JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3)

by Carmen Jenner

  “Okay, let’s go.” Raine climbs off my lap, and I let my fingers trail over her arm as she gets up. I don’t mean to. I shouldn’t be touching her at all. My hands are unclean and she’s the fucking picture of purity and goodness. A man like me—a man like Prez—I’d only taint her. Raine turns and looks back at me, and I school my features into something like less of a lovestruck fucking idiot. “Grim?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “Thank you for this, for last night.” She shakes her head. “For everything. I couldn’t ... I probably wouldn’t be alive to see him this morning if it weren’t for you. If anything happened to me, I don’t know what would happen to Joshua.”

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.” Her brows knit together and tears well in her eyes.

  “You’re not asking. I’m just doin’ it.” I check on Lola in her saddlebag. I reach in and give her a pat, and then I climb on my bike, and wait for Raine to fasten her helmet and slide on behind me. My dick aches to have those perfect little hands slip lower, but even I’m not fool enough to believe that will ever happen. I rev the throttle, pull out of the parking spot, and tear down the road like the devil’s on our heels.

  Five minutes from the compound, some fucker is riding my arse. I check my mirrors, and he’s way closer than I’m comfortable with, considering my two favourite women are on this bike with me. I weave through traffic, and the car starts making dangerous decisions, running people off the road and causing drivers to swerve out of his way and lay on their horns. I take the exit before the turn-off to the clubhouse. It’s a stupid fucking decision because now we’re on the road alone with a maniac on our arse. The fucker flies up behind us, almost bumping the back wheel. Raine twists her head and screams.

  I don’t have my helmet on because she’s wearing it—so if we crash, I’m most likely done for, and I can’t stand the thought of that. I twist the throttle, and we burst free, but the reprieve is short-lived. He’s closer than ever. Raine’s hands tighten on my waist.

  “Just hold on, babe,” I shout into the wind, hoping like hell she hears me. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

  I turn down a busy side street, throwing my leg out to prevent us from tipping as we take the corner too sharply. The car misses the turn, and I put on a burst of speed. It isn’t long before he’s riding my arse again, but I fly into the clubhouse gate just as he runs into my back tyre. We’re going too fast, both for the corner and because we’re being pushed by the maniac in the vehicle behind. I can’t keep us upright. My tyres squeal, rubber burns, and thick white smoke chokes the air around us. We slide off the bike, rolling over the fucking pavement.

  Trigger shouts and runs out of the security booth, gun aimed and at the ready. I don’t have time to see if Raine’s broken. She’s face down on the pavement beneath me, and I stay, covering her as I pull my gun from my cut. I fire—one shot goes straight through the windshield. The second misses, but I pull the trigger again and hit the arsehole in the driver’s seat in the hand. The gun falls from his grip. He screams. The brothers all run out of the clubhouse, likely summoned by the sharp rapport of gunshots. I climb off Raine and run toward the Russian cunt in the van. I’m just about to riddle his fucking face with bullets when Prez shouts for me to stop.

  I dart my gaze from the Russian to Jett. “I want him alive, Grim.”

  I want to punch holes in this fucking Russian cunt with a shotgun, but I keep the Glock trained on his head and walk toward the vehicle slowly, carefully.

  “Get out of the fucking car!” I shout. He makes no effort to move. Behind me, Raine cries out. It takes every-fucking-thing I have not to turn and go to her, but I don’t have time for distractions because at any second, this arsehole could put a bullet through my brain. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

  He’s not listening. His eyes are wide with shock and his mouth hangs open in a silent scream. Oh shit. I’ve blown his fist clean off. Blood, thick and dark, pours out of the gaping maw where his hand used to be. “Get out of the fucking car.”

  “Fuck you. You will get nothing out of me, stupid Australian scum.” His hand fumbles in his pocket and he pulls out what looks like a penknife. My club brothers approach, and then everything happens in slow motion. The morning sun glints off the wire from the knife and I see it’s not a wire at all but a motherfucking switch.

