Page 11 of Making Choices

Standing where I am, I can’t see her expression. I can see Jack’s, though, and the way his eyes light up at her plea sets my nerves on edge. With a look akin to the canary who got the cream, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, then curves his mouth into a smirk.

“Home. Alone. Yes, that does sound more appealing than fraternising with the local riffraff.” Jack’s gaze flits from Bebe’s face to mine before settling back on the small woman caught between us. “Very appealing.”

He doesn’t wait for his subordinate to reply. Instead, Jack sweeps out of the hospital room with the kind of insufferable chuckle that would normally get a man’s head knocked off his shoulders. I refrain from following him to do just that when I realise how tense he made Bebe. Her slow exhale softens the rigid set of her shoulders, and her slim body deflates as her posture relaxes.

I re-holster my handgun and muse out loud, “What a charmer.”

Her brilliant green eyes are filled with humour as she replies, “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Follow me to Fret’s room and I’m all ears.”

“Fret?” she asks as she walks with me out of the vacant hospital room.

“Not sure how much you know about the outlaw motorcycle world, doll, but we have a tradition of leavin’ behind our legal identities when we patch into the club. My road name is Slash. Everett’s is Fret. Our VP—the one you organised all this with—” I gesture at Fret’s room after we enter, then at the man himself where he lies flat on his back attached to three machines. “His road name is Venom. Sometimes, the names are self-explanatory… other times, the meanin’ can be contradictory. For Fret, it’s simple. He’s quiet. An overthinker. Highly strung at times. His guitar is an extension of his right arm, and when he’s not playin’ it, he’s craftin’ something out of wood that blows our minds. When it came time to nominate his road name, everyone agreed with me that it fit.”

Intent on flipping through the chart at the end of Fret’s bed, Bebe doesn’t look at me when she remarks, “It’s not so simple, anymore. He’s unlikely to ever play again, and if he does, it won’t be to the same standard.” The cool, almost unfeeling, quality to Bebe’s voice skirts the line between professional and cruel with ugly elegance. “As for woodwork, I doubt he’ll regain the dexterity to craft anything too intricate.”

“I’d have thought it’d be too early to tell how bad Fret’s injuries are?”

My question makes her jerk. Bebe’s hand wavers halfway between turning a page, then she gives herself a small shake. Her emerald gaze is earnest when she tucks the chart back into the little holder at the end of Fret’s bed and approaches me with tentative steps.

“You’re right,” Bebe’s tone drops an octave. “I wasn’t thinking.” When I attempt to cross my arms over my chest, she catches my left hand with her much smaller one, and I allow her to halt my movement. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being so callous.”

A shock of awareness jolts through me as I realise this delicate beauty is flirting with me. Back in the waiting room, I’d tried to distract her from Brutus’ silent intimidation tactics by calling her doll and riling her up a little. It’d been fun. Slightly desperate. A tiny bit delusional. The woman is gorgeous, but I don’t really go for the uptight ones.

My masochistic tendencies were beaten out of me over a decade ago.

I prefer sweet and easy.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

“No stress,” I reply with a tight smile. “It’s been a day. We’re all tired and lookin’ to rest our feet in our mouths for a spell.”

Distaste flickers in her gaze. Once it’s hidden with a look of banal interest, she intensifies her grip on my fingers. “Your patches annoyed Jack… I like that.”

“Comes with the territory. Men are either intimidated into silence or try to belittle me for darin’ to live by my own rules. Women are usually scared of or wet for me—or a combination of the two.”

With a gasp, Bebe snatches her hand away. I fold my arms over my chest and wait for her to deny what I just alluded to. It’s clear from the battle that rages across her face that she’s uncertain how to take me. Part of her is offended, yet she’s also intrigued by my vulgarity.

Good.

I don’t appreciate her judgement.

My patches mean everything to me.

They cost me the most precious thing in the world so I’ll defend them to the end.

“I’ve heard that bikers live by a code,” Bebe enquires softly.

Through narrowed eyes, I scan her expression to ascertain her motives. She seems sincere, however, I’m still picking up on an undercurrent of conflict rippling through her that doesn’t sit right with me. There’s something off with this woman. A strange level of animosity she tries to conceal. My gut roils with unease, and I struggle against the whiplash that strikes every time she changes tack.

“You heard right,” I murmur.

“Women are protected in your gang?”

It takes every iota of control I possess not to roll my eyes at her. “For starters, MC stands for motorcycle club. That means we’re more than a gang. We have a constitution and our own laws and following them ain’t a choice. We’re bound by mutual respect and a bond that the mob or the famiglia would sell their left nut to possess.” Something in my explanation makes Bebe flinch and some of the colour leeches from her already pale face, but I ignore her reaction to add. “What we have, our brotherhood, is beyond the comprehension of civvies like you, but let me answer your question the best I can… If you’re one of ours—woman, kid, brother—we’ll fuckin’ die for you. More importantly than that, we’ll kill for you. You feel me?”

“Yes,” Bebe mutters. She slants a look at me that’s filled with curiosity. “What about people outside your world? Do you help them?”

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