filth.
“You know how to use this shit?” he asked.
“I'm not a moron. I mopped floors and wiped toilets part-time for my college before I quit. I don't think cleaning up after bikers is worse than a man with terminal cancer either...”
Brass nodded. “Got you. Well, start on the floors and then hit the bar. Fucking thing hasn't been wiped down since well before I got here. If anybody gives you any shit, tell 'em you're Brass' old lady.”
We shared an awkward look. Brass looked like he was about to say something else, but then he turned and left just as mysteriously.
The day went about as well as I expected. By afternoon, my shoulders were aching, but the entire clubhouse had gotten fresh Pine Sol swept over its floors. Everything except the rooms where the men smoked, slept, and f*cked. I looked at Brass' room and cringed, amazed we'd stayed there for three days.
I couldn't help but wonder what else went on in there when we weren't around.
The men weren't shy about sex. Doors opened and closed at odd hours, releasing men with sweat still shining on their foreheads, or half-dressed girls barely older than me.
They all headed to the bar to pick up whiskey and water, hauling it back to their rooms to resume the insatiable passions happening inside. Some of them looked like they were drugged out of their minds. It was late when I finally started on the bar counter.
I cleared off the bottles, gingerly wiping them down, when I heard footsteps behind me. I would've preferred just about anything standing behind me except for the nasty freak with the barbed wire tattooed on his face.
“Whiskey, bitch,” Serial barked.
I held up my hands. “I'm not a bartender. Brass didn't tell me to touch any of this stuff –“
His arms twitched, and then his palms slapped the counter like lightning. “You f*cking heard me. Don't make me ask again. I want a bottle of Jack to go, and I want it right f*cking now.”
His eyes were stranger than the pitch black pools I'd seen on the night he wanted to kill us. They were brighter, but still so vacant, like light reflecting off a marionette's marble eyes.
His sleeve was pushed up. Several patches of skin were gray, discolored, dull red holes along their edges. Unmistakable bruises left behind by a junkie shooting up. I'd seen it plenty of times on ride alongs with daddy as a little girl.