Page 18 of Blackbeard (Blackjacks MC #2)

Chapter eleven

Blackbeard

For the next two weeks, Leigh stayed at home and rested, regaining her strength, little by little.

Somehow, Abuela heard through the grapevine that Leigh wasn’t feeling well—whether she figured out it was a gunshot wound, and not the flu or a stomach bug, I couldn’t tell—and stopped by with a giant container of soup, plying her with cup after cup of Mexican hot chocolate.

On more than occasion, I returned home to find Abuela and Leigh in the living room, laughing and chattering like school girls.

I should have felt some nagging concern that Leigh was ingratiating herself so easily and smoothly into the lives of my family. Especially when things with the Forsaken seemed to be even more volatile than ever before after Popeye barged into my home, blustering about breaking our contract.

But I couldn’t be here around the clock to keep Leigh company. I got the sense that she was listless and bored on her own, all day long. Abuela’s presence gave Leigh something to look forward to, and I was grateful for it.

Apart from that night when Leigh asked me to stay, I didn’t sleep in the same bed with her again. Not because I didn’t trust her.

I didn’t trust myself.

Even though she’d fallen asleep right away, I had remained wide awake, hour after hour. The steady rhythm of her breathing, the softness of her skin beneath my hands, and the scent of her in my lungs made me start to question…had I been too harsh with her all this time?

Leigh was always alert, scanning every word of every conversation. Prepared to fire off a devastating quip that could be anything from salacious flirtation to scathing sarcasm.

But holding Leigh that night while she slept, wrapped up in my arms, it made me realize how young she truly was. Fragile, too, as my fingers skated over the bandage at her side.

When she was awake, Leigh was vibrant, dynamic, with a larger than life attitude that rendered her a force to be reckoned with.

Until that bullet grazed her. Until she fell to the pavement, blood spilling between her fingers.

Her facade had cracked just a little. Just enough to glimpse the real woman underneath the bravado she wore to survive in a world that would have snuffed her out if she didn’t learn how to fight back.

No, I couldn’t share the same bed with Leigh. Not again. Not when I felt myself slipping and I didn’t know if I was strong enough to pull myself back to safety.

“Hire me,” Leigh declared.

She slapped a piece of paper on the table next to me, displaying a printout of a help wanted ad. The same ad that the Blackjacks had plastered on every job board and in every newspaper throughout Brightwater.

I choked on my early dinner, wolfing it down as fast as possible. Abuela’s heating unit went out last night, so I spent all morning fixing that. Then I got cornered by half a dozen cousins, peppering me with questions about my new wife.

On top of that, it was my turn to tend the bar at the clubhouse tonight, and I was running late already.

I could cop out and push it onto Crash, but I hated shirking my responsibility in the club unless it was an emergency.

As VP, I didn’t earn my position by foisting the work onto someone else when I didn’t feel like doing it, and I wouldn’t make a habit of it now.

“You're serious?" I replied.

Leigh’s eyebrows flicked upward. I shook my head.

“You need to stay off your feet.”

She gave a dramatic groan.

“ Come on . Just a few days ago, you said that I was getting color back in my cheeks, I have a good appetite, and my bandages don’t even need to be changed that often anymore. I’m practically good as new.”

I shot her a skeptical look. Pleading flickered in her eyes.

She had ditched her usual skin-tight attire for loose, breezy clothes lately—high-waisted mom jeans, an oversized ZZ Top T-shirt, and a light pink cardigan.

Her nails were no longer painted that glossy, bloodthirsty red either, opting instead for a nude, peachy color.

She looked…softer. That bullet had knocked her down a peg.

I scraped my plate clean and deposited my dishes in the sink. Then I scrubbed a hand over my mouth, weighing her proposal.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Leigh tipped her head back and blew out a breath.

“God, yes. I’ve been binge watching cheesy soap operas for days, and I can’t do it anymore. My head will explode, I swear. Please, give me something to do.”

I picked up the help wanted ad, studying it. We’d been trying to fill the position for months. Tending a biker bar wasn’t for the faint of heart, and many of our new hires bailed after working one or two shifts, never to be seen or heard from again.

For now, we were rotating through Blackjacks, making sure someone was always there to serve drinks, but it was a temporary solution, and patience was wearing thin. It didn’t fix the problem.

“Crash would be there,” I pointed out.

Leigh balked for a moment, but she held firm.

“I think we’ve both learned our lesson. He doesn’t worry me.”

I snorted. Liar.

Would the Blackjacks tolerate Leigh behind their bar, touching their alcohol? Would they trust a drink that was served by her?

No, probably not.

On the other hand, we couldn’t ice out Leigh forever, just because of her roots among the Forsaken.

“Technically, it’s not my decision to make,” I replied. “New hires get a trial run. We need to see how you get along with customers, with the club. We need to see if you can mix a decent drink. After that trial run, we put it to a vote.”

And who in their right mind would vote to bring Leigh into our clubhouse as a permanent bartender among the Blackjacks when they bristled every time they saw her?

“Are you trying to scare me off?” Leigh countered.

“Just preparing you for what you’re getting into, that’s all.”

“Then let me give it a try.”

