by Vivian Gray
“But, Dad,” she began but was cut off by the beeping of an alarm. She furrowed a brow, trying to figure out what it was going off. Silas leaned down, scooping up her father’s other hand. She didn’t hear what he said to him over the noise. It was so distracting.
The doors burst open, and a nurse hurried in, her face wrought with concern.
Jessa stumbled backward, panic rising in her throat. “What’s going on?”
“His blood pressure is dropping.” The nurse shook her head tersely. “You both will have to leave the room now. The doctor is on his way.”
“But…” Jessa couldn’t move. Her gaze skidded from the nurse to her father to Silas, unable to make a move or form a thought. This couldn’t be the way things ended. Not like this.
“Jessa.” Her father’s rasp sounded forced. “Promise me. You’ll do this one last thing for me.”
She stared at him, indecision and disbelief stilling her. “I… Dad. You can’t be—”
“You have to leave,” the nurse said, her voice edged with tension.
“Okay.” Jessa ran a hand through her hair, the word bursting out of her. Looking at the nurse, she said, “Okay. I’m leaving.” And at her dad, she said, “And fine. I’ll do it. Just know that I love you, Dad.”
The nurse sent a death look at her and Silas. Jessa headed for the door, her legs leaden. This can’t be the way it ends.
Silas stormed out of the room, his hands buried in his pockets. His full lips were twisted downward in a frown. A chill passed through her. That would never be her husband.
Jessa sized him up from behind, gaze roaming over his broad, square shoulders and the solid muscle of his neck before drifting back to the embroidered bell on his cut. If she ever did get married someday, it sure as shit wouldn’t be to a biker. She wasn’t dumb enough to even date a biker.
Silas took up post outside the hospital room, crossing his arms over his chest. Jessa paced the hallway, hugging her arms around herself. A silence a mile wide rested between them, and she had no idea how to break it. This was part awkward, part absurd, and wholly sad. There was no way to even begin.
A couple of the club brothers approached Silas. Heavy gazes stuck to her, suspicion practically making the air unbreathable. They conferred in quiet tones. She’d never felt more of an outsider, yet she was made of the man in that room. These guys were just strangers in that sense. If anyone, she had the most right to be here.
Yet another thing she hated about biker culture. All the playing with being in or out. She’d never felt more out. Surely the brothers were lapping it up. Sometimes she swore bikers fed on discomfort. Like it was a goddamn tonic.
A moment later a doctor rushed into the hospital room. And then another nurse. After a few tense moments, the door creaked open, and Jessa was asked to come inside. Silas followed, despite not being asked, but she was too tense to tell him to stay behind.
Inside the room, the air felt spent, like everyone had just finished a marathon. Her father lay quiet on the bed, the beeping machines playing a slow rhythm. The doctor came up to Jessa, placed his hand on her shoulder.
“It won’t be much longer now. You should say your goodbyes.”
***
Silas glanced up at the cloudy sky for maybe the hundredth time that morning. What did he expect to find? Part of him wished a reason would fall from the sky. A pretty little package that told him how to handle this loss. The sense of injustice. The fucking anger that wouldn’t leave him now that Stone was gone.
In front of him, Stone’s coffin was being lowered into the ground. The funeral was densely packed, with club members from MCs spanning the west coast in attendance. Guys he hadn’t seen in years had made the last-minute trip to say goodbye to this beloved president. Silas clenched his hands together, fighting another wave of emotion.
This funeral had been so damn hard. And keeping one eye on the periphery at all times, a habit he couldn’t break, was bleeding him dry. He didn’t think Wicked Spawn would be vile enough to ransack Stone’s funeral, but he wouldn’t put it past them either. He and probably every other Death Knells’ brother were watching the sidelines, keeping an eye on things.
To his right, a muffled sob. He stiffened, unsure what the fucking etiquette was for this awful situation. He and Jessa – Stone’s only surviving family in his eyes. So, they’d been plopped right on the front line – first row of the funeral. He hadn’t been in the MC when Jessa’s brother was killed, but he knew all about what had happened. And as far as he knew, Jessa’s mom had been MIA from the get-go. Stone’s story was she couldn’t hack the club life.
Plenty of women couldn’t. Including the one at Silas’ right.
Jessa sniffled loudly. Silas studied the knotty grass beneath his feet as the priest made one final prayer over the lowered coffin. In a hushed tone, the priest invited the family members to approach the coffin. Silas blinked, the words not registering at first. Jessa lowered her head, stepping carefully through the grass in high heels to approach the coffin. Silas cleared his throat, grabbing Stone’s kutte – per MC tradition, each member would be buried with it.
Once Jessa had tossed a few flowers over the lowered coffin, Silas knelt down, staring at the shiny wooden lid. This is it. It’s real. His nostrils flared, fighting another wave of tears, and tossed the kutte on top of the coffin. Then he returned to his folded wooden chair.
As the priest concluded the ceremony, Silas fought to think about anything other than what life would be like now… President of the Death Knells… Lost and wandering without his surrogate father, his mentor.
