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Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Margot

"So are you allowed to tell me about your trip?" I ask once we're seated at the kitchen counter with steaming plates of rigatoni.

"Yeah, it was a shitshow from start to finish, really." He stabs into the pasta and spears a chunk of sausage.

"Why?" I hesitate. Bikers are so damn secretive. "Am I allowed to ask?"

"You can ask. I might not share all the details, but I don't care if you ask." He pops more pasta in his mouth and chews slowly, closing his eyes. "This is so good. Thank you."

"Thanks for having dinner with me."

He rests his hand on my leg and flexes his fingers.

"So, the shitshow?" I prompt.

"Ah, yeah. The memorial was canceled before we even got there."

"Why?"

"Long story. Nothing to do with us, really." He pokes one tine of his fork into a piece of sausage over and over. "Before we left, we had a big meeting since brothers from all our charters were there."

"Seems prudent."

"Yeah. This asshole from my original charter tried to challenge our national prez. That was the shitshow part."

"Oh wow. That sounds…rather daring. Kind of stupid if he didn't shore up alliances beforehand."

"Exactly!" He sets his fork down. "Well, he didn't. I'm not even sure he ran it by his president before he opened his big yap."

"So, what happened?"

He watches me for a few seconds before answering. "We voted it down."

"Did he burn rubber out of there when the meeting was adjourned?" I snicker.

Jigsaw laughs with me. "Sure did."

He finishes his plate and sips his ginger ale.

"So, that sounds exciting."

"Yeah, real exciting." He flashes a teasing smile. "Then before we left, my sister reached out. Said she needed me to pick her up somewhere she wasn't even supposed to be." His jaw clenches and he rolls his eyes. "So I split from the guys outside Philly. Then she calls to tell me everything's fine and she's home. So, I'm probably gonna ride out to her place this week to check on her."

I swallow hard. His sister's important to him. His only blood relative. But he still came to see me first? "Are you sure you don't want to check on her now?"

He taps his phone, sitting on the counter next to his glass. "She was telling me the truth. Tracked her phone right back to her apartment."

It takes me longer than it should to puzzle that out. "You track your sister's phone?"

"Of course I do," he scoffs.

"Does she know?"

"Yeah," he answers slowly. "It's one of the conditions of me paying for all her shit." His lips curl into a frightening smile. "What she doesn't know is that I have a backup app installed. So if she shuts off the main one, I'll still be able to find her."

"Wow, you are…sneaky."

"No, kids are sneaky. I'm just smarter." He shrugs