Page 7 of Roses Are Dead
“No can do.”
“Jesus-fuck, man. Who ya taking?” He’d better not say Bandit, because that asshole wanted Jackson to fuck up.
“Griz.”
I made a noise suspiciously close to a growl. “Kate’s going to hate that.”
“That’s why I’m also taking Hollywood. Figure I can pawn off any sweet butt or three his way and Griz’ll scare off the rest of ’em.”
“Who’s on Wolf?” Griz was Wolf’s Sergeant at Arms now.
“Tits.”
I frowned at him. While he was right, Wolf’s wife also wasn’t a man. Despite her being deadly enough, the optics looked bad. “Seriously, who’s on Wolf?” We were in no position to let our brand-new president be guarded by a woman who was also a member of a different club, no matter how competent she or her road sisters were.
He cocked his crooked eyebrow and chuckled. “You.”
The towel went down in a heap on the counter. “And who’s on Kate and Zoe?”
“You.”
“Fucker. I can’t be both places.”
“Then delegate. It’s time you start learning how to lead. I’m not president here anymore.”
I’d heard this refrain before. “You know damn well I suck at leading.” I did. Point me at a problem, I’d fix it. But herding a bunch of screw-ups? Hell no. I’d rather put my arm between Fenrir’s jaws than do that.
“You don’t suck. You just think you do. Like you think you’re fat, or slow.”
He wanted me to argue with him so he’d win.
But he wasn’t going to. I was getting slower. My body wasn’t at that golden cusp of fitness that peeked somewhere between twenty and thirty-five. I’d slipped into forty this year, and no sooner than that milestone hit, so had my first injury. And rehab. And doctors poking at my ass talking about BMI and blood pressure and shit.
I was dying.
Slowly.
3
Roishin
Something fuzzy hit my face and startled me out of a sound sleep. I pulled it away and sat up, clutching the covers and whatever it was, to my chest. I double-checked to make sure I was still wearing the ugly nightgown I’d pulled off a discount shelf at a chain store. I was. The ruffles and purple flowers mocked me. I’d never wear something like this if I had my way.
But it kept Carl at bay. The shapeless flannel and the crown of braids I oiled with un-fragranced castor oil were an additional layer of deterrent to any “plans” he had on my person. I wore its ugliness like armor.
“Put that on,” Carl ordered.
I examined the garment. It was a cilice, or in simpler terms, a hair shirt. I’d never seen one in real life. “Why?”
“You took the car without asking.”
Damn it. He’d figured it out. But I had no idea how. “You gave me the keys.” Right after the mechanic upped the list of things wrong with my car. Its demise strangely coinciding with my deal with Carl.
He took a step forward and ripped the comforter away. “Put it on, or I will put it on you.”
I scrambled to pull it over my head, then tug it over the nightgown. Technically, I’d put it on.
His eyes narrowed. “You will wear it all day, tonight, and into tomorrow. I will tell you when to take it off. And, in case you think I didn’t notice your defiance just now? Let me be clear. It will be worn against your skin. Do not wear a bra today. Understand?”
