Page 46 of Diesel
“This your girl?” the guy asks over his shoulder.
“Yeah.” Zane doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t introduce me, doesn’t introduce him either, and I don’t open my mouth.
I learnt that lesson the hard way. I may not understand the dance happening here, but I know enough to recognise the tight rope being walked by both sides. I’m not about to start swinging on it.
As we get to the back of the house, I hear soft feminine voices, little chuckles, that seem out of place.
Zane’s hand tightens in mine. A warning wrapped in softness.Stay alert.
I’m not sure what to expect.
Hard women carrying guns, wearing Kevlar and combat pants, but the scene in front of us is not even close to that.
There’s a young woman lying on the couch, covered with a thick blanket. On her chest is a tiny, pink baby. It can’t be more than a week or two old and it’s grunting like it’s debating whether it wants to cry or not. The woman looks exhausted even as she presses her lips to the baby’s head. There are thick black smudges under her eyes, and her skin is pale in a way that makes her dark blonde hair look washed out.
A second woman is sitting at the end of the couch by her feet. She’s also blonde and holding an older baby that’s probably heading toward the sticky fingers phase. She looks at me with uncertainty, but a softness I’m not sure we’ve earned yet.
The third woman is standing at the window, her back to us. Her dark hair is thrown up into one of those messy buns that somehow seems by design but is more about comfort. I never mastered them. Somehow I always look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge when I try. Whenshe turns, I take in her full lips, sunken eyes and that bone weary tiredness they all seem to have.
They’re not alone. Two guys are sitting at a table that looks like it was dragged out of the 80s against its will. It has those fold-down leaves, designed to make it bigger when you have company, and the wood is that fake stuff that looks almost orange.
I don’t recognise the first guy and in fact on a second glance, he’s a kid. I barely give him my attention because the other man at the table is Riot. My jaw tenses. Fucking prick. I’m going to shove that gun he pointed at us where the sun doesn’t shine.
Zane’s grip on me becomes steel before I can move. “Play nice,” he murmurs, but I hear the amusement in his voice.
I want to argue, but I don’t. We’re not in friendly territory.
“Good of you to join us,” the man who isn’t Riot says, his attention sliding to me.
“Wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,” Zane replies.
I don’t miss the way he angles himself so that he’s covering me with his body.
“If you’re loyal to the patch, you’re always welcome.”
“Jury is out on that one,” Riot mutters and I bare my teeth at him.
The dark-haired girl standing in the window turns. “Of course he’s loyal,” she snaps. “It’s Diesel.”
She crosses the room, and Riot stands as if he’s going to intercept her. He doesn’t get a chance, because she suddenly throws her arms around Zane, and presses her face against his chest like their old friends.
My heart seizes. Jealousy spikes hot in my chest. Whois this woman and how the hell did she know my husband well enough to hug him? Zane isn’t a hugger.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says when she pulls back from him. Her eyes are soft, her smile real. It takes every ounce of my patience not to shove her back from him. “Rhys got stabbed.” Her eyes fill with tears, and for a moment I forget that I am angry she’s pawing my husband.
Who is Rhys?
“I heard,” Zane replies. “Where is he?”
Her eyes lift to the ceiling. “Upstairs. He should still be in hospital.”
Zane strokes his thumb over my hand, trying to soothe me, but his attention is on her.
“He’ll be okay, Dayna.”
“He’d better be,” she grumbles. “I need him breathing.”
“How’s the parasite?” There’s fondness in his tone that still has my shoulders squaring.
