Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(8)

Goddamn it.

“You got the power to just let it go,” he told her.

Now she looked like she was going to be sick.

Somehow, that was cute too.

Shit.

“I’m not one to let things go,” she said, and he honest to God thought the last three words were going to make her gag.

And he had never before felt the sensation, but all at once he wanted to laugh, kiss her, tell her to chill the fuck out and share he was going to go get his truck and bring it around to pick her up, and then walk away from her.

In that order.

“Like you cursing,” she went on. “You don’t even know me and you’re using foul language. I could let that go, but that’s not in me.”

Hang on a second.

He turned fully to her. “Seriously? You’re gonna give me shit about my language when you don’t know me either, and your language since we met, both the shit that’s been comin’ out of your mouth, and your body language, has been nothin’ good from the start?”

She didn’t deny either.

She stated, “I haven’t cursed at you. And you’re still doing it with me.”

“But you do throw attitude and negativity around with no shame. In my estimation, it’s not the words you say, it’s the way you say them and the meaning behind them that holds the power, good, or in your case, bad.”

She simply couldn’t deny that.

But even if she kept her mouth shut, for some reason, he didn’t let it go.

He asked, “You don’t use cuss words?”

“Not with someone I don’t know.”

“You’re not the kind of woman to let things go, I’m not the kind of man to let anyone tell him how he can be.”

Her eyes dipped down to his cut then back up. “Right.”

“Like that, Georgiana,” he told her. “Carolyn’s like you and she says it like it is, so it isn’t like I don’t know about you, because she’s shared. But I love my brother and he needed a favor so I’m here when I could be doin’ a lot of other shit. Now you got a tick in your skin about MCs or bikers or whatever, and you can’t let shit go, even when some guy you don’t know is doin’ you a solid when he could be doin’ a lot of other shit that’s far more preferable than listening to you bitch about shit that makes no difference. And just acting like a bitch because you got some shade to throw about how I live my life when you have no clue the man I am or how I live that life.”

“I have a clue,” she told him.

“Oh yeah?” he retorted. “You get that clue watchin’ Sons of Anarchy?”

“No, I got that clue when Carolyn told me who she was dating, and I watched Blood, Guts and Brotherhood.”

Well, hell.

Blood, Guts and Brotherhood was the documentary—more accurately, the award-winning documentary their now-president Rush’s wife Rebel made about the Club.

“If you did, then you know what we’re about, so what’s with the attitude?” he asked.

“The director of that movie, Rebel Allen,” she told him Rebel’s name like he hadn’t sat down to dinner at the woman’s table two nights ago, which he had, “wore a leather jacket that said ‘Property of Rush’ on the back of it to the premiere of that film. And women are not property.”

“Well, Rush wore his Chaos cut to that, but he has about a half dozen tees he wears all the time that say ‘Property of Rebel’ on the back. You got a problem with that?” he shot back.

She snapped her mouth shut so hard he heard her teeth clatter.

“Unh-hunh,” he muttered, turning toward the carousel that had begun to churn. “You don’t know dick.”

“Knowledge of MC culture is not hard to come by, Mr. Black.”

Yeah, she knew Jag enough to know his last name.

And his brother might be a guy who enjoyed a good time, but who fucking didn’t?

Like Dutch, Jag had earned his patch, served the brothers, ate shit, did the grunt work, pulled his weight, and then some. Jag worked on the builds at the garage with Joker and he worked hard (Dutch didn’t work in the garage, somehow—mostly because he was good with numbers, and people (just not Georgiana Traylor, or Carlyle Stephens)—Dutch had become the de facto manager of the auto supply store attached to Chaos’s custom-build garage, both called Ride).

Jag was a good son. A good brother, of the blood and the patch. A good guy.

He wasn’t a loser or a user or a cheater or a dick.

And so…

Okay.

She knew his brother, she knew him.

He was done with this woman.

When he looked at her again, he only twisted his neck before he bent it to give her his eyes when he said, “How ’bout we get your bag and get you home, Miss Traylor.”

“Ms.,” she returned.

Of course she’d have something like that to say.

Fortunately, she then nodded.

Their agreement to ride a stalemate until he could get shot of her lasted about seven minutes.

That being, until she moved forward, and he wanted to be able to ignore it, but he couldn’t.

Because when his father died, Hound stepped in and became his dad. And when Hound wasn’t around, Tack was. Or Hop was. Or Dog. Brick. The list went on.