On his way out, he’d found Bailey, too. Crushed to her soul that K-P was dead just as they were reconnecting. She’d only been living in Hortensia a year or two by then and her daddy was the only familyshe had there.
As much as Mortician tried to pretend he didn’t want her at his side, he’d failed. She’d been lost and alone. The same day K-P was killed, Mort had taken Bailey’s virginity. Instead of telling her ‘bye’ and he’d return soon, he’d invited her on the run with him—and ended up fucking married to her by a little Elvis motherfucker in a ceremony he was too fucking drunk to remember.
From the moment he saw Bailey, Mortician hadn’t wanted anyone else. He’d been a motherfucker and made her think otherwise, but Bailey had wrapped around his heart and intertwined with his soul.
Corny as a motherfucker, but the fucking truth. He adored Bailey. Warts and all. He had more than his fair share.
When Roxanne told him what the fuck Johnnie did, and how it wrecked Bailey, instead of killing that motherfucker, Mort had convinced his wife to go away with him. Just the two of them. No club. No kids. No past. No future. Only the here and now.
He’d ignored his need to spend time with his daughter and help her cope with what he knew she was going through. Despite his opinion that they were grown motherfuckers and the kids came first, Bailey was spiraling, losing her pain and misery in a fucking bottle. His mama-in-law was beside herself. And he felt so fucking low for leaving Harley to Chester, Val, and Roxanne while he tried to help his wife.
Meggie called when he was at his lowest—when he wanted to pack up his family, walk away from the club, and return to his hometown. Once she asked if she could stay at the house for a couple of days, he’d forgotten his problems, worried that Prez might’ve fucked up again. But no. Rebel needed Meggie, so she was taking her baby girl away to try and help her.
After alerting his staff to expect Meggie, Rebel, Kaia, and Axel, Mort contacted the jeweler where they had all the custom diamond jewelry in limbo. He’d convinced the motherfucker to get Bailey’s green diamond ring finished that day, made reservations at a little cottage in Long Beach, the same city Prez and Johnnie once owned beach front property and where the main offices for the lab had been until a few months ago.
Mortician was determined to break through Bailey’s defenses. They hadn’t talked much during the ride but just having her on the back of his bike, lightly gripping him as the wind fanned around them, gave him hope and lightened his mood.
He’d taken her inside, expecting…something. He wasn’t sure what. Instead, she’d sat on the sofa and stared. The only thing he had with him was her gift, so he’d invited her to go to a nearby grocery store. Of course, she declined. What the fuck did he expect?
When he returned, he’d found her right where he left her. On the sofa, sitting in silence. Mortician hated Johnnie to the depths of his fucking soul.
While he cooked dinner for him and Bailey, he’d played the Blues, his favorite genre of music:Hoochie Coochie Man, Mannish Boy, The Sky Is Crying, I’d Rather Go Blind, Boom Boom, Smokestack Lightnin’, and Cross Roads Blues.
“Legend goes Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil,” Mort told her, trying to jumpstart the conversation, when they’d discussed him before.
At first, Bailey hadn’t responded, but then she’d given the barest nod. “He was instructed to go to the crossroad near a plantation,” she said quietly. “The devil took his guitar, played a few songs, and then returned it, which was how Robert Johnson mastered his instrument.”
“Fuck, you have been paying attention when I run off at the fucking mouth about music, pretty girl.
A small smile tipped her lips.
Not long after, he was ready to serve their fish stew with steamed rice. She hadn’t contributed much to the conversation but had responded in monosyllables every now and then.
While he’d cleaned the kitchen, he’d searched inside of himself, asking was he prepared to take the next step, knowing she probably wasn’t on birth control and a pregnancy was a very realpossibility. Cock wasn’t a fucking cure, but Johnnie hurt her deeply and made her think she wasn’t good enough for Mortician.
That motherfucker…
Mort had had to remind himself of Kendall. And Prez. And the motherfuckers Johnnie had on his side. If he fucked-up Johnnie, Kendall would be destroyed.
Fuck, he’d asked himself if he was putting another woman’s feelings before his wife’s. And the bleak answer was yes. He didn’t know what Bailey needed, but heknewKendall was dependent on Johnnie and she’d attempted suicide once.
Then there was Prez. If he’d stood down after Johnnie fucked with Meggie because of Kendall, what else could Mortician do?
He also had to consider Johnnie’s traitorous posse. If Mort killed Johnnie, they’d want his fucking head. He’d have to go on the run. If he took his family, that would be no life for them. If he left them behind, he’d leave them exposed to retaliation.
Ignoring everything—his reservations about making love to Bailey, his hatred of Johnnie, his worry for Harley—he’d drawn a bath, then carried his wife to the bathroom and undressed her. The tub was too fucking small to join her, so he’d bathed her and washed her hair. When he finished, he wrapped her in towels and took a quick shower before joining her in bed and making love to her.
They’d fallen asleep entwined in each other’s arms. When he awakened this morning, Bailey was already in the bathroom, so he’d gone to find food for them, then called Bailey to the table, which was where they were now.
Bailey nibbled her toast, not looking at him.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked, almost finished with his scrambled eggs.
She glanced around the open concept living and dining room, and kitchen, decorated in soft, sun washed tones. watery blue and sea foam green walls, creamy white molding, and soft beige floors. It was bright and airy, so unlike the mood between them, it was almost criminal. “How long are we staying?”
He couldn’t read her tone. Fuck, but he hated the ebb and flow between them. No, it was generally anebbbecause their relationship rarely flowed nowadays. It was rapidly regressing.
“We have the DNA tests Wednesday…”
