Page 29 of Blue-Eyed Jacks (Destroyers MC: Skilletsville PA #1)

Kate

T he cleaning crew was competent. The last of them slipped out the front door, leaving the house looking showroom ready rather than the swath of empty booze bottles and destruction it had been when I woke up.

Alone .

As I checked the house, Bear let me know he’d be downstairs taking a shower. I asked where Jackson was. I got a grunt that sounded like, “Club.”

There’d been a time long ago when that word would have meant relief and I’d be celebrating.

But the difference between Shock and Jackson was too clear. I hated that word now.

A few great orgasms, and I was addicted.

Even more addicted when I discovered the refrigerator stocked, the cabinets filled with dinnerware, and, after a small pep talk, I found the pantry packed with more than bikers and blow jobs.

Zoe’s Fruit Loops were on the second shelf.

Next to them was a box of healthy stuff. I took that one down and filled a bowl with it.

The spoons were in the wrong drawer.

I pulled out the tray and slid it along the counter to the spot where they made more sense.

In that drawer was a large envelope, some junk mail, and a bundle of real estate flyers and business cards. I sorted through the mess of papers after getting the silverware squared away.

It took a moment to find the trash can, but the circulars and junk mail went into it.

I almost dropped the envelope in it, but stopped when I saw my name scratched onto it.

Bikers. Not one of them had good handwriting.

I opened it, thinking it was something for the house, or maybe Jackson had talked to his lawyer already.

But it was photos.

My first reaction was to run. To deny what I already knew.

I flipped the envelope over and glared at the four letters of my name.

That was Shock’s handwriting.

It was the same handwriting that was on my marriage certificate. My father’s was in the spots I was supposed to fill out.

He’d found this house. Run!

I stared at the envelope. Then I looked out the windows to the backyard. The post Jackson climbed last night. The slab of concrete where the keg had been. The grass where Sprout landed.

Then my gaze shifted to the pantry door. Hookers. And Fruit Loops.

I had memories here. Barely a dozen hours of living, and there were already roots in the soil.

At that, I got angry. “Let’s see what kind of fuckery you’ve got for me, asshole.” I tugged out the stack. It was thick. Photos of all shapes and sizes, both color and black and white, spilled onto the countertop. I spread them out, bracing for images of me at my worst.

Instead, it was Jackson.

And women.

Every single photo held him in various compromising positions. Rarely with the same woman twice.

I flipped through them.

Two on one. Three. Well .

Some photos were recent. Some of a much younger Jackson. In those, he was more like the man I remembered than the one now.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads, Caucasian, Black, Hispanic; he certainly didn’t have a favorite flavor. I forced myself to look at each one. Shock would want that.

This display, this archive of sin, wasn’t about Jackson at all. It illustrated how long Shock suspected I had help. It was intended to split Jackson and me apart.

Funny, if he’d have just let me live in peace, none of the last few days would have happened.

I wouldn’t have walked in on Baldy getting a blow job. Zoe would have her summer job. Jackson would still be fucking hookers.

One photo stood out. Whoever captured it caught it right as he orgasmed. The open-mouthed gasp at its apex. But there was something missing. I’d witnessed two of these recently. And in my memories, there were almost a dozen more. Each time, he locked eyes with me.

Even when it was almost impossible to do.

None of these women got that. His gaze was always distant, focused elsewhere. In some, his face was stuck in that angry but stoic mask he slipped on when he pretended to listen to some fool’s problems.

Was it strange that I knew Jackson better than Shock did?

Bear’s heavy footfalls tromped up the basement stairs. I shoved the photos back into the envelope. The job was too massive to rush, so Bear caught the end of it.

“What’s that?”

Should I lie? I opted for the truth or a facsimile. “A present from Shock.”

He rushed to the kitchen island where I stood. Water dripped from his hair. It was usually braided from hairline to neck. The sides were shaved to show off his skull tattoos. But with it down, he almost looked normal…for a six-foot-two-inch biker with too many piercings.

I grabbed a towel and handed it to him so he wouldn’t get the photos wet. “They’re photos.”

“I can see that,” he said.

“Of Jackson,” I added.

