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CHAPTER THREE

Jigsaw

The parking lot in front of Crystal Ball is packed.

Great. The club’s actually busy tonight. Even more reason for Z to be annoyed with me. I pull around to the back of the building. This lot’s crowded too. I wedge my bike into the row of employee spots, back tire kissing the rough wall behind it.

As usual, the heavy, gray metal door’s propped open with a cinder block. Tonight it feels like it’s daring me to walk through and reunite with a past I’ve tried hard to forget.

Taking my time, I pull off my gloves and unbuckle my helmet, setting them on the seat like the ritual will steady me. My gaze sweeps the lot again. Which car or bike belongs to Cain? Is he planning to stick around? Or is this a hit-and-run where he fucks up my life, then bounces?

The parking lot won’t give me any answers.

Get your ass inside, coward!

I trudge into the back hallway. Music throbs through the building and loud, chaotic chatter filters from the dancers’ dressing room door.

The hallway’s empty for the moment. No dancers lingering backstage while they practice some last-minute dance moves tonight.

And at least it’s not amateur night when there’d be a line out the door and extra security.

The door to Z’s office is closed. I take a breath, brace myself for what’s on the other side, then punch my knuckles against the wood.

“Come in!” Z shouts.

I crank the tricky knob hard and jerk the door open.

My stomach twists into a painful knot. Z’s behind his desk and a relieved smile lifts his cheeks when his gaze lands on me.

Sitting across from Z, a young man in a black hooded sweatshirt slowly turns my way.

My heart slams as our eyes meet.

He stands and faces me. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say a word.

Neither of us seem to know what to do or say.

Cain’s not the same little kid I remember. Now, he’s taller, probably about my height. Broader, like he’s acquainted with manual labor, but thin. Dark jeans, heavy work boots, messy hair curling over his forehead, shadowed eyes.

Except for his scar-free skin, he looks like a baby-faced version of the guy I see in the mirror every morning.

It’s pretty fucking obvious we’re related.

“Well, now it looks like we have a matching set.” Z claps his hands together and stands like he’s trying to break the tension. “You can use my office.” He rests his hand on my shoulder as he passes. “Unless you want me to stay?”

I shake my head. If Cain’s here to kill me, I don’t want Z caught in the crossfire. “I got this. Thanks, Prez.”

“No problem.” His brow furrows like he’s holding back a dozen questions.

Everyone knows I have a younger sister. No one but Rooster knows about my half-brother.

Z closes the door quietly behind him, but it feels like he sealed me inside for my judgment day.

The office hums with silence between the bass beats echoing from the main room. Out in the hallway, girls shriek with laughter. Heels clack over the floor. A symphony of sound while I face a ghost from my past.

Fidgeting, he clasps his hands together, his thumb and index finger toying with the ring on his pinky. His wary eyes scan my cut, then travel to my face.

It’s strange how familiar he feels even though the last time I saw him he was a kid.

Apparently, he’s still a quiet little fucker too. I’ll have to speak first.

“Cain?” I should ask how he’s been. Or what the fuck he wants. But all the words lodge somewhere deep in my throat, too tangled up in guilt and a decade of silence.

“Jensen.” His voice is deeper than I expected. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure he likes the sound of my name in his mouth.

He holds out one hand. More of an obligation than a greeting.

I take it. Feels more awkward not to. His palm’s warm, his grip firm.

A million questions pile up in my mouth.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he says with a slow, laid-back cadence.

“You could say that.” I gesture toward the chairs in front of Z’s desk and pull one out, turning it to fully face the other one.

After a moment of hesitation, Cain settles into his chair and rests his hands on his legs.

“How’d you find me?” I ask, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.

“Wasn’t easy.”

Talking to this kid’s like yanking teeth.

Normally, I’d wait him out. Most people rush to fill the silence with chatter. Not this kid.

“How’s your mother?” I ask.

A flash of pain crosses his solemn expression. He laces his fingers together like he’s praying or trying to contain himself. “She passed away recently.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three. “How?”

Maybe that’s rude but I’m not really known for my tact.

“Ovarian cancer.” His left hand strays to his side. “She fought hard, but doctors all caught it too late.”

Poor Ruth. She didn’t deserve such a miserable, early ending.

“She made me promise to find you,” he says, voice ragged. “After she was gone.”

The finality in his tone hits harder than I’m ready for.

Fucking hell. Cain and I reuniting was Ruth’s dying wish? What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? I should’ve asked Margot to come with me. She’d know all the right words.

