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That simple act sends a jolt of electricity through me, grounding me in the moment.
“Thanks for coming so fast after the attack. I’d probably be dead if you guys didn’t come that fast.” she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the road ahead but her thoughts clearly somewhere else.
“We weren’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you, babe.” I reply, tightening my grip on the wheel.
The road blurs slightly as I focus on the sensation of her touch.
It’s been a hell of a week, and this—her—is the first thing that’s felt right.
“It feels good to be out of there,” she admits, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
“Yeah. No one likes to be in the damn hospital.” I say, my mind flashing back to the sterile walls and the smell of antiseptic. “Bein’ back home will be so much better for ya.”
“Hope so,” she says, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
“Trust me,” I tell her, trying to inject confidence into my words. “You’ll be happier at home.”
She shifts in her seat, her body language easing up a bit. “It’s weird, you know? Being in the hospital, feeling like you’re stuck on pause while everyone else keeps moving. I hate not being able to do anything, and being told I need to sit down and heal is just damn frustrating.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I say, glancing at her. Her chocolate brown hair spills over her shoulders, catching the last light of the day. “But you’re out now. Everything is going to get back to normal soon enough, I promise.”
“Yeah, I really hope so.” she echoes, a small smile playing on her lips.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few more miles, the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the tires on asphalt our only soundtrack.
Her hand stays on mine, a silent promise that we're in this mess side by side.
“You’re excited to be comin’ home though, right?” I ask, breaking the silence as we turn onto the dirt road leading to the clubhouse.
The headlights carve through the dusk, illuminating the path ahead.
“Yeah, but . . . things feel off,” Jordyn says, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers tighten around mine. “If I’m being completely honest, I’m afraid Blake’s gonna pop back up at Tart whenever I start working again.”
God, I can only imagine how afraid she is.
“Blake’s not gonna get near you, babe,” I assure her, gripping the wheel tighter with my free hand. “The club’s got your back. We’re making sure there’s always someone there with you now. Not just Tara anymore. After what happened to her—” My jaw clenches at the thought of Boomer trying to kill Tara.
“That makes me feel a little bit better,” Jordyn admits, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Having someone there all the time will calm me down a bit.”
“I figured,” I say, glancing at her. “You’re gonna feel safe as hell, babe.”
Her eyes meet mine, filled with a mix of gratitude and lingering fear. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me for jack shit, babe.” I reply, squeezing her hand gently.
“Jordyn, I’m curious,” I start, keeping my eyes fixed ahead. “Ever think about what you wanna do? Like, for real? With your life? You wanna work at Tart full time, or is there somethin’ else you’d rather do?”
She shifts beside me, her grip tightening slightly. “I don’t know, Bama. Tart’s just . . . always been there. I think I feel safe there, it’s comfortable, all of that,” Her voice is soft, uncertain. She shrugs, like she’s trying to shake off the weight of expectations. “Part of me thinks I’m too comfortable there. Didn’t really think I had much of a choice either.”
“Everyone’s got choices,” I say, though my words sound hollow even to me. Life in the club isn’t exactly a buffet of options. “Just gotta figure out what you want.”
“Yeah, I do. At least I’m not in a rush.” she turns to look out the window, the reflection of passing trees casting shadows across her face.
Silence settles between us again, heavy but not uncomfortable.
We’re both lost in our own thoughts, the rumble of the truck the only constant.
“Jordyn,” I say, breaking the quiet like a fist through glass, “you know, a lot of people don’t know what they wanna do. Hell, half the guys in the club are just wingin’ it.”
