Bounty:Fury Riders MC(65)

He wanted me to know how much he regretted being part of the club. Or he  wanted to make me to think he regrets it, to spare me from losing my  mind after finding out the truth. I'm not the kind of girl who would  sleep with a motorcycle gang member and not care either way about it. He  figured that out at least. He wanted to soften the blow, because of  course I'd find out. How many times did he try to tell me how the town  has rejected him? I thought he was exaggerating. Now I see he was  understating the severity.

I close my eyes, exhaling a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. I  remember the look on his face, the intensity with which he stared at me.  He couldn't have been pretending. Could he?

A bigger question now looms. Was he only talking about the club … or about  Marissa's death? Does he regret the choice he made in killing her? Was  it something he just had to do, something he got caught up in, thanks to  his association with the club? I don't know anything about the real  lives of guys like Jax, but I know weak links don't last long.

Was Marissa a weak link? Or maybe Jax was, and he had to be brought into line?

How would I know? I'm sure as hell not going to go back to his house to ask him. Even if I did, would I get the full truth?

What can I do? Here I was, dreaming of life with him. Stupid, silly me. A  happy little life together in his house, away from the rest of the  world. I could go to work in town; he could do his landscaping. He has  land. I could start a big garden. Maybe raise chickens. I laugh out  loud, remembering some of the visions that had danced through my head  before Amy stuck a pin in my dreams.

My phone buzzes from inside my purse. Funny-I used to be afraid of  seeing Tommy's name on the ID. Now, there's a second name I dread.

There it is. Jax. He texted me. Hey, gorgeous, get home okay?

Who could have imagined how sick I'd feel just seeing those words? Had I  come straight home instead of stopping at the shop, this wouldn't be an  issue. I'd have just replied, maybe said something a little naughty.  We'd go back and forth. I might even invite him over. At the very least,  I'd think about him when I went to bed, as my hands revisited the  places he just explored earlier in the day.

Now, though, I couldn't drop my phone faster if it were on fire. I feel  dirty now. The way he touched me, the things he did to me … it all meshes  together in my mind with a third image: Jax holding a gun to his wife's  chest and pulling the trigger.

I run upstairs, pulling my clothes off as I do. I crank the water to  scalding, and I jump under the spray, my skin turning deep red on  contact. I scrub myself thoroughly, wanting to remove every trace of him  from my body. I remember the way we showered together earlier today and  scrub even harder, struggling to keep from throwing up in the tub. I  can't possibly be clean enough. I'll never feel clean again.

Eventually, the water starts to run cold. Another reminder of the way we  showered together earlier. Only then I was happy-joyful, even. We used  up the hot water because we didn't want the moment to end. Could that  really have been less than twelve hours ago? It feels like a lifetime.

The walls drip with condensation from the steam that's been billowing up  from the tub for endless minutes. My skin hurts from the unforgiving  treatment I gave it. It's nearly bleeding in spots. Still I feel dirty.

I sit on the floor of the tub, arms around the legs I've drawn up to my  chest. I'm trembling, not from the now-cool water, but from the complete  heartbreak I feel.

I thought I loved him.

How many times have I taken showers like this? Maybe not scalding ones,  but ones that ended with me sitting like this? Crying, struggling to  hold back the sound so Tommy wouldn't hear me. I could never let him  know how badly he hurt with his words and hands. The shower was my only  refuge, the bathroom the only place where I was left completely alone.  I'd take three or four showers a day sometimes, just to have the time to  myself. To get away from his eyes on me, to have time to recover after  he screamed in my face, or hit me, or taunted me. I would sit in the  tub, under the shower, and quietly cry. Hoping the sound of the water  would drown me out.         

     



 

Will there ever be a time in my life when I don't feel this way?

Soon, the water is icy, stinging my raw skin like tiny knives. I can't  stay here any longer. I get up, sore all over, to turn off the shower  and climb from the tub. I wrap myself in a fluffy robe, hoping for even a  little comfort. All it does it hurt on contact. Maybe the pain is what  I'm secretly craving. I'm tearing myself apart from the inside out.

