“Jesus,” I mutter. “We’re here to talk, not knock the house down.”
“Maybe his hearing’s shit,” Garrett deadpans.
The door cracks open, and Grizz’s eyes look more tired than usual. Like he hasn’t slept all night. Behind him, the house smells of stale coffee and weed.
“What do you two want?” His voice is rough, like sandpaper.
“Club business,” I say. “Can we come in?”
Grizz hesitates, shoulders slumping before he shakes his head, but opens the door anyway.
Inside, the living room is cluttered, but clean. And on the sofa, wrapped in a quilt, is his old lady, Birdie, who I’ve been told was once an exotic dancer, a rare beauty in her day.
I soften immediately when I take in her bald head and sickly pallor. “Birdie. Good to see you.”
She gives me a weak smile. “Oh, sweetheart. I’d give you both a hug, but I’m immunocompromised.”
It’s hard to miss the oxygen tank and pill bottles and bowl on the floor, sitting on an old towel.
“Take care of yourself, yeah?” We both step back to create space between us and Grizz. “Step out with us a minute.”
As soon as the door closes, Garrett tugs at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell us she was sick?”
Grizz’s jaw flexes. “Not the club’s problem.”
Garrett sighed. “We’re here because we’re supposed to kick your ass to get you to show up like you’re meant to.”
Grizz glances to the living room window. “Still not the club’s problem.”
“Bullshit,” Garrett says. “You’re family. Club stands with family.”
Grizz throws his hands in the air. “Heard the club lost some money back end of last year. Not gonna force you guys to go without.”
Garrett steps closer, his voice dropped to a tone that usually makes grown men rethink their life choices. “You don’t hide shit like this. We take care of our own. Let Grudge figure out how to keep the club afloat, but for the record, we got it all back, thanks to Wren.”
I put my hands on Grizz’s shoulders. “Brother, needing help doesn’t make you weak. Makes you human. We’ll tell Grudge. You’ll get support. Rides covered, shifts reassigned. And you’llhave a schedule of people checking on you both, bringing meals, helping with shit around here you don’t have time to do because you’re looking after Birdie.”
Grizz looks at us like we just handed him oxygen.
“Thank you,” he says. “I guess I didn’t want to be a burden to the club.”
Garrett slaps his back, his version of a sympathetic hug. “You’re never alone, brother. Not on my watch.”
10
ISLA
Imove beneath the covers of the bed, hyper aware that I’m sexually aroused. It’s a delicious feeling that’s ruined by guilt and shame. For the last thirty minutes, I’ve grappled with half-asleep visions of Garrett and Jackal working shirtless on my car.
They’re good looking. Jackal is more lean muscle. I bet his body fat percentage is, like, six or something. Then there’s the broader, stockier, more solid strength of Garrett.
They’ve got dirty hands as they tinker about beneath the hood of my car and…
Goddamnit. Jackal is smiling at me.
I run my fingers down my body, beneath the waistband of my pajamas, and slip them between my legs. It’s almost a betrayal of my good intentions that I’m so wet.
“Fantasies are natural,” I remind myself, thinking about the podcast I listened to last night before I went to bed. It was created by a survivor of child sexual assault who started the podcast as a way to share survivors’ stories.
