Page 22 of Judge's Mercy

“Idiot.” Rigger grips the lip of his bottle and swirls it around.

“I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she’s spiraling, and you just added fuel to the fire.”

“Getting a bike isn’t spiraling. I think it’s badass when chicks have a ride of their own.” He shrugs.

Navy approaches just in time to hear the end of his sentence. “Does that mean I can get a bike then?”

Rigger spins in his stool, grips Navy by the belt loops of her jeans, and yanks her to stand between his legs. He rests his chin on her shoulder and kisses her neck before whispering, “The only two things you’ll ever ride are my Harley and my dick.”

She rolls her eyes. “Knock it off. Judge didn’t need to hear that.”

I’ve seen all levels of debauchery. My brothers have confessed things to me that would make the Reaper smile, and I’ve had unspeakable things done to me, yet this simple, intimate interaction between Rigger and Navy makes me shift my weight uncomfortably. What would it be like to feel that kind of ownership over someone? For them to have ownership over me? I can’t fathom it.

“Judge doesn’t care, do you?”

I don’t answer, and being the good friend she is, Navy changes the topic. “What were you two talking about?”

“I helped Myla pick a bike and gave her a riding lesson the other day.”

Navy turns to look at him. “You didn’t!”

“Why is everyone so bent over this?”

“Because Myla is being irresponsible, and no one is getting through to her. Tinleigh can’t even get her to return proof of life texts. The only reason we know she’s alive is because Judge keeps tabs on her,” Navy says.

“Still?” Rigger’s brows raise, reading into Navy’s words. The thing about having brothers born of loyalty is that they get to know you, really know you—the ins and outs, the way your mind works, all of it. It’s a blessing and a curse because my VP knows this isn’t normal behavior for me. I tend to let people come to me, not seek them out. “You don’t need to still be babysitting. I can have prospects take over if you feel she needs eyes on her.”

It’s a fishing expedition if I’ve ever seen one, so I’m casual when I reply. “I don’t mind.”

“Right.” He draws out the word, scrutinizing me as if he can read my mind. “Well, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Navy asks, her eyes ping-ponging between Rigger and me.

“Nothin’.” Rigger stands. “Ready to go?”

Navy looks unconvinced but drops it. “Yeah.”

As Rigger passes me, he leans in and, quiet enough that only he and I can hear, says, “Tread lightly, brother.”

I nod and watch them leave, walking side by side, Rigger’s hand on Navy’s ass.

My heart pounds so loudly, I can’t hear anything over the thumping in my ears. I’m terrified and soaked with sweat as my fight or flight kicks in and I bolt upright to scan my surroundings. Recognizing the chair in the corner and the dresser on the far wall as my own, I realize it was just a nightmare and that I’m safe.

I slow my breaths and scrub a hand down my face, expecting to feel the same stubble I woke up to my entire adult life, but instead, there’s a beard there. I left the home for boys twenty-four years ago, and it took me this long to be brave enough to grow facial hair. I was told it was because being clean-cut was another way of honoring the Lord. Now I wonder if it was to keep me looking younger for longer. Now that’s a sick fucking thought.

Wrenching myself from bed, I tear off the damp sheets and toss them in the washing machine tucked behind the bathroom door. It would be convenient to own a spare set of bedding with as many times as this happens, but it’s not necessary for my happiness. Growing up in a group home, I didn’t own anything and spent countless hours thinking about all the things I would buy when I left. When that day finally came and I was on my own, I realized it wasn’t money or possessions that brought me true joy—it was the connections and relationships I made with others along the way.

As I wait for my sheets to wash, I throw on a T-shirt, swap my damp boxers for a dry pair, and sit down on the sofa with a book to distract me from the vicious way I woke up. World War Z was the first zombie book I ever read. It’s what started my love for the genre, and even though I can practically recite the words by heart, I still pick it up at least once a month.

Picking up where I left off, I read the first few paragraphs, but my agitation doesn’t lessen like it normally does after a nightmare. I try again, but I’m too antsy and nervous. Something’s off, and I don’t know what it is. Things with the club are strangely calm. No enemies are coming after us, no raids happening at the Honey Pot, no Feds bothering Bones about his weed shop. So then, why does it feel like ants are crawling just below my skin?

Myla. Her name comes to me like a whisper from an angel, warning me of danger. I’m on my feet and throwing on jeans and boots before I even make the decision to drive over and check up on her. If her lights are out and both of her vehicles are in the parking lot, I’ll leave her alone to sleep, but it’s better not to ignore my sense that something’s wrong.

My overheated body cools as I step outside into the crisp night air that smells of pine and dust and head for my bike. This is the best thing about living in the high desert; it’s rare for night temperatures not to drop significantly, which makes night riding so enjoyable.

I doubt my decision at least four hundred times before I pull into her complex and park. If I had any self-respect, I’d turn around and go home because I’m never welcome. Lately when she sees me, she’s not excited or happy; she’s annoyed. Yet I keep forcing myself on her. Those doubts are squashed when I see nearly every light on in her apartment and a shadowy figure moving around her living room. It’s nearly three in the morning. What is she doing awake?

My sudden appearance is more likely to scare her than anything, but I still climb up the steps and rap a knuckle on her door as quietly as I can. The shuffling inside comes to a halt, and I take a step back so she can see me through the peephole. A minute passes, and then another, but she doesn’t answer. I shoot off a text, alerting her to my presence, but she leaves it on delivered.

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