“Fine,” I relented. Her boredom might make her do something desperate. At least having Leigh at the clubhouse meant I could make sure she didn’t re-injure herself. “But only for a few hours, max. Then I’m bringing you straight home and you’re going to bed.”

Leigh beamed.

“Yes, Doctor. Whatever you say.”

I rolled my eyes and huffed a laugh at that spark of her old self coming back.

Fifteen minutes later, Leigh and I pulled up to the clubhouse.

I’d sent a text to Kingpin ahead of time as a precaution, fully recognizing the hypocrisy of that move.

Two weeks ago, I butted heads with him about it—arguing in Leigh’s favor that her presence didn’t need to come with a warning when I was married to her.

But Crash’s actions had changed my mind. I had no desire to repeat that hellish nightmare.

A rigid silence greeted us when we entered the room. They knew Leigh was coming and they didn’t like it. Scattered among the tables and booths were a few locals, indicating that the evening crowd would be filling up the place shortly.

Crash was nowhere in sight.

I cleared my throat and addressed the room.

“There’s a new bartender on trial. Leigh is covering my shift tonight.”

Baby Doll raised her eyebrows from her position next to the pool table, waiting her turn. Credence lined up his pool cue and sent a ball careening into a corner pocket.

“And what happens when she poisons us all?”

“If I was going to poison anyone,” Leigh countered. “I would have started with my husband, who happens to be the easiest target since we live under the same roof. But he’s still alive and kicking, so I’d say you’re safe. For now. Depending on your attitude, I might change my mind.”

Without waiting for anyone else to voice their objections, Leigh stepped behind the bar and busied herself getting acquainted with the layout. I took a seat at a table on the opposite side of the room—far enough away that I could watch her without appearing like I was hovering.

At first, the Blackjacks glanced among themselves. Who would be the first one to break the ice and approach the bar, asking the daughter of a Forsaken to pour them a drink?

It couldn’t be me. I was pushing my luck already by wedging Leigh into the Blackjacks when they weren’t thrilled about it.

I caught Baby Doll’s eye and tilted my head toward the bar. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head slightly.

In the end, Leigh was the one to make the first move. She marched across the room and placed a glass in front of Big G where he was engrossed in a game of backgammon with Vlad.

Big G glanced up in surprise.

“What’s this?”

“You look like a man who appreciates a good bourbon on the rocks,” Leigh replied. “I added a little twist of my own, with a hint of ginger and a squeeze of lemon. Punches up the smoky flavor in the bourbon.”

Big G wrapped his fingers around the glass slowly, not fully convinced. Leigh waited. He took a sip.

It seemed as if everyone in the room held their breath, awaiting his response.

Big G gave a wheezing cough.

“Goddamn, woman. That’s good . Kicks like a mule.”

Leigh smiled, pleased with herself, and returned to her position behind the bar. Spike tore his attention away from the club bunny snuggled under his arm and raised one hand to flag Leigh.

“Can we get two whiskies over here, sweetheart?”

Leigh’s momentum snowballed after that, staying on the move as she served one drink after another late into the night.

Fatigue had to be getting to her as we neared midnight, but her charisma never wavered. Even when Credence regarded her with a clipped response, or Vlad seemed standoffish, Leigh maintained her upbeat demeanor, chatting with anyone who was willing to talk.

Big G slid into the booth across from me with a sigh and gestured at Leigh.

“She’s a sharp one. You’ve got your hands full.”

I breathed a faint laugh.

“That’s the understatement of the century, brother. Where’s Crash and Kingpin? I haven’t seen them tonight.”

Big G waved me off.

“Kingpin took Crash home to have dinner with Hattie. He wants things to simmer down before we put Leigh and Crash in the same room together again.”

“Makes sense,” I admitted. “Although a private dinner with the Prez and his Old Lady seems to counteract his punishment for taking a shot at Leigh in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, Crash needs to know we’re still on his side. He’s feeling a little outnumbered these days.”

My gaze strayed to Leigh behind the counter. For the first time all night, she didn’t have drinks to serve. She fidgeted in place, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. Every seat at the bar was full, nearly every table and booth occupied.

But Leigh wasn’t working the room anymore.

Instead, she looked…lost.

God, this was so fucking complicated.

Signing that contract with the Forsaken was supposed to bring peace. Things should have settled down. But now, the Blackjacks were straining at the seams, threatening to fly apart.

To put it mildly, my club didn’t trust the woman I was married to. They resented her, and maybe even downright hated her because of her connection to the Forsaken.

Crash felt abandoned. Desperate to be heard, he had acted out against Leigh. Under normal circumstances, he was lucky to be alive. Attempting to kill your brother’s wife was an unforgivable offense.

Was it a mistake to marry her? Should we void the contract and endure the war that would ensue, knowing it might decimate us completely? Was it better to fight against the Forsaken instead of fighting amongst ourselves?

I didn’t have an answer either way.

Leigh was my wife. My signature was on that contract next to hers.

And I was the Vice President—second in command, a leader who was supposed to have his shit together in order to keep the club running smoothly.

But at this rate, it felt like I was watching the Blackjacks fall apart in slow motion. Piece by piece.