  “BOMB!” I run. A high-pitched squeal comes from the charge and then my whole world explodes. Debris digs into my back and calves. The hot burn of metal is unlike any pain I’ve ever felt—not knives, fists, nor broken bones. Only fire. Only the psyche-deep pain of the flesh melting from my face as my enemy held a blowtorch to my cheek and laughed as my skin bubbled and sizzled, the smell of my burning flesh permeated my nostrils. Only fire feels this painful. Only fire can make me scream this way. Only fire and losing her.

  “JESUS CHRIST, YOU STUPID son of a bitch,” Jett says as I open my eyes. “You scared the fucking shit out of us.”

  “Raine? Where’s Raine?”

  “She’s resting, arsehole, which is exactly where you’re going to stay for the next twenty-four hours, according to the good doc.”

  “Shit. Lola? Tell me someone got Lola.”

  “You mean that decrepit little yappy shit who tried to bite everyone’s fingers off?” Jett’s eyes trail to the end of the bed. I follow his line of sight. There’s a pile of blankets, and when I move my feet, sure enough, her warm little body is right there, snuggled in the gap between them. “The bitch wouldn’t leave your side. Snapped at anyone who even came close. That idiot French Bulldog of Ivy’s managed to coax her into the corner to piss though.”

  “Great. Was she hurt?”

  “Not as far as anyone could tell. I don’t know how she wasn’t killed by your fuckin’ bike, but she was tucked snugly inside the saddlebag.”

  “And Raine? Is she okay?”

  “She’s got a fractured arm, and a few scrapes and bruises, but she’s alive. No fucking thanks to you. Why the hell weren’t you here at first light?”

  “Raine had some stuff to take care of.”

  “Yeah, well ... the Russians almost took care of you both, and now I have a big motherfucking hole in my gate, and a car bomb that the Feds are all over. What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

  “I was trying to save her life.”

  “Really? ’Cause it looks like you were tryin’ to end yours.”

  “I need to see her.” I sit up. My head spins. My ears feel like they’re stuffed full of cotton wool. I’m pushed back on the mattress by several hands. When I glance up, the Butcher and Kick are holding me down.

  Where the fuck did they come from?

  “Sit your arse down. She’s sleepin’ it off. Doc knocked her full of morphine. You’ll see her when she wakes up.”

  “Prez.” I shake my head. Lola growls. I divert my gaze to the end of the bed, and there’s a sharp sting to my fucking jugular. The next thing I see is my dog lunging at the Butcher, and the lights go out.

  JETT

  FUCKING LOCKDOWN. I stare into my whiskey. My clubhouse is full of bodies—still breathing, thank fuck—but every Saint and their family members are here, their fucking dogs and cats too. I’m surprised Country didn’t bring his goddamn chickens home to roost. I kind of wish he had. At least then we’d have a way to feed everyone. My cook and head bar wench are out of commission, laying in a bed in my clubhouse, and there are thirty hungry mouths to feed. Thank fuck most of my boys don’t have kids yet, or this would be torture taken to the next level. Raphe’s five brats are bad enough.

  Every single one of these arseholes under my roof are pissing me off, least of all my goddamn wife. The love left my marriage about the same year that we got hitched. Mia stays because—well, I have no fucking idea why she stays. I guess the money is good, and it beats having to find some sugar daddy when you’re no longer young enough to pull off pigtails. My wife has a body made for fucking, but
it’s been a good long while since we’ve done any of that. Used to be fucking was all we had—fucking and fighting. Now we’re just getting off on the last with none of the stress relief of the first.

  I fill up my glass and leave my office, heading toward One Eye’s room. We put Raine in there, since no one has claimed it since his death. I don’t think anyone wanted to, afraid his treachery would rub off on them.

  I enter the room without knocking. Ivy sits by the bed. The junkie looks good since Tank took her from this hellhole, fixed her up, and put a big shiny rock on her finger. Though they’ve both been through some shit since.

