Page 34 of Jett

RAINE

ITAKE TWO BOTTLESof water from the bar fridge and a handful of snacks and head outside. Crazy and Killer may be in the doghouse with their Prez for a while yet, but that doesn’t mean they have to die of starvation while they carry out the insurmountable list of tasks Jett left for them.

I cross the empty lot and wave to Crazy, who’s hosing the concrete of the compound with a Gerni. He’s been at it now for more than an hour, and it doesn’t look any cleaner than it did when he first started. Still it makes a nice change from seeing him flick his Zippo lighter all day.

He switches the machine off and faces me. “Whatcha doin’ out here, wifey number two?”

I frown and attempt to ease the crease between my brow. “Wifey number two?”

“Yeah. You’re like Jett’s old lady two-point-o.”

I laugh without humour. “Er ... no, I’m not—”

“Well, not legally anyway. But you’re a much better fit for Prez than that evil sea witch.”

“That sea witch is currently being held prisoner, so maybe you could have a little heart.”

Crazy smiles and bangs his chest. “I have heart. I’d like to see her buried in a shallow grave so Prez can finally be happy.”

“Crazy, bite your tongue.”

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

I sigh and thrust the snacks toward him. “Here, I thought you and Killer could use a break.”

He leans forward and kisses my cheek, snatching up two packs of chips and the water I offered. “See? Way better old lady than Mia. If things don’t work out with you and Jett, or you and Grim, can I be next?”

I have absolutely nothing to say to that. I doubt I could even form words at this stage, so I just shake my head and make my way over to Killer in the security booth. I open the door, and wish I hadn’t.

Feminine cries come from the phone in his right hand; the other hand is busy pleasuring himself.

“Oh my God!”

“Oh, shit!” He tries to cover himself but instead drops his phone and falls off the chair. With a groan, he sits up. Killer grabs the desk for support and knocks the tub of Vaseline from the counter. His crutches clatter to the floor beside him. “Shit.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t ... I should have knocked.” I blush from the soles of my feet right to the roots of my hair, and set the snacks on the counter. I bend and pick up the crutches, holding them steady. I offer him a hand and slowly we pull him to his feet.

“No,” Killer says, tucking himself back inside his jeans as he balances on one leg—his other is badly bruised from the accident, and he’s a little banged up all over, but he’s lucky to be alive. I avert my eyes. “It’s er ... it’s my bad. I should have locked the door.”

Desperate for a subject change, I bend to pick up his phone, which is still playing a very loud pornographic scene of a girl pleasuring herself with what looks to be birthday cake. I cringe.

“Naughty, naughty, Killer,” the girl says. “You know friends are extra.”

My eyes turn wide as saucers. “Oh my God. Is that ... is she ... live?”

“Yep,” Killer says. “Sorry, Cherrie. Mum’s home—gotta cut this short.”