I return to the first floor, putting on the kettle for a cup of tea.  Just like I did for him. My hand lingers on the handle of the kettle for  a moment when I remember.

The phone buzzes again, still sitting on the coffee table. This time, it  keeps buzzing beyond the two that signal a text. He's calling me now.  How long do I imagine I'll be able to avoid him? I'm sure he could find  out where I live if he tries hard enough. Besides, he knows where I  work. I can't stay away forever.

I can't help but wonder if he's left other messages while I was  upstairs, so I pick up the phone against my better judgment. There are a  half dozen texts, each one sexier and more suggestive than the last. He  already misses being inside me. His cock hurts when he thinks of me. He  needs me again, soon. He wants to pull my hair again, and maybe beat my  ass the way he promised just before I left.

Imagine. It had sounded like a good idea at the time.

I drop the phone again before putting my head in my hands and curling up  in a ball on the sofa. What am I going to do? Spend the rest of my life  being sexted by a murderer?





Chapter 19

I didn't sleep well last night. Nightmares kept me tossing and turning  until I gave up entirely. I decide to go to the shop, rather than  wasting time in bed. I'm only going crazy here. My brain won't leave me  alone.

I might as well be productive if I can't sleep. I can get some baking done before customers start coming in.

There's something about the perfect silence of the shop in the early  hours. Totally dark, empty except for the display case and coffee  machines, tables and chairs. It sits quietly, waiting for people to come  in and make it bustle again.

The back rooms are even better. This is my church. Back here is where I  do much of my thinking, planning, dreaming. While I'm measuring  ingredients into the stand mixer, rolling dough on a floured table,  pouring batter into muffin tins, I might as well be meditating.  Sometimes I'm so deep in thought, I don't notice Amy trying to get my  attention.

That's why it's best for me to work at times like this, when there's no  one around to bother me. I preheat the ovens, then take stock of what  needs to be baked. Chocolate chip cookies, chocolate muffins, carrot  cake muffins, banana bread … I have my work cut out for me.

It's joy, though. I'm so lucky to enjoy my work. I turn on the radio, then sink deep into measuring and mixing.

Jax hasn't called since I went to sleep last night-or at least, when I  tried to go to sleep. I'm almost dreading the sound of the phone ringing  now. I thought once I blocked Tommy I wouldn't have to be so frightened  anymore.

The thing is, I'm not frightened, exactly. More like confused,  mistrusting, wishing I knew the whole truth. Wishing Jax had the balls  to tell me about his past. I asked him about her, for God's sake! I  flat-out asked him who she was. He didn't lie, but he wasn't completely  truthful.

Of course, would I have been completely truthful if it were me? I can't  say for sure. I can only imagine the pain Jax must feel when he thinks  about his wife. Not to mention the way people have talked about him.

I think back to the way he treated me while we were together. There  wasn't a single hint of harshness, roughness-not toward me, that is. He  wanted to kill Tommy. He still might. But not me. He was sarcastic,  argumentative, rough around the edges. But not violent.

I can't believe he'd kill his own wife.

That being said, I can't help but think about the way he threw me over  his shoulder, carrying me into the house. He was strong enough to do  just about anything to me. Marissa was a tiny little thing. Imagine what  he might have done to her when his temper was up. It's clear to me he  has a fearsome temper that he hardly manages to keep under control  sometimes.

Yes, but Marissa was shot in the chest. I might buy into the "he didn't  know his own strength" excuse if she was beaten to death. That's not the  case. I can't imagine Jax holding a gun to Marissa's chest, pulling the  trigger. I try to conjure up the image, but it doesn't come. It's too  far-fetched. It doesn't fit with the man I know.

There's no doubt about him being part of the club, however. The ink on  his chest is all the proof I need. I can't overlook that. What sort of  things has he done? Even if he didn't murder Marissa, has he ever  murdered another person? Beaten them? Stolen from them? The odds aren't  in favor of him having a clean record.

Can I handle that? Right now, no, even though I'm in a better mental  place than I was last night. I don't have the urge to scrub my skin  until it nearly bleeds. Still, I can't pretend I'm happy that he's in a  club like the Angels of Chaos. If we were together, would I have to get  to know those people? I don't know.