Stone had saved Silas from a broken and disinterested home. The MC had been Silas’ first real experience with belonging. With family. His own mom had never been much interested in raising the two kids that came out of her. And her disinterest had stained them both, but his brother more so. He hadn’t seen him in five years – didn’t even know if he was alive. And his mother kept bouncing from boyfriend to boyfriend, the same as always – only calling when she wanted cash or a dime bag.
The funeral was ending. Silas didn’t know how long he’d sat in stunned silence, but people were milling around, visiting the burial site, exchanging hugs. Jessa sat at his side, unmoving.
He shifted in his chair, making the rickety thing creak under his weight. The rest of Silas’ life would be lived to make Stone proud, the only father figure he’d ever known, and part of that involved seeing through the promise he made about his daughter.
Jessa had her dark, nearly black hair pulled back in a tight, smart bun. Her black dress looked more like it came from the sixties, but it worked on her. Even in mourning, he could sense her style. Black netting covered part of her face. Silas turned to her, resting his elbows on his knees. She didn’t acknowledge him.
“Hey.”
Jessa jolted, glancing at him. Was that embarrassment? He scratched his nose, waiting for her to say something. Nothing came.
“Listen.” He paused, rolling his head in a slow circle, studying the grass. He and Jessa hadn’t spoken since the day Stone died at the hospital. And neither of them had been in a condition to talk about the promise. “I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but I just wanted to say that your dad was like a dad to me too.”
Jessa’s face didn’t register anything as he spoke. He paused, then pressed onward. “Doing right by him is important to me. So, uh… I guess I just gotta ask what you think about that thing he made us promise?”
Silas studied her face as he waited for a response. The impassive mask she wore slowly turned into a sneer.
“Oh, come on. I just told him that to make him happy.” She shook her head, her mouth forming a thin line. “Like I’d tell a man on his deathbed he’s fucking nuts.”
Silas frowned. Something in her tone rubbed him the wrong way. “Okay.”
“Besides, you’d have to pay me to marry a biker.” She sniffed, crossing her legs. Silas straightened, her disdain rolling off of her, practically steamro
lling him.
“Well,” he began, unable to resist the retort, “not sure there’s anyone in line to marry you in the first place. You might have to worry about paying someone else.”
Jessa’s mouth turned into a frighteningly thin line. “Like you’re a catch.”
Silas stared at her for a moment, the tension churning between them. Flecks of amber dotted her green eyes. If he didn’t hate this bitch, he’d want to take her home. But that was about as attractive now as taking home a Wicked Spawn.
“So, it’s settled. Neither of us wants to get married. Hopefully, Stone won’t turn over in his new grave.” He rolled back the cuffs of his shirt, heat pulsing through him. It wasn’t so hot out. Maybe her sass had him overheating.
Jessa scoffed in return. Silas watched her profile for a moment, trying to find the right way to wrap up this incredibly awkward conversation. Shitting on Stone’s deathbed wish mere feet from where he was buried didn’t sit right with Silas. No, the former president would have slapped him upside the head for such disrespect.
Silas deflated a little, trying to find a compromise. Stone had just wanted to protect his daughter. Marrying Silas might be off the table, but there had to be something.
“Hey. Just… take this.” Silas fumbled for his wallet, fingers clumsy and vibrating as he sought out a scrap piece of paper. He jotted down his phone number, Jessa’s gaze sizzling over him while he wrote it down. For some reason, he felt like a high schooler all over again – shoving his phone number at the hottest girl in school, hoping she’d think to call him sometime.
Though Jessa was hot, she certainly wasn’t a catch. Not with that shitty attitude. She eyed the scrap of paper for a second before taking it out of Silas’ grip.
“Okay…” she began.
“I promised your dad I’d watch over you. I’m not gonna break that promise.”
Her gaze raked over him, her ruby lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “And how are you gonna watch over me?”
“Just call me if you need anything. I’m serious. Whenever it is, whatever you need, I got your back.”
Jessa fingered the scrap of paper, her tongue making a sweet trail over her bottom lip. He yanked his gaze away. Noticing that seemed wrong. He was destined to dislike her; that couldn’t change.
“Sure.” She folded the paper up and tucked it into her handbag. Offering a tight smile, she turned on her heels and stormed away from him.
Silas watched her walk away, mesmerized by the way the dress hugged her ass. He blinked hard. Checking her out was a no-no. He needed to remember that, too, because if Jessa had her way, she’d never see him again.
And though he wanted to never see her again himself, part of him was darkly curious to get to know her. Stone’s mysterious disappeared daughter… Already she was sassy enough to pique his interest. Killer figure and all.
But if there was anything Silas had learned in his twenty-seven years of life, it was that a bitch was always a bitch.
She might look good, but he needed to stick to the job.
Protect her from afar… and nothing else.
Chapter Three
Jessa took off her heels the second she crossed the threshold of her small one-story house. What a fucking morning. It was barely noon, and she was ready for rum. For a lot of rum. She tossed the heels near the foot of the stairs and started unbuttoning the top of her retro dress as she headed for the kitchen.
