Page 42 of Life Or Death

I take offense to that too. He knows they’ve lowered the dosage of my pain meds at my own request.

“You know what? This conversation is over,” I tell him. “I don’t know why you even care. I get you feel some kind of responsibility as my boss, but you’ve paid your debt, okay? You can back off.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if that’s the same look he gives his enemies before he ends their existence.

“Well, you’re right about that. That’s why, as your boss, I know you worked twelve-hour shifts at the bar.” His jaw ticks and he rolls his neck. “You can’t do that anymore. You can’t be on your feet for all those hours. Hell, you probably shouldn’t be on them at all. That can’t be good for your recovery.”

His concerns are valid, I just wish they weren’t his. I mean, these are all things I should be considering, but the moment Dr. Patel told me I’d be getting discharged soon, all I could focus on are all the things I need to do to feel like me again. It’s like I forgot I’m not the same person anymore. The moment I leave this hospital, I’ll be starting over. Rebuilding a life I struggled to build in the first place.

I steel my shoulders back.

“Well, bartending is all I know how to do. I’m going to have to make it work somehow.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and the raw honesty of them makes me want to disappear. Bartending, waiting tables, smiling at strangers and making small talk—that’s the only skill set I’ve ever built. I didn’t go to college. I never learned to type or file or whatever the hell people do in offices. I poured drinks and flirted for tips.

Lucifer goes quiet.

“You need a backup plan, Jess.”

The way he says my name makes something crack inside me. I don’t want his gentleness. I don’t want his concern. I want to be angry, because anger is easier than admitting I’m terrified.

“Okay, Lucifer, since you seem to have all the answers.” I throw my hands up. “Tell me, what should I do? I don’t know how to do anything else. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll find a job that brings in the same kind of money I was making at Rodeo Roundup. I had regulars, and a face that people liked to look at. Now I’ve got scars, a limp, and a shit ton of trauma.”

The words spill, and once they start, I can’t stop. “So please, enlighten me. What’s the backup plan for someone like me? Because from where I’m sitting, there isn’t one.”

Lucifer’s expression changes. The hardness in his eyes softens. He takes a step closer to the bed, and I notice the way his jaw works, the way his throat moves as he swallows.

“I’m suggesting you let someone help you.”

The offer hangs in the air, and I feel my walls slam back into place. “I can’t keep asking people for help.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you said it yourself—it’s not fair to Tori.”

“I’m not talking about Tori.” His voice drops. “I’m talking about me.”

The room suddenly feels too small. I stare at him, my mouth slightly open, unable to form a response.

“I get you want things to go back to normal. That you crave your independence. I even admire the fact that you’re eager to go back to work, but you need to be realistic or you’re going to set yourself up for failure.” He drops his arms to his sides and turns his head, his gaze pinned to the window behind me. “The club is rebuilding Rodeo Roundup, but it’s gonna be at least six months before we get it back up and running.”

As desperate as I am for a paycheck, I don’t know how I could ever go back there, and as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I realize how truly fucked I am. What if I have PTSD? I might not ever be able to step foot inside a bar without reliving everything that happened to me. There’s no magic pill that erases trauma. I’m in therapy, but it would be really naïve of me to think that just fixes everything.

“You could work for me,” Lucifer says, jarring my attention back to him. Although I don’t think I heard him correctly because did he really just offer me a job? That can’t be right.

“What?”

He slowly brings his gaze back to me. “At the clubhouse.”

For a second, I actually consider it. “What would I do? You do realize I’m not a biker, right? Like I don’t even know how to ride a tricycle.”

“I’m not looking to hire you as my second in command, Jess,” he growls, clearly losing his patience with me. “Most of the guys crash at the clubhouse on the regular. I got a couple of saddle bunnies that keep it clean, but it’s more of a part-time gig for them . . .” His voice trails, and he lifts his hand to scratch the stubble lining his jaw, a gesture I’ve come to realize he makes when he’s stalling. “ . . . Let’s just say their forte isn’t cleaning, but they do it from time to time.”

I’ve never heard of the term saddle bunny before, and I’m not sure I should ask him to elaborate. Some things are better left unsaid, and I think this may be one of them.

“Anyway,” he continues. “The place could use a regular cleaning. There’s a bar too. Right now, we mostly have the prospects man it, but that’s something you could do too. You wouldn’t have set hours, and there are plenty of rooms that you can use to rest when you need a break.” He pauses, and his hand falls away from his face. “You’d be safe there. The clubhouse sits on a gated compound.”

“So, what you’re saying is no one can throw a Molotov cocktail through the window?”