Page 90 of Judge's Mercy

“Anyway, I’m no expert, but I think when you love someone, you love all of them. I mean, do I like that Tinleigh uses Lucky Jr. while I’m at work and then leaves him on the bathroom counter so I know she’s cheating on me with a silicone toy? No, I’m not crazy about it, but I wouldn’t change it because it would change her, and I want her exactly how she is. You know?”

I wish I didn’t know what he was talking about, but the story is SOE lore at this point. Apparently, Tinleigh had Lucky play a game where he had to guess whatever she stuck his dick in all so she could get a mold of his junk to send off to some dildo maker. I don’t know what’s rumor and what’s true, but someone said she stuck his dick in mashed potatoes. I’m glad my friend found her person, but damn, those two are weird.

“Don’t you have a hard line, though? Something you couldn’t live with her doing?”

“Yeah. If she wanted to have an orgy with all you guys, that would be a hard line.”

I shake my head. “How about this. What if Tinleigh wanted to go on a murdering spree? Would that be okay?”

“I’d grab my shovel and ride shotgun.” He shrugs. “Seriously, though, I understand. You have higher morals than most, so the rules are different.”

“Exactly.”

He stands. “I don’t know shit about shit, but I think you need to stop thinking everyone else’s choices are your own. The only person you can control is yourself, and the only person you’re responsible for is yourself. If Myla wants to run down the street naked, you don’t gotta join her, but it’s also not your fault when she catches a ticket for indecent exposure.”

I’m struck dumb by how insightful and relevant that was. Maybe Lucky’s right, and this is a me problem, not a Myla problem at all. Even still, I don’t know how to just turn that part of my brain off. It feels impossible, the same way it feels impossible for me to stop internalizing what my brothers do.

But maybe that’s not how I’m built, and I just need to accept that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MYLA

Islather some Manuka honey onto my still-open shoulder wound. It’s nearly healed, thanks to this magical honey. Who knew? Well, I guess Bones did because he’s the one who brought it to me and told me to use it.

Cracking the bathroom door open to let out some of the steam after my shower, I slather my body with almond-scented lotion and pull on a pair of ripped jean shorts and a band tee. Today, it’s the Pixies, one of my all-time favorites. I make my way to the kitchen and startle when I see Cyrus on my sofa, not Tigger. Looking around, I don’t see Tigger anywhere, yet he was here when I got in the shower.

He stands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

With my hand over my racing heart, I say, “Where’s the kid?”

“I told him to take a walk.”

“Oh.” I rock back on my heels, looking at anything but him. This is the point in the conversation when he should be telling me why he’s here, yet the silence drags on. I can feel his scrutinizing gaze on me, but he makes me too nervous to say anything.

I know Cy wouldn’t hurt me, but the anxious feeling in my gut tells me that might not be true. No, that’s stupid. Someone would’ve told me if he was a creep. I’ve heard all about his wife, who’s more than half his age and how stupidly in love they are, so surely, I would’ve heard if he wasn’t a good guy. So then why is he studying me?

“I wanted to discuss something with you.” His deep, gruff voice catches my attention, and he motions for me to join him on the sofa.

“Oh yeah?” Not wanting to piss off the president of an MC, I do join him, but not on the sofa. I sit in the chair facing him, needing more space between us. “What is it?”

“Before I get to that, I have some questions for you.” He’s being cryptic, which doesn’t help with my anxiety.

“Okay. Shoot.” I keep my legs parted and my posture relaxed, hoping I convey confidence. Body language is more important than people realize. The people around you notice and pick up on it without even noticing; it’s instinctual.

“Tell me about this list of yours.”

“What do you want to know?”

“All of it.”

I don’t mind telling him—I have nothing to hide—but first, I have my own question. “Why?”

“Because I have a proposition for you, but I need to know how your mind works and where your head’s at. I’ve heard it all from everyone else, but I need to hear it from you.”

“Okay.” I interlock my fingers on my lap, and for the next five minutes, I let it all out. I tell him about how I got the list, how I bought a bike and got Rigger to teach me to ride, how I gained access to the armory and stole weapons, and all the planning I did for each kill. Then, I tell him all about the men I stabbed and how it felt to wear their blood. I even tell him about the adrenaline crash afterward, and that Judge helped me through it, though I left out his methods. Judging by the look on his face, I think he can read between the lines.

“Quite the little badass, aren’t you?”

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