Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(63)

He would, she knew. He would take care of it forever.

As she found a clear stretch on the busy road and made a wide, illegal U-turn to head back toward her own home, Willa knew she wasn’t going to wait for Rad to come back.

Jesse was not Rad’s problem. Jesse was Willa’s problem. She had to handle her own shit and not be weak.

She wasn’t weak, not anymore. She was strong, and she’d made herself ready.

Room 105.



oOo



At home, she spent the evening as she’d planned. She took Ollie for a walk, and they made their route uneventfully. She played with him in the back yard for a while, then fed him and made her dinner—just leftovers and wine—and then she took a long, hot bath.

But all the while, her brain cranked at full speed, sorting through her thoughts, working out what she wanted, what the consequences might be, and developing a plan.

When Rad called that night, she didn’t tell him that Jesse was in town, and he didn’t sense that there was anything wrong or different. He could pick up the slightest clues in her voice and aspect, but there weren’t any clues for him to pick up. She felt perfectly calm. She felt strong. Ready.

He told her they were starting back home in the morning and were planning to be back around noon the day after.

To Willa, that seemed like a deadline.



oOo



The next day, rather than her initial idea to spend the whole day at home, maybe working on her guest room, or weeding the flower beds, or just being a lazy lump all day, she ran errands. She went to the market for food she didn’t need. She went to the post office for stamps. She wandered around Utica Square, browsing through the shops, and bought a couple of things.

She saw him at Utica Square, standing near a red phone booth, about thirty feet from the shop she’d just stepped out of. He looked like the crazy homeless version of the Jesse she’d known, but now, despite the wild hair and bushy beard, despite the aviators and the soft belly, she knew for sure it was him.

He stood as still one of the sculptures placed around the square, staring right at her. She stood equally still and stared back. People moved between them in both directions, but they stood there for as long as a full minute, maybe longer, staring at each other.

When Willa took a step toward him, he turned and walked away.

The exact same game.

But Willa was a player this time, not just the ball.



oOo



Willa had two guns, and she knew how to use them—and not just at a shooting range or hunting with her father and grandfather when she was a kid. She’d taken special training so she would know how to use them under pressure. But guns were loud. And impersonal. What Jesse had done to her was personal.

She considered bringing Ollie with her, but Ollie was her baby first and her bodyguard second. Having him with her to protect her from an unexpected threat was one thing. Taking him with her when she knew there would be violence, possibly sending him to do the violence, putting him in a position where she knew he could get hurt—she couldn’t do that.

She brought a knife. A hunting knife that had been her grandfather’s. It had an arm sheath, because he hadn’t liked the feeling of a knife on his thigh. Her arm was shorter and thinner than her grandfather’s had been, and the sheath didn’t fit quite right on her arm, but she pulled on a sweatshirt over her jeans and decided it would work.

The knife and her aikido training. That was what she had.

And the powerful will to see this done once and for all.



oOo



When Willa pulled her truck onto the Osage Motor Inn lot, the brown van with the Texas plates was parked outside Room 105. Only a few other cars were on this side of the lot, but it was dusk, and she knew that people would start pulling in off the highway to rest for the night fairly soon. This was the kind of place that got most of its business in that way—one-night stops for interstate travelers on a budget.

She parked right next to the van and went to the door for Room 105. The sound of the television, playing something with a laugh track, seeped through the dented metal.

She knocked, then stared at the peephole.

The television went quiet, the door opened, and there was Jesse. Now that she could see his eyes, she wondered how she’d ever doubted that it was him.

He was bare-chested, and he had gone soft. His belly swelled out like he was five months pregnant. Across his chest, he had his club ink: a snarling rat, inked by an artist with adequate but not impressive talent.

He smiled with surprise—not shock, surprise. As if the thought in his head were actually My, what a pleasant surprise.

Willa saw that he had two metal teeth in his lower jaw, a canine and a premolar. Nothing flashy, like gold, just dull, dark metal. She wondered if that was what prison dentistry looked like.

“Hey, beautiful. Long time no see.” He spoke like he thought she’d just dropped by for a visit.

She felt completely calm, facing her own personal bogeyman. “We saw each other this afternoon, Jesse.”

“You know what I mean.” He took a drink from the can of Busch in his hand. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s way past time we work our problems out and get back where we belong. Come on in.” He stepped back, and Willa crossed the threshold into the lair of the beast.

“Have a seat. I’ll getcha a beer. Got ‘em on ice.”