“Doing that protected the club,” Priest said. “He took the responsibility for his role in the crime, and the club wasn’t implicated. And he’s doing that again now—putting himself in a risky position for the welfare of the club.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that, but Priest was right. Jazz had fallen on the sword for the rest of us then, and even though he knew it was risky, even though he had so much more to lose now, it sounded like he was doing that again. Putting the safety of the club first—even if he went about it in a roundabout way that didn’t always make sense to me at first.
“And now he’s put himself in the line of fire again,” Priest said. “Faking an agreement with Crave to bring us information? It’s—it’s not an ideal situation, but I can’t deny I’m glad to know what Crave wants.”
“I agree,” Blade said. “Now that we know his angle, we’ll be better prepared for it.”
I was nauseous with regret now. Jazz was my closest friend—more than a friend, something deeper—and I’d spit in his face. Blade had trusted him when I didn’t.
The pained look on his face when I’d shoved the tablet toward him, when I’d accused him, was burned in my memory.
But not just that expression. I thought unexpectedly of the way he’d looked at me when we were lying face-to-face in his bed the other morning. The soft, lazy expression in his eyes and corner of his mouth slightly upturned. The look on his face right before he kissed me.
Suddenly, powerfully, I wanted to see that expression again. And now that was impossible. How could he trust me again when I’d treated him like a stupid kid? I’d claimed to trust him, but as soon as he did something I didn’t understand, I fell back on my old perceptions and threw that in his face.
“He’s done nothing but prove himself since he got back,” Priest said gently.
“Hell of an enforcer,” Gunnar said. “Hardworking. Fearless—but doesn’t overstep.”
Priest nodded. “I’m surprised by you, Tex. I thought you knew your brother better than that.”
“He ain’t my brother,” I fired back without thinking. He was my brother-in-arms in the club, sure, but not my brother in the way I used to think. Not with the way he felt for me.
...And not with the way I felt for him. I didn’t know exactly what it was yet. But I knew it was deeper than brotherhood. Murkier.
Three pairs of eyes stared back at me, confused.
“I mean” —I turned away from the kitchen and headed for the door— “we grew up together, but he’s not my brother. And I have to go find him.”
No one tried to stop me as I walked out of the clubhouse. My bike was parked out front and I took a moment to brace my hands on the saddle and take a deep breath.
The dream bubbled up in my memory again. It’d felt so real. Not like a dream at all—like a glimpse of what could’ve been, if those days at the beach had gone differently. In the dream I hadn’t panicked, or pushed him away. It’d felt…
It’d felt right.
Like everything had been leading up to that. Like it was just the natural growth of our relationship.
And I never could keep a relationship together otherwise. I was always pushing women away, or losing interest, or just not making time. I couldn’t connect with anyone.
Couldn’t connect with anyone but Jazz.
I’d been so afraid to lose him again, and I’d let that turn into anger because I understood anger. I knew how to lash out, how to demand explanations, how to tussle with Jazz until we came to some sort of agreement or truce. I didn’t know how to tell him how scared I was. Because then I’d have to admit it to myself.
I’d have to look at my fear, really look at it… and see what it was rooted in.
Wanting to be with Jazz like that was a soul-level recalibration. I wasn’t the man I thought I was: the lone wolf, the enforcer whose lifestyle was too busy and rough to let a woman in. But it wasn’t that I didn’t have space for anyone else. It’s that Jazz already owned that space.
It was always Jazz, Jazz who occupied my thoughts, my dreams, every breath for the three years he was gone.
But he wouldn’t leave again. Not unless I was the one who drove him away. I could only hope