Jemma opened her mouth to say no, but snapped it shut. Holy shit, in reality, she was a house mouse. She was taking care of Cage’s baby, his trailer, cleaning up, and stealing food to feed his ass. All without a dime in compensation.
She wasn’t even getting any of his apparently “good” dick. Good, at least by Angel’s standards.
“I’m just helping out temporarily,” she said weakly.
“Well, lucky you. I offered to help but he turned me down. You know... since he doesn’t have an ol’ lady yet...”
Jemma didn’t know.
“It would be like a trial run,” the “club girl,” aka sweet butt, clarified.
Oh, sure it would.
Angel scrunched up her face. “But really, I don’t think I want to become someone’s ol’ lady who already has a kid from another bitch. There are plenty of other guys around here who don’t have an ol’ lady yet and don’t have that extra baggage.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and did a dramatic shiver. “You know diapers and puke and all of that when the kid didn’t even come out of my own pussy.”
Uh. “Well, I gotta go before Dyna wakes up.”
“Who’s Dyna?”
Jemma moved to where she had pushed the stroller out of the way. Apparently, Angel couldn’t see it from where she stood. As she pointed it toward her escape, Angel squealed out a high-pitched, “O... M... G!” She practically shoved Jemma out of the way, squatted—yes, squatted in all her naked glory—in front of the stroller and booped Dyna’s nose with her finger.
If Angel woke up the baby, Jemma was going to boop her. She grabbed the woman by the shoulder—she barely resisted grabbing a fistful of her hair—and yanked her away from the stroller. “She’s sleeping,” she hissed.
“So?”
“So, if you wake her, you’re going to be the one to get her back to sleep.”
“It can’t be that hard,” Angel huffed.
Tell that to her father at three in the morning.
“Can you get the door for me?” Jemma asked with saccharine sweetness, trying to sound more civil because she didn’t need to make enemies right off the bat.
Angel swung the door outward and held it open as Jemma pushed a—luckily—still-sleeping Dyna past her.
She hooked a left.
“Hey, if Cage ever needs me to babysit...” Angel called out from the open doorway.
“I’ll let him know.” No, she wouldn’t, and she also doubted Cage would leave Dyna in Angel’s hands.
If he did, Jemma would never forgive him, even though Dyna wasn’t her daughter and she had no right to judge.
But, too bad, in this matter she was going to judge.
Jemma hesitated at the closed door to The Barn. “Hey, Angel?” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the sweet butt was still there.
“Yeah?”
“Just curious. Who are you making breakfast for?” It was actually past breakfast and heading into lunch. Maybe Angel was planning on a brunch spread, other than what was between her legs.
Jemma lifted a palm to stop the sweet butt’s answer and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter for who. All that matters is, it’s a nice gesture.”
As long as it wasn’t for her eighteen-year-old nephew.
Chapter Ten
Jemma pushed the stroller—now filled with a sleeping baby and a bunch of groceries, both hanging off the handles and stuffed underneath the seat—through church.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was nothing like the old warehouse.
Not even close.
At first glance, one wouldn’t even guess it was the clubhouse to an MC. No, it looked like a lodge—or something similar—with the center, see-through stone fireplace, the handcrafted wood bar and more.
Old green bus benches lined the walls and a couple sat in front of the fireplace. Two pool tables sat on the opposite side of the building from the bar. A couple dart boards hung on the walls. Bike parts and Harley memorabilia also decorated the space. Not garbage, but really cool shit.
However, one thing hanging on the wall near the bar caught her attention. She rolled the stroller a little closer, parked it where she could see it, and approached. On display, and lit by a small spotlight, was a Fury cut spread open so both the front and back could be seen.
The colors belonged to Crazy Pete. Stella’s father.
She reached up and brushed her fingertips over the old patches, tracing the sewn edges and the embroidered letters. Doing so felt like reaching into the past. She yanked her hand back as if that past seared her fingers.
If she remembered correctly, a cut was supposed to be buried with the member. Obviously, Pete’s hadn’t been. Though, neither had Ox’s because Judge wore their father’s, which was disturbing in itself. Judge had replaced the name patch but the rest was all original. The cut was the one Ox wore when he murdered his own brothers. And who knew who else.
A chill spiraled down Jemma’s spine.