Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
That kind of pain never leaves you.
Jagger exhaled against my skin. “I heard what she said about Preacher.”
A sharp spike of tension went through me. Part of me was relieved—because I didn’t have to repeat it. On the other hand, it made me defensive. Would he expect me to forgive Preacher now?
“How do you feel?”
I shrugged, because fuck if I knew how to answer that. I felt everything, I felt nothing. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.
Jagger tried a different approach. “Were you close to your mom?”
A bitter snort left me before I could stop it. “No. She was a bitch.”
I had told him pieces of it before. But not everything. Maybe if he knew, he would understand why I could never trust Preacher again.
Jagger didn’t push. Instead, he reached for the shampoo, poured some into his hands, and started lathering it into my hair. The simple act was grounding, it was a quiet offering. I tipped my head back, letting him work his fingers through my hair, the pressure of his hands helping to steady the storm inside me.
“How much do you know about my parents’ relationship?”
Jagger paused, just for a second. Then, he continued his careful movements.
“It wasn’t a good one,” he said carefully. “She played the cliché move—got pregnant and tried to use it to control him.”
He was diplomatic in his choice of words, but the truth was there. I nodded, stepping under the spray to wash the suds away, giving myself time to think. After a beat, I leaned back again, waiting for him to do a second round of shampoo. After so many trips to hot, sandy countries, one wash was never enough, and Jagger knew that by now.
“From as far back as I can remember, my parents fought,” I said finally. “Screaming, slamming doors, and drama… There was a constant war.” I took a breath. “When I was five, I came home and found my mom wasted. Slurring, rambling about how I’d never find a man who would be faithful. How men lied about everything.”
Jagger’s jaw clenched, but his face stayed blank. He knew the kind of damage that could do to a little girl. So did she, that was why she’d done it.
“She used to rant about how she had sacrificed everything for Preacher, and how he didn’t give a shit about either of us.” I hesitated. “She said the reason I was named Kyle was because he was so fucking disappointed that I wasn’t a son, he gave me a boy’s name anyway.”
That part had always stuck, and today, Store had thrown it in my face, almost verbatim.
Was that what he told everyone?
Jagger rinsed his own hair with one hand, but the other stayed firmly wrapped around my waist.
“You know he named you after his grandfather, right?”
I shrugged. Maybe, maybe not.
Reaching for the shower gel, I poured some into my hands. “It only got worse. I did everything to get Preacher’s attention, but he was hardly home. And when he was home, he’d lock himself away from us after the obligatory screaming match with my mom.” My hands slowed as I rubbed the soap over my skin. “If I really think about it…” I swallowed. “I did spend a lot of time with him. But the more my mom said, the more those memories started to fade. So, I kept trying. I kept needing him to see me.”
I looked down, watching the soap slide off my skin, watching the past try to drain away with it, but some stains never washed off. When Preacher became President of the Knights MC, everything got worse. The rare moments of attention he’d given me before dwindled into almost nothing. I’d show up at the compound, eager, hopeful—desperate—only to be met with distracted glances and half-hearted words. Five minutes of his time, maybe ten on a good day, before something or someone would pull him away.
Mom had told me not to bother and that I was wasting my time. But I’d still tried. Because if I just did something right, if I just made him see me, he’d stop brushing me aside.
Jagger took the shower gel from my hands, his fingers brushing over mine as he turned me so that my back was to him. His touch was firm yet careful as he ran his hands over my shoulders, massaging the tension that had been embedded there for years.
“Do you think you got his attention?” he asked, his voice low.
Jesus. This man had magic hands.
I let my head fall forward slightly, letting him work on the knots that had settled deep into my muscles.
“I got Red to teach me how to ride a motorcycle when I was fourteen,” I said, shaking my head as a laugh escaped me. “I was such a pain in the ass about it, but he finally caved. When I rode it in front of Preacher for the first time, he actually smiled.” The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. “He told me I could only ride it on the compound, and then he said, ‘One day, you’ll make a fine biker.’”