And then, since that night in the alley, since Caroline had been in his room, even when she was locked in there, he was fuller. With anger. Regret. Self-hatred. And then a bitter kind of joy. A depraved form of longing.
The night he sank back into her, the night he slept in her arms and every night after that more of that bitter joy that turned sweeter. The longing only got more depraved. And love. Fuck if he sounded like a chick even thinking this shit, but he didn’t care. He fell in love with the new version of Caroline. The hard version.
He loved her more than who she was before. Because if she’d turned up at the club, exactly how she’d been when he left her, he wouldn’t have been able to love her like he did now. He wouldn’t have been able to have been around her, tainting her. It was a selfish and ugly thought to know what she’d been through and be glad about it. Glad because it made him able to stomach himself when he was around her. Made him be able to swallow good intentions that would’ve had him walking away from her. He wasn’t able to convince himself that he was gonna break her because she was already broken.
Then there was now. Without her.
Without brothers.
They’d won the war.
He didn’t feel victorious.
He glanced up from his whisky cup when he sensed movement. Hansen sat beside him. Poured himself a drink.
Fucker should have a weight off his shoulders now the threat was gone. But he carried more than the weight of a threat. He carried with him coffins and skeletons. It was a job that Jagger did not envy, nor aspire to. Hansen did it well. Because he knew when to turn off. And he had a good woman to go home to. A woman to warm him up when this life got too cold.
Jagger was so cold that he didn’t even remember warmth. Hence the whisky.
He expected Hansen to start on him immediately. His behavior hadn’t exactly been great, even in outlaw terms. The scabs on his knuckles were evidence of that. He’d beaten two drug dealers nearly to death two days ago for dealing within town limits. Drug dealers who were part of a lower level street gang in the next town over. Could’ve started a beef.
Had the Sons of Templar not just eradicated one of the most notorious criminals in the world. Not that another wasn’t gonna pop up in his place. Another probably had. There was no such thing as destroying evil. It was infinite.
But whoever this new flesh peddler was gonna be wasn’t likely to have a beef with the club that put him on top.
So they were back to the regular.
Running guns. Taking on contracts for hits, when the occasion arrived. Collecting debt sheets. Protection.
Just another day at the office.
And that’s what it was gonna be until he died.
If she hadn’t come, he would’ve been content with that. Fuck, he might’ve been able to sort his shit out, get an Old Lady. Have some form of life, only remembering the one he left behind—the ones he left behind—in dark hours and empty bottles.
But now? Fuck no. He’d had a taste of something. He was forced to confront what he’d done. That knowledge would haunt him. Guarantee he’d never have that kind of life.
“Have somewhat of a superpower when it comes to people in general,” Hansen said after finishing his first glass. Jagger had downed three in the same space of time.
He glanced to Hansen, who was contemplating his glass. “Can tell if they live by their word. Especially ‘cause I’m most often the reason if they die by it, if it’s not authentic. Knew the second I heard that woman’s story she was true to her word. Knew she was no threat to the club.”
Jagger gaped at him. “Why the fuck did you make her stay?”
Hansen shrugged. “Guess I’m a romantic at heart. Guess that story fucked with me. Guess I just wanted my best friend to have a little of what I had.” He paused. “I really thought she would’ve stayed.”
Jagger squeezed his glass hard enough for a crack to appear down the side. Then he released it. “Yeah, me too.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Caroline
I wrote the story.
Not the one that Emily wanted.
Not the one I had intended on writing going in.
Though none of my stories ever ended up how I intended.
Emily was pissed at the start, until I gave her the piece on Miguel Fernandez I’d written from what I’d heard from club members, from Rosie, from various sources, victims.
And then she was happy.
Yes, Emily was happy to hear about one of the most disgusting human beings to walk the planet, to read about his sins, in detail. Because apparently, that was going to be a better movie.