Page 62 of Collect the Pieces

Her calm delivery freezes the conversation. My throat tightens, choking off my gasp of surprise. Poor Shelby. She’s been nothing but sweet and kind to me. I had no idea she’d endured something so horrific.

Everyone sits in sudden silence. Even Rav winces, his perpetual jovial smirk gone.

Jigsaw leans into me, pressing his lips to my ear and says, “That stalker is very, verydead.”

A thrill of satisfaction shoots through me. “Good,” I whisper back.

“Rav,” Charlotte says, with an impressive amount of patience—almost as if she’s used to explaining things to him slowly, “can wenotuse our loved ones’ trauma as entertainment, please?”

A couple of the other women murmur their agreement.

Next to us, Shelby rises, quickly slapping loose pine needles and a few dry leaves off her jeans. Rooster plants one hand on the ground, pushing himself to his feet at her side. He protectively curls his arm around her waist, leaving his hand resting on her hip.

Jigsaw leans back, his head tipping slightly as he reaches out, his knuckles grazing the leg of Shelby’s jeans. “You all right?”

She nods and flashes a quick smile at him. “I just need to go for a walk.”

Jigsaw frowns at Rooster who shakes his head and shoots a murderous glare at Ravage.

The three of them are awfully close.

It’s nice the way Jigsaw cares about Shelby. A much friendlier brotherly relationship than he seems to have with his actual sister Jezzie. A nicer relationship than I’ve ever had with my own brothers.

Am I jealous?

No. That’s not quite it. Wondering how I fit into their trio? If I’ll fit in…permanently?

Maybe.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jigsaw

Fucking Ravage.Brother has no common sense sometimes. Knowing the horrors some of the ol’ ladies have been through, it’s insensitive as fuck for him to ask them to share personal scary stories. Never mind, I have my own. Part of me would like to give a detailed account of my time in Daddy’s dungeon when I was a kid, bleeding out on the floor, not knowing if I’d live to see the next day. Maybe it would stop Rav’s story time requests for good. But probably not.

I cast a quick glance around at my brothers and their ol’ ladies. At least I have the comfort of knowing most of the people who’ve harmed anyone in this circle are six feet under—many of them at the club’s hand.

I didn’t hesitate to tell Margot that Shelby’s stalker is dead. She should know if anyone ever fucks with her, I’m not the only one who will kill to protect her, the whole club will. The only guilt I have about that fucker’s death is that I only cut off part of his pinky finger before Rooster had to turn the lowlife over to the FBI.

“Okay, maybetruehorror stories was too much,” Rav says. “How about scary campfire stories? Someonemusthave a good one.” His sneaky gaze slides to Margot again.

Margot’s lips twist into that slightly evil, borderline unhinged smile that’s starting to turn me on more than it should. “Do you assume because I grew up in a funeral home, I must have lots of creepy dead body stories?” she asks sweetly.

“Well…” Guilt flashes over Rav’s face, followed by interest. “Yes.”

I will gut you, I mouth to Rav, making a point to pat my side where my hunting knife rests.

The fucker smirks and holds out his arms, practically daring me to make good on the threat.

“Let’s see, I was slapped by a dead body once.” Margot taps her finger against her chin like she’s flipping through a long list of events. “Few things scare me anymore.”

“What the fuck?” Z asks, half shocked, half laughing.

“It’s just a muscle contraction,” Margot explains in her usual kind but professional way. “It happens. My father’s had bodies actually sit up while he was wheeling them around the prep room. That’s always a wild sight.”

Silence falls over the circle.

Margot focuses on Rav again. “But you asked for a scary campfire-type story, right?”

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