Cain draws in a slow, measured breath, like he’s holding onto his pain and fury with both hands.

Feels like I’m sitting next to a grenade, the pin already halfway out—and I’m the one who pulled it.

“Where were you living?” I ask.

He glances toward the door. “We moved to New Mexico, after…”

You killed my dad and kicked us out of our home.

He doesn’t say that, but my guilty conscience hears it loud and clear.

“Did you like it there?”

The first hint of humanity cracks his robotic mannerisms. “Yeah. We settled into a nice place. Mom made pottery.” He works his hands in a circle.

A fuzzy memory of Ruth flashes through my mind—her hands caked in gray sludge, laughing while Jezzie tried to spin a crooked lump of clay.

“Sold it at this gallery nearby,” he continues. “Met my stepfather there.”

So she remarried. To someone normal or another religious zealot? “Was he good to you?”

He cocks his head as if he needs to think on it, then stares me dead in the eyes. “Treated me nicer than our father did.”

Maybe he’s not here to kill me after all. “That’s a low bar.”

He scoffs. “You could say that.”

“So how’d you find me? And why come here of all places?”

He reaches into his hoodie pocket.

My body tenses and I sit up straighter in case he’s going for a weapon.

But all he pulls out is a folded-up piece of glossy paper that looks like it was torn out of a magazine.

“Mom really got to love country music after we moved.” He unfolds the paper and holds it out to me. “Big fan of Shelby Morgan.”

A smile twitches at the corners of my mouth. How about that? Rooster’s little songbird is somehow responsible for bringing my half-brother back into my life.

“She saw this in a magazine and recognized you right away.”

I take the paper and scan the page.

It’s a gossip piece from maybe two years ago when I was on tour with Shelby helping Rooster work security.

There’s a full-page picture of Shelby and Rooster wrapped around each other after one of the shows. My scary face is visible in the background to Rooster’s left. Both of our cuts with our Lost Kings MC patches on display.

Shelby Morgan parties with bikers after sold-out show.

Dex, Pants, and a few other guys that had also been on tour are also visible in the background but I’m the only one who was dumb enough to be glowering straight at the camera.

“She knew your face.” Cain taps his finger over Rooster. “And your friend. She wanted me to keep it and track you down when the time came.”

Meaning, after she died.

“Why?”

His expression hardens. “You and Jezzie are the only family I have left.” He shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Thought I’d do some traveling and look you up.”

My stomach knots at the mention of my sister. No fucking way is Cain getting near her until I can trust him.

“What about your stepfather?” I ask. What’d the guy do, toss him out after Ruth died?

“What about him?” Cain shrugs. “I said he was better than our father. I didn’t say he was great. He treated my mom good. Tolerated me.”

He rubs his hand over his chest and frowns. “She left whatever money, life insurance, and stuff to me. He wasn’t so happy about that.”

Is that his way of letting me know he’s not looking for a handout?

“That’s shitty.”

He tilts his head and levels a sarcastic stare at me. “I’m used to shitty situations.”

I snort. “Yeah, I feel that.” I mirror his pose. “You even old enough to be in this place?”

A blush creeps over his cheeks, and he stammers, “I…I didn’t really realize what kind of establishment it was until…”

“Where are you staying?” Fuck, I can’t bring him back to my place. I can’t even let him stay at our clubhouse next door. If he’s blushing about stepping foot inside a strip club, he’ll probably die at the antics that go on over there after Crystal Ball closes.

“I got a room at a hotel over by that big mall.”

I nod, knowing where he’s talking about.

He shrugs. “For a few days at least.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Rode. Took about a week.”

“You ride?” Guess we have more in common than I thought.

He nods. “Stepdad was into motocross. He taught me how to ride. Mom had picked out a Kawasaki Ninja for me for graduation.”

“Nice.” My back aches just thinking about riding the foreign sport bike that far.

The ache in my chest is worse. What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid?

“How’s Jezzie?” he asks as if he’s trying to steer the conversation back where he wants it. He frowns at the closed office door. “She doesn’t…she doesn’t work here , does she?”

“Fuck no.” What kind of asshole does he think I am? “She’s in college. Just talked me into letting her take a part-time job at a pizza shop.”

That’s not enough info for him to find Jezzie. There have to be more than two hundred colleges in New York and three times as many pizza places near a campus.

While this little family reunion’s been surprisingly non-lethal, he’s not getting near my sister, my club, or my girlfriend.

Not until I know what the fuck he’s really doing here.