Page 50 of Jasper
He nods once and steps inside with the slow, exaggerated care of a man walking a minefield.
Two more prospects roll in behind him. One’s got a stuffed duffel slung over one shoulder and a laundry basket stacked with throw pillows. The other’s bringing a canvas tote bursting with god-knows-what from her living room.
The prospect lingers a second too long, his eyes drifting towards Tessa on the couch. He’s not leering, just curious. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out who the hell she is. I’ve never brought a woman into my space, so I can’t blame him for wondering.
I clear my throat by way of a warning. “You boys keep coming and going till all her stuff’s in. I’m not playing doorman all night.”
“Yes, sir,” he says quick, then bolts back out to finish the job.
Ma stands, brushing invisible dust from her jeans like she’s about to inspect troops. “Let’s go check the room, honey. Make sure the boys didn’t crush anything important.”
Tessa hesitates. Her eyes flick to mine, there’s a quiet question hanging between us. I give her a quick chin jerk towards the back. “Go on. See to your stuff. Might take your mind off the rest.”
She comes to her feet and follows my ma. Her hands still tremble slightly as she adjusts the satchel strap on her shoulder, but her shoulders are no longer hunched. She’s standing taller now. It’s a sign that she’s pulling herself together, and I’m glad to see it.
She follows Ma down the short hall, disappearing through the doorway into the guest bedroom. I stay with my old man, who’s as quiet as ever. He’s moved to the window, and is standing there with his arms crossed, watching the lot below.
“They struck first. No matter how messy things get, don’t ever forget that, son.” He’s saying they deserve what they fuckin’ get for starting the violence.
I grit out, “I won’t.”
My dad lets out a sound of agreement, more a huff. Why do I always feel like the old buzzard is always five steps ahead of me? Unless I miss my guess, he’s already thinking about retaliation, leverage, how potential allies could shift the coming conflict in our favor. That’s my old man—he’s a strategy-comes-first kinda guy. The emotions catch up later, if at all.
Another prospect comes quietly through, dropping off items. I motion him towards the bedroom, and he slips past me with a muttered, “Excuse me, sir.” At least someone’s raising the standard today.
When the last box is dropped off, my parents take their leave along with the last prospect. I close the door, lock it, and lean against it with both hands for a moment. Tessa’s here in my suite, safe and sound. Our clubhouse is probably the most secure building in this entire town. It’s fenced, patrolled by the prospects day and night, and we have a robust electronic security system. No one can get to her here.
It takes me a hot minute to muscle down all my possessive instincts so I can talk to her without seeming ownerish. I’m hoping that the longer she’s here, the more she’ll start to feel as though she belongs.
When I turn around, Tessa is standing near the far window, running her fingers lightly along the edge of the curtain like she’s fascinated with the fabric. I move slowly across the room and stop beside her.
Outside, it’s pitch black except for the floodlight in our parking lot. It was already getting late when we arrived at her house, and that seems like it was forever ago. From this vantage point, it’s pristine and the lawn well-groomed. It’s not lost on her that our place is nice compared to her older home. I can see that realization click into place on her face. Still, I know she loves that house and would prefer to be there. I hate that knowing me caused this kind of upheaval in her life.
“You alright?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah. Queenie talked to me about how starting over can be a blessing. Is your mom always so positive?”
“Not always. She likes you, so she’s trying to say things that make you feel better about this situation.”
She glances up at me. “Is it just me or has this day lasted forever?”
I see a hint of the wry amusement again. I slide my arms around her from behind and pull her close, mainly because I think she needs a hug. “Yeah, this has been one hell of a long day. You’re home now. Mi casa is your casa.”
She turns over her shoulder and gives me a tired smile. “Your place is really nice,” she says. “Not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Bunk beds. Beer cans. Leather everything.”
“This is an MC, not a biker-themed frat house.” My voice sounds a tad more indignant than I want it to be.
Her hand drops from the curtain and brushes against mine as she turns. Neither of us moves to pull away.
“I was scared,” she says quietly, “especially when that drone came. Because it wasn’t just my life anymore. You were in danger too.”
I swallow hard and stay quiet for a minute. She doesn’t have to say it, but I hear it in her voice. The realization that this is bigger than either of us now. That we’re not strangers caught in a storm anymore. We’re two people wanting to get to know each other and give this relationship a go.
“Bikers have a saying about being hard to kill,” I tell her.