A good lunch was in order, followed by… what? A fucking spa day? Jessa rubbed her neck, staring at the fruit bowl on top of her dinette. Today she’d buried her father. It didn’t seem right to cap off the day with a facial or a pedicure. No, she had to honor the man the way he deserved.
She needed to get rip-roaring drunk.
She prepared a turkey sandwich on autopilot, slathering on mayo and avocado while she worked up a game plan. A call to her best girlfriends was in order, followed by a bar crawl. They’d started early, maybe even four p.m. None of her girls had been at the funeral – since none of them knew her father – but they were on standby, ready to help her cope.
Running her tongue along the edge of the knife, to scoop up the extra avocado, Jessa’s mind drifted to Silas. What a fucking… something. She shivered. She didn’t know exactly what she thought of him anymore. His bright blue eyes and square jaw were a better fit for a Gucci ad, but he had the swagger and the poise of a hardened biker, a guy who probably treated women like trash and had a new one each week.
Exactly the kind of shit Jessa hated about MC guys.
And her father, God rest his soul already, hadn’t exactly been a paragon of chivalry once her mom walked out. No, he’d played the scene pretty hard. And it only stood to reason that his club members would share that player mindset.
Not that she cared about Silas. Not that he was even anyone special at all.
Jessa sighed as she settled into a chair, looking out the bay window over her small backyard. A neatly manicured garden lined the house, with tiny sparkly pinwheels dotting the freshly laid black mulch between the rose bushes and begonias. She liked a tidy house, inside and out. Folding a napkin onto her lap, she took a bite of her sandwich, dabbing a finger at the corner of her mouth to catch a crumb. Tidiness was next to godliness. And bikers were notoriously slobby.
Her thoughts pinballed between memories of her dad and wondering who Silas really was. Something in Silas’ gaze set her on fire, but it was a fire she tried to deny, even to herself. It wasn’t right to think a biker was hot. How could any of those values be hot? They just weren’t.
But thinking he was hot didn’t mean Jessa condoned his lifestyle. She frowned, taking another bite. A hot body was just a hot body.
Unless she wanted there to be more to him than just a hot body.
When she finished her sandwich, she dug out her phone to call her friend, Trixie.
Trixie picked up on the second ring. “How did it go?”
Jessa smiled at the concern. “As well as it could go. Now I just have the rest of this beautiful day to mourn the loss of my father.”
“Hm. Any plans?”
“Yeah. Get fucking drunk.” Jessa cradled her cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she washed off her plate. “And I need you and Monica there. You in?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Trixie whooped. Trixie was tiny like a fairy and just as cute as one. The girls always had just a little bit too much fun when they went out. Monica tended to be the mother of the trio. The three were such good friends that strangers sometimes mistook them for lesbians. “When and where?”
Jessa named a string of local haunts, and by the time she and Trixie had hung up, they had a whole bar crawl organized.
In the quiet of the kitchen, Jessa’s mind wandered once again to Silas… The thick veins in his forearms as he’d sat next to her at the funeral... The tattoos peeking out from underneath his crisp, designer grade button-up… His kutte, which was the first time she’d ever seen one of those stupid leather vests and thought a guy looked good in it.
Fuck. He was too hot.
She fished out the scrap of paper he’d given her and ran her thumb over the strange chicken-scratch of his numbers. She should throw it away – that would convince herself that she was serious and that her affiliation with the MC gang was truly severed, once and for all.
Nibbling on her lower lip, Jessa stowed the number back in her purse. She should hang onto it, just in case she needed to get ahold of him once she sifted through her father’s storage unit. If Stone had held Silas in such high regard, then maybe he’d be interested in some of his extra things.
She nodded. That seemed fair.
It also seemed like a compromise, but she didn’t want to dwell on that.
***
Silas stared out the window overlooking the cement courtyard of the clubhouse. The sun was so damn bright today. Too bright for the day of a funeral. Especially Stone’s. He squinted, peering up at the sky again. Still no answers. Still no Stone.
&
nbsp; The brothers were filing into the meeting room through the bulletproof and soundproof double doors. They called it HQ for a reason – this was where all the magic happened, and they couldn’t risk prying ears, eyes or visitors. Now that they’d buried Stone, it was time for Silas to take over. Their first formal meeting without Stone was about to commence.
Silas tugged at the elastic in his hair, forcing the hair in his ponytail to tumble around his face. Most of the brothers were still in their Sunday best. Silas cleared his throat, fiddling with the rolled-up sleeve. The head of a dragon leered up at him from his forearm, the tattoo his most faithful companion.
The mood was somber at HQ today, as he’d expected. But under the sadness, Silas sensed a tension. He’d been worried that not all the brothers would accept his appointment as president. He’d served as sergeant at arms for two years under Stone. Tequila, a squat redhead who drank one shot of tequila every evening like it was tea time, had served as VP since Silas came into the club. Why hadn’t Stone picked him?
