Page 30 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Ginny

I pull up in front of Dom and Bronte’s small house just before ten.

As soon as she opens the door and steps out, shadows outlining her soft brown eyes, arms wrapped around a soft fuzzy sweater and a billowing floral dress, I guess that someone from the club called here as soon as I left.

We have a thousand things to talk about and catch up on, but all she does is open her arms and let me step into them.

Bronte’s a few inches taller than me, but at the moment, it feels like at least a foot.

Her arms are strong and somehow wiser and older, like our mother’s.

Maybe it’s just my brain and my chest, all my hormones, and my heart worked into a state, but I have to turn my face so that the tears I can’t hold back don’t start leaking all over her neck.

I let them dribble onto her sweater instead.

She makes a noise in her throat, and I know that’s the only lecture that I’m going to get from her tonight.

Bronte told me not to get involved with someone from the club.

She specifically warned me to stay away from Jack.

At the same time, she knew that I wouldn’t, so she decided she was going to let me live my life as an adult instead of “mother henning” me to death.

She has never, and will never, tell me that she told me this would end in disaster.

To her credit, she does her best to wipe any traces of judgment and worry away as she wraps an arm around my shoulders and ushers me through the door.

I blink into the soft light of her living room.

She and Dom rent this house from someone at the club.

The guy who helped Dom and eventually led to his prospecting there—Dravin and his girlfriend—were here first, but they bought a house together and when this one came free, it was just right for my sister’s little family.

“Where’s Dominic?” I ask, gulping in a shaky breath and wiping my wet cheeks with the back of my hand.

“He went to the clubhouse for a bit.”

“Oh my god!” I wheel around and head straight for the door, but Bronte stops me, grasping my upper arms from behind.

“It’s not to do anything to Decay, I promise.

Dom’s not like that. He’s not all let’s get justice and kick everyone’s ass.

He was upset when Tyrant called and said you were leaving the clubhouse as a heads up, because he was worried about you and wanted to make sure you got here safely.

He felt responsible for not seeing you out, but Dom could tell something was wrong. ”

I hang my head, guilt creeping up into my throat like more stomach acid. “I’m sorry that I went there and caused drama. I didn’t mean to.”

Bronte sighs. “I know. Dom knows. He just went to talk to Tyrant and hang out with Dravin and Wizard. They’re doing some kind of upgrade with the security at the clubhouse.”

“He’s not going to talk to Zeppelin?”

“I don’t know. If he sees him, maybe, but it won’t be anything accusatory.

You know Dom. He’s the sweetest man in the world.

He’s got a great sense of what should be kept private.

At this point, I think he knows that you can handle yourself.

He’s not going to interfere. He knows that things aren’t always smooth.

You supported me when it was the worst for us.

He’s always going to remember that. He knows that we’re both strong women.

If he ever found out that Decay laid a hand on you, my god, he’d be swift to go over there and get justice if it killed him, but—”

“No!” I twist away from Bronte, half frantic. “No, he’d never do that, it’s not like that!”

She blinks. “I know. I was just saying.” She points to their leather couch along the corner of the small room. “Sit. Let me make us some tea. While I’m doing that, just breathe.” Her eyes track straight to my stomach.

Right. Stress isn’t good for the baby. It’s not good for anyone, period.

I slump down on the couch, drawing my legs up under me.

The house is so small that Bronte is only twenty feet away even when she’s in the kitchen assembling a few mugs of peppermint tea.

Great for upset stomachs and for upset nerves.

That’s something my mom used to say, but I think it’s more the ritual than the herbs that help with the latter.

Maybe not. I’m not a scientist and I’ve never looked it up.

Bronte lights a jar candle that she keeps on the table. The soft scent of vanilla wafts outwards, mingling with the pungent mint as steam curls from the mugs she just set down on each end of the coffee table.

She tucks her legs under her and says nothing.

She’s very much like our mom that way. She has great patience and she’s an amazing listener.

She’s peaceful and serene just about all the time.

Some people might mistake that for meekness, but what a mistake that would be.

My sister has an iron core. She’s one of the toughest, strongest people I’ve ever met.

My niece couldn’t have a better mother guiding her through life.

She’s way too young to figure that out now, but one day, she’ll know it like I do.

My hand moves to my stomach before I can stop it.

I rest it there, over the flat nothing. I can’t feel the baby yet.

If I wasn’t so sick, if my boobs didn’t ache and I wasn’t constantly battling being exhausted, I wouldn’t even believe that there’s even a life growing inside of me.

This is the first time I’ve touched myself like this, the way I see pregnant women do all the time, almost as though they’re seeking comfort in that little extra hold they’re offering to the miracle inside of them that only they know.

“What’s going on?” Bronte whispers finally, her eyes wide and heavy with emotion, imploring, trying to understand.

The tea needs time to cool. I suck air into my lungs, in and out, in and out, and then I tell her everything.

I start right from when I began seeing Jack.

The texts. The times we hooked up. His death.

The night of his celebration of life at the clubhouse.

How Zeppelin basically inserted himself into my life.

How I quickly stopped hating that he did.

I tell her about the house and the renovations, about the storm and the cellar, about how Zeppelin cared for me as tenderly as Dom might have for Bronte if she was sick.

Like a friend and a lover would, and not at all like an overgrown asshole manchild.

I even tell her about tonight—leaving out a few key details—then I tell her that I must have done something, because suddenly he changed and withdrew.

She sits quietly, the steam curling up and up right in front of us, the three wicks on the candles guttering with some of the words I speak too forcefully, or when I sigh too loudly.

“I drove around for a while, going over and over it,” I admit, my voice hardly sounding like my own, it’s so heavy with despair and confusion. “I still don’t get it.”

Bronte picks up her tea, so I do too. It’s cool enough now to sip and to rest against my thigh and curl my hand around. “But you want to fix this.”

It’s not really a question even though she words it like one.

“You don’t want me to,” I say too sharply, waspish for no reason at all except that I’m close to tears even though I’m sick of crying.

My hormones are frayed. My nerves are frayed.

My emotions are all over the place. I’m not used to this.

I don’t like it. “I can tell you don’t want me to,” I say, but it’s more like an apology of sorts.

“My wanting or not wanting you to do something has no bearing on anything. It’s what you want. I’m just cautious.” Surprised, astounded, worried. She could supply any of those words.

“We’re just friends.” Why does it sound all wrong to say that?

Every single time, in the past, it’s been true for me, but this is the only time it’s felt fundamentally wrong.

“Two hurting people, two lonely people, two people who were scared and uncertain coming together. It wasn’t just sex.

For the first time, it wasn’t for me. We didn’t snuggle after, but we did share a bed.

Out of necessity. It was nice though, having him close.

” I don’t mean to say half of that out loud, but I do.

Bronte churns that over. The room lapses into silence.

The house is so quiet. I’m used to sleeping right next to Bronte and Ellie, but that was already months and months ago.

She’d been sleeping through the night for ages, but she was always a noisy sleeper.

It’s almost strange not to hear her rolling around upstairs at all.

If Bronte’s not worried, then I’m not. I should remember to whisper, though. Ellie might be a year and a half old, but that doesn’t mean that getting her to sleep is easy. I’d love to spend time with her, but not at the sake of my sister’s sanity.

“That doesn’t sound like the Decay we all know.”

“He’s dropping that name.” My voice is too sharp again. Too loud, even though I just told myself to be quiet. I have to admit that there’s more than a little bit of a protective bite to it. It’s so obvious that Bronte leans back in the couch, clearly taken aback.

“Sorry,” she responds in all sincerity. “That does make sense. With what happened. It’s morbid and no one needs the reminder.”