His hands stilled. One photo peeked out, frozen in time. In that one, Jackson glared at the camera.

That must be his “I’m going to kill you face.” I didn’t like it much.

I tapped that photograph. “He knew this one was taken.”

Bear’s eyes dipped to it. “Motherfucker. That party was club b…”

I stared at him, daring him to finish.

Instead, he stuffed the photo back in, bending it.

I took the envelope from him and straightened things out so it would close. “Take this, hide it somewhere Zoe will never find it.”

His lips whitened. It was the only sign I’d gotten my point across.

Then he nodded.

I handed him the envelope. He went to his coat and fiddled with the lining, making the entire package disappear neatly.

“Do you want some Fruit Loops? They’re Zoe’s favorite.

” Jackson was right. I had help. His men were rough, capable, but also competent.

Bear being an exemplar in that respect. More importantly, Jackson was smart to begin adhering us to his men.

Even if Bear thought I was a bitch, or an ice queen, he’d warm up to Zoe.

I’d make certain that happened. Because Shock was too invested in me to let things go easily.

Those photos proved that without any doubt.

“Can we talk about that?”

“Nope.”

“Kate—”

“Zoe will be up soon, no.” I locked eyes with him. No sooner than I did, the telltale sounds of Zoe sliding her feet down the steps proved me right.

I smiled. She did that in the house in Maine because the stairs were so uneven, it helped to keep her upright. I couldn’t begin to count how many times she or I slipped on those damn things.

“Morning, Zoe.”

Bear leaned in. “We’re going to have to move you.”

“After breakfast.” I held up the box.

He shook his head. I’m not sure if it was passing on the cereal or at my lame attempt to keep control over a situation that could quite literally blow up in my face.

But Shock wouldn’t do something that extreme. He’d proven through his obsessive documentation that he wanted me alive to torture. That meant whoever was near me was safe, at least from explosives, or random splatters of gunfire, or any number of ways someone could die.

“When did you get cereal?” Zoe’s mumble made me smile.

“Your father arranged it.”

She stared at the bowls, the box, and eventually the clean house. “No shit?”

“Zoe…” Her language was not improving being around all these bikers.

“I mean, really ?”

There was the sarcastic teenager I loved. “Really,” I said.

She curled into a chair and ate a few bites before looking around the house again. “Someone cleaned. I could get used to this.”

“Don’t.” It came out too quickly. I backpedaled. “I mean, I’ll still find ways to make you clean up after yourself, so…”

The stabbing urge to run was back. Bear was absolutely right. If Shock found this place, all he needed to do was catch a glimpse of Zoe through the windows and—

My thoughts spiraled into at least a dozen different directions and new fears built up. All of them reminded me of Zoe’s vulnerability. I needed to get her somewhere safer. “After you get done eating, we’re going to go with Bear.”

“Where?”

Bear furiously texted on his phone. He glanced up, acknowledging my hesitation. “Sprout’s. He’s got a lake house.”

“Cool. Lily told me about that place. She and Poppy are building a house next door. It’s right on the lake, and it has a boat dock, and a deck that runs the entire back of the house. There’s sculpture and art, and it sounds amazing.”

I glanced at Bear. The corner of his mouth twisted up. Under his breath, he mumbled, “She ain’t building it, Smoke is. That poor dumb bastard.” He completely missed my glare. How would Zoe clean up her language around these…

Assholes was the word that floated to the front of the description list, but I decided that word would be relegated to Shock, permanently.

I packed Zoe’s bag and my own. Much of what we had fit into two duffles that had somehow gotten lighter since we started running.

As I finished, I scanned her showroom-worthy bedroom and noticed some sketches scribbled on the blank backs of real estate flyers.

On each was a combo of either Poppy and Zoe, or Lily and Zoe.

Whoever did them was amazingly talented.

I brought them downstairs to ask Zoe about them.

We couldn’t afford to leave clues behind like this.

Halfway down the stairs, I paused.

My whole life since leaving Shock centered around leaving no evidence. No trace that I’d lived in a place. Limiting my and Zoe’s footprint so it could easily be erased.

The tragedy of it all struck me in the center of the chest.

This wouldn’t stand.

I was going to start changing things, starting with trusting my daughter and Jackson. We were going to live in the wide open once things were settled with Shock. I had zero idea how this would work, but we weren’t going to live in fear anymore.

But I was still curious about who drew the pictures.

I set them down by Zoe.

She looked up from the last dregs of her bowl and frowned. “Sorry, Mom. I know how you are about leaving stuff like this around.” She went to grab them, but I stopped her.

“It’s okay.”

“Really? You sure?”

“I…” I wasn’t. But that was my problem. “I want you to not worry about stuff like that anymore. I want us to be free. And, I kind of want to know who drew these. They’re really good.”

Zoe took another sip of milk before answering. “That’s Lily’s work.”

Bear leaned over to look. “She’s been doing some flash for the tattoo shop but I didn’t know she did portrait work. Damn. I’m going to have to hire her on full-time for this shit. Those are fucking kick ass.”

“Language.” It came out automatically, and I pretended I hadn’t flinched.

Bear was a very large man with visible tattoos from knuckle to skull.

If you saw him from a distance, you’d think he had hair covering his entire head because the ink pattern fit his natural hairline. Shock had a man like that.

“Whoops, sorry. I’m not used to kids.”

“I’m not a kid,” Zoe fired back.

Bear checked my expression. I tried not to roll my eyes, giving Zoe the benefit of argument.

“Apologies, again. Young ladies.”

“Ugh. That sounds worse.” Zoe took her empty bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. “Whoa, this place has a dishwasher? Mom, we can’t ever leave here.”

Another pang. “Your father is trying to make that happen.” Trying too hard if you asked me.

She zipped the drawings up in her bag and set it by the door. “Ready.”

Bear looked at the bags, then at us. “Why you bringing that shit?”

Zoe and I shared a sigh. I answered. “Because in the last month we’ve learned to always carry our bug-out bags.” For Bear’s sake, I tacked on, “We can leave them here.”

He shook his head. “Nope, take ‘em with. Better to not need them than the other way around. It never hurts to be prepared.”

We weren’t the only ones with that thought. Gina met us at the lake house.

And it was more of a modern mansion than a house. It sprawled at the end of a long private driveway. Only the top story was in view as we pulled up in front of the massive four-car garage.

Even with that many bays, there were three trucks and an SUV crowding the circle. Bear pointed out one of the vehicles.

“That’s Kid’s. Looks like we have company.”

I didn’t know this person. Before he parked, I set a hand on his arm. “This company, are they safe?”

He scanned the cars. “Yup. No van. That means Boots isn’t here. That idiot isn’t fucking safe at all. Hopefully, Kid brought his wife with. That woman can cook.” For a man who didn’t smile much, the prospect of food lit him right up. It transformed him into a completely different person.

He grunted as he got out and carried both of our bags into the house.

The entrance was designed to awe. No sooner than we cleared the hand-carved double doors, the house split right and left, leaving you staring at a glass-walled sculpture garden.

Beyond that was the deck and the lake. It was beautiful.

I couldn’t imagine walking into a home like this every day.

“Yo, fucker, what the hell took you so long? Jackson’s waiting for us. We’re getting company, so you gotta get to the club, pronto.” Sprout greeted Bear with a slap and grabbed one of the bags. “What’s with this?”

“Overnight bags,” Bear explained. “You know how these things get.”

Sprout groaned. “As long as it’s stays small. I want none of those dickheads from up north or fucking Pittsburgh here.” His eyes landed on Zoe and me. “Welcome to the mad house. You’re both getting fitted for handguns. Ma wants you on the range.”

“Guns?” Zoe sounded too excited.

“No.”

Sprout overruled me. “No can do, boss-lady. Jackson gave Ma the green light. So, suck it up.”

“Cool!” Zoe cheered, then tore off to find Gina.

No, it wasn’t. The swearing was bad enough, but teaching my baby how to kill things? Nothing good would come from that.

“It’ll be fun.” Sprout extended a hand.

I didn’t take it. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last night?”

“Hell no.”

Great. The madhouse was run by the inmates.