Dead or down the road—only he knows what he meant for sure.
“My father wants the Devil’s Breed ruined. He has no interest in your club. It’s a personal vendetta, plain and simple.”Weak, Jenna.
Chaos pins me beneath his calculating stare. “Whois he? Who’s your father, Jenna?”
I turn my head toward the cat and hesitate while I watch it gently lick its fur. I should never have said anything to Fang. I’ve never been one to let things slip before. But I’m tired. I’m physically and mentally worn out, and I want a goddamn holiday from all the pressure, the responsibility.
My capacity to give a shit dwindles day by day.
“Flinch,” I say quietly. “He was an officer under Tuck.”
“I know.” Same goddamn road name as our chaplain.
I chance a look his way. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Crossed paths, but we never spoke one-on-one, no. I was a lot younger and greener then.” Chaos moves the laptop asideand then retrieves his phone, elbows on the desk as he thumbs the screen. “What’s his reason for wanting Smoke destroyed?”
Huh.I never said my father wanted to ruin Smoke specifically, just the Devil’s Breed in general.How did he pick up on that?Unless it’s just a slip of the tongue.
“When my mom left the Devil’s Breed, she struggled. Small towns being what they are, everyone knew who she’d been associated with and why she left.” I hang my head, embarrassed for my mom that I have to share the next bit. “She was another member’s old lady when she got pregnant, and although nobody knew about me, they knew she’d been exiled for that infidelity and lack of honor.” I take a deep breath and sigh it out my nose before continuing. “We officially lived under the poverty line for the longest time before she managed to move us somewhere new and get steady employment. The stigma of the Devil’s Breed MC on her name is the reason she couldn’t afford shit when she got sick. If it wasn’t for their influence, she may have been able to afford insurance or not put off being checked for so long.” I pause long enough to swallow the obstruction from my throat. “She might still be alive.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
I snap my gaze to his, surprised by the genuine and swift condolences. Most MC members I’ve met are so accustomed to the bad luck and shit circumstances that accompany the life, that compassion doesn’t even cross their mind; it’s just how it is, to suffer. Hearing genuine remorse for my pain is refreshing.
Disarming.
“Thank you.” I still haven’t told Chaos the worst of it, yet he seems satisfied enough with the pieces I have given him.
So I zip it.
“How long ago was he dismissed?” Chaos asks.
“Four years, give or take a few months.”
He presses his fingertips together, glancing to his phone as the screen illuminates. “How much does he know about what Smoke does now?”
“He knows enough details of their legal fronts that he knew where to place me so I’d be in the thick of it.”
“Does he know the routes they take the women?”
“Some.”
“Know who’s involved?”
“Mostly.”
“When they travel and how they do it?”
“He suggested the framework they still use today.”
Chaos’s gaze hardens. “Does he agree with the trade?”
“He used to.” The confession sits heavy in my chest. Some days I think he still does, deep down. “I’m not sure.”
The Kings of Anarchy president leans back, fingers interlaced before him while he studies me. Intently. Lengthy.
I default to the cat again who now lies stretched out on the small rug before the fire, a content look of belonging on its face. How I wish to do that. To find somewhere I’m that goddamn relaxed enough I can lie around without guilt or remorse.