  Who here hasn’t?

  “Hey,” she whispers, glancing up from a fucking bridal magazine—of all things.

  I nod. “How she doing?”

  “She’s good for someone who should have been dead. She’s woken up a few times, but the morphine has pulled her under. God, do I remember that feeling.”

  Fuck. I put a recovering drug addict in a room with an unconscious patient and an IV full of morphine. “How you doin’?”

  “I’m not pulling the line from her arm if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Relax, Prez. I’m just fucking with you.” She sets the magazine on the bedside table. “It’s not easy being back here. Every corner of every room holds some kind of memory, but I think the worst part is the things I don’t remember. I spent years of my life lost in drugs and sex and the men in this club because it meant I would forget. It meant I was safe from my father. Now, he’s dead and I’m free, but I’m marrying your VP, which means for the rest of my life I’ll be married to the club where so much evil shit happened to me.”

  “And you blame me for that?”

  “No. I both love and resent you for that. You offered me protection if I sucked your club brother’s dicks. You offered Raine your protection, but she didn’t need to become your club whore. Why is that?”

  My voice is full of warning, “Ivy.”

  “You’re in love with her.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit.” I turn and grab the handle, ready to get the fuck outta here.

  “You’re in love with her, she’s in love with you, and what’s your darling wife, Mia, going to say about all this?”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Ivy.”

  “That’s the thing about girls who watch and listen to everything that goes on while they’re sucking cock—we see and hear things you can only imagine.”

  “If you’ve got a fuckin’ point, you should make it.”

  “Raine isn’t like us. She’s not tainted by the things she’s seen or done. She isn’t Mia, and if you don’t squash this now, you’ll destroy her and bring her down with you.”

  “Like you did with Tank?”

  “Tank’s a big boy, and we both know he’s never been innocent.”

  “Get out.”

  She backtracks to the bed and picks up her magazine, turning a snide smile on me. “Take care of her, Jett, but don’t let her get too close. She deserves better than the kind of life you’re offering.”

  She brushes past and exits the room, leaving me staring at an unconscious Raine. Is Ivy right? Am I only bringing her down by having her clean my club and pour my booze? Fuck! I let the junkie get inside my head.

  I walk toward the bed and slink into the chair beside her. By some fucking miracle she still looks like an angel, though her arm is in a cast and sling. Raine has a few minor grazes on her neck, face, and arms, and there’s a small cut on her forehead. Her hair is matted with blood. I’m guessing from Grim’s wounds, or maybe from the explosion. I drink my whiskey and set my glass on the nightstand. I slide my hand over hers, the right one that’s not injured, and I squeeze it and hang my head.

  “You scared the shit outta me, Angel.”

  Her lids flicker but they don’t open. I pick up her hand—a dead weight, so warm, yet so devoid of life. I lean over and press my lips to her skin.

  “I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe when he told me they’d targeted you last night. My first thought wasn’t about my wife, or any one of my club brothers—it was of you. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do here, darlin’. I got a bitch who’s gonna take me to the cleaners if I so much as mention the word divorce, and not only that, but she knows too fuckin’ much. One wrong move and every brother in this club goes to prison for life.”

  Her fingers twitch in mine. Raine’s lids crack open and those pretty blues that I get to see first thing every morning when she brings me a coffee and muffin are sleepy and bloodshot. “I missed you.”

  My brows shoot skyward. She blinks several times, long and slow, and each one gets longer.

  “I missed you too, darlin’.”

  “Don’t let me go,” she mumbles before falling back to sleep.

  I don’t know if she means don’t let go of her hand, her job, or the idea of having her in my bed and on the back of my bike, but I find myself making promises I know I can’t keep.

  RAINE

  “SHH, YOU’LL WAKE HER,” Indie whispers from beside my bed.

  I blink, shifting on the mattress. Everything hurts, and my brain is foggy. I lift my arm and pain lances through it from fingertip to shoulder. I rub my eyes with the heel of my good hand.

