I laughed and the sound was shaky.
Jagger would go along with a sexual assault, sure he would, because I owned him, body and soul. He wouldn’t say no. But he’d never forgive me. Not ever.
And it might scar the eyeballs of anyone watch-ing. My laughter came more easily. I tidied up while the coffee brewed, made from the good grounds conned out of Marconi.
Spy wandered in. She leaped up on the dining table, sat like a lady with her tail curled around her feet, and stared at me.
“Yes. I know I’m sending out signals,” I said. “Jagger’s on the way.”
Spy cocked her head quizzically. Her main potential breeding male, Maul, had been injured not too long ago, and he had never gotten back to a hundred percent. And since Spy hadn’t gotten pregnant . . .
I didn’t know what that meant to Spy.
“You got the hots for anyone? Still with Maul?”
She cocked her head the other way as if thinking, then raised her head, exposing her neck. She started talking, as if tothe ceiling. “Mrower. Reeeee, mah mah mah yeroo-oooo. Sssoo-oo.”
I had heard the sounds before but didn’t remember what they meant, and she didn’t offer to show me with her cat ESP stuff, so I nodded and said, “You said it, sister.”
That was all I had time for because . . .Jagger. He was in the roadhouse.
Forgetting the coffee, I walked out the airlock door and into the winding hallway that took me to the roadhouse, getting closer and closer to Jagger. Breathing deep, slow. Controlling myself. Mostly.
Before I got there, I knew he would be sitting at the best seat in the house, his spine against the kitchen wall, across from and slightly down from the front doors, out of the line of direct immediate fire, should anyone come in shooting. The table was round, standing on a single huge center leg with four, heavy, wood knob-feet keeping it steady on the floor. It was perfect in case of a firefight. All it needed was to be shoved on its side to take cover behind. The table top was solid wood, nearly ten centimeters thick, sturdy enough to stop most handheld weapons, even blasters.
Jagger wouldn’t even have thought about which table was the best. He would have simply known, deep down in that part of a warrior’s soul that had kept him alive through the war, through the Battle of Mobile, one of the worst battles of the Last War, World War III.
I entered the room and our eyes met, as if he had known the moment I would walk in.
Alex was standing at Jagger’s table, the kid wearing jeans rolled up at the ankles, red sneakers, and a roadhouse T-shirt. They (because I had never asked the kid’s gender, and they had never volunteered it, and because my nanobots may have screwed up that gender anyway) were putting two sweet teasand two Velvet Claws on the table, expounding on the dining delicacies available today.
“We have two soft goat cheeses,” they said, “one with garlic, one plain. Salad greens with an actual real cuke and one out-of-season tomato, first come first served. We have three entrées: fried chicken strips or chicken salad with onions and peppers on real wheat flatbread, or, third, fried or scrambled eggs with toast. No bacon today, no ham, but we do have butter.”
Jagger’s mouth moved, giving his order. His eyes never left mine. The National Enforcer of the Outlaw Militia Warriors knew how to hold a stare.
Alex moved away.
“Asshole,” I said, too soft for him to hear.
That smile spread across his face. The one that blistered through me like superheated steam.
Music started, Jolene putting on her namesake song. I was pretty tired of hearing a woman beg to keep a man, and my lust flatlined. I wondered if she knew that and had planned the song to help keep me sane. I tucked my thumbs into my front pockets and wandered across the dance floor. I was halfway over when I realized Jagger wasn’t alone, and it took a moment to recognize Jacopo, Marconi’s son, and Jagger’s sidekick, part of the child swap that kept the peace between the HA and the OMW. Jacopo was also Mina’s brother, the one she had thought about killing not so long ago.
It was old-home week at the roadhouse. Or something else was up. I was betting it was something I wouldn’t like.
Picking up a glass of sweet tea from the bar, I looked both bikers over.
The teenager had put on several centimeters and a good nine, maybe ten kilos of pure muscle. His beard, black as his hair and eyes, had thickened, currently a heavy, two-day scruff that made him look older and far too sexy for his age. Marconi wouldbe a grandpa in no time if the kid didn’t carry protection. Not that I’d mention that. Unless the boy needed to be taken down a peg or two. That made me grin, and caused Jacopo’s eyebrows to draw together in concern.
Yeah. When Little Girl smiled, it often foreshadowed danger and trouble.
“Care to join a couple of lonely bikers?” Jagger asked, his voice like whiskey and smoke. He was holding a glass of Velvet Claws in one hand, gold rings on every fingers, like disconnected brass knucks. He knew how to do maximum damage with the rings. Every Enforcer knew how to dish out punishment.
I placed my glass on their table and spun the chair closest to the kitchen door around. I swung a leg over and braced one arm across the back, sitting spraddle-legged. That had the advantage of drawing Jagger’s eyes to places that couldn’t hurt him, much, and away from my hands and weapon, which could hurt him if needed.
I wasn’t particularly fond of sweet tea, but anything sweet was a treat these days. I took a long draw, set the glass down. I said, “S’up, boys.”
Jagger rocked back in his chair until the front legs came off the floor and the chair back touched the kitchen wall. It gave me a full view of his torso and brought to mind things we had done in the office bed, but I shut that thought down. We were both posturing, stupid grade school stuff, but I couldn’t think of a way to break our cycle, and wasn’t sure I wanted to think of a way break it. At least not at the moment.