  Kick fills the doorway. “Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, Raine. I was just seeing if I could borrow my old lady for a bit.”

  “No, I’m not talking to you.” Indie glares at her boyfriend.

  “Come on, babe. It was a joke.”

  “Well, it wasn’t funny.”

  Kick’s mouth tips up in a lopsided grin. “Not even a little bit?”

  “No, but you know what is? That you’re not getting any for a whole month.”

  “Goddamn it, Indie.” He kicks the door with his motorcycle boot.

  “What happened? Is everyone okay?” I ask.

  Kick opens his mouth, but Indie holds up a hand to silence him and turns to me. “Everyone’s fine. Jett’s pissed about the huge hole in the clubhouse gate, but everyone’s alive and well.”

  “Thank God.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “Like I got run over by a Mack truck.”

  “Well, sliding off a bike at high speed, getting crushed by a biker, and almost blown up will do that to you.”

  “You sound like you’ve had experience.”

  “Oh, I have. I’ve been living with this idiot for the last six months.”

  “Good point.” I try to shift on the bed but find it takes two arms to move my whole body, and at present, I only have one. Oh God. Jett’s going to fire me. “I’m going to lose my job.”

  “You’re not going to lose your job.”

  “I can’t clean. I can’t serve drinks, or even cook properly with my arm in this stupid thing.” I lift the broken appendage in question and a sharp bolt of pain spears my forearm and bicep right up to my shoulder. Great.

  “Jett won’t fire you, Raine. Kick, tell her.”

  “Prez isn’t likely to fire you. Besides, your mouth’s not broken.” He shrugs. “You can still clean his cock.”

  “Out!” Indie shouts, hurtling a pillow toward him.

  Kick dodges and throws his old lady a wink. “And speaking of mouths.”

  “So help me God, Biker, if you finish that sentence ...”

  He chuckles darkly and exits the room. “Feel better soon, Raine.”

  I just smile and shake my head. Indie really is the best thing that ever happened to that man.

  “God, he’s such a pig,” she says.

  “He loves you though.”

  “I know.” It’s her turn to shake her head. “I don’t know why I love him back, but I do.”

  “You make a really cute couple.”

  “Thanks, I think?”

  “Yeah. I’m suddenly not so sure that’s a compliment either.” I laugh. “Maybe I should say you bring out the best in him?”

&nbs
p; “Oh, that’s a good one. I like that way better.” She leans forward in her seat. “So, you about ready to get up and shower?”

  “God yes. I need to pee so bad it’s not even funny.”

  AFTER GETTING CLEAN with Indie’s help—something I apologised for profusely—I’m feeling better. My hair is freshly washed, I have clean clothes that Ivy has given me, and while they’re a little revealing for my tastes, I’m grateful for them all the same.

  When I’m halfway decent, I exit the room. The clubhouse is noisy, but then again, it always is. With this many bodies though, the din is almost painful.

  “And she’s up!” Crazy yells when he sees me. He’s surrounded by bikers, playing some kind of card game—poker, if I had to guess—and he slams his hand down on the table, unsettling the chips and beer glasses.

  I give a little wave and glance around the room. Jett sits in a recliner with a tall brunette on his lap. Every inch of her looks expensive, from her dark, glossy locks to her designer heels. I feel like a grubby child by comparison. This must be his wife, Mia. She’s lovely, though the death stare she gives me is anything but. Her brown eyes narrow and spear me with a look that says I’m beneath her, and I shouldn’t forget it. I glance at her husband, whose hands are digging into her hips. His ice-blue gaze watches me, but there’s none of the usual friendliness in them. Tears prick my eyes and I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m just about to tell Indie that I’m not feeling well and head back to my room when Grim comes out of the hall opposite and a choked cry escapes me. I run to him, crushing myself against his side to avoid injuring my arm. It stings anyway, and he grunts. I’ve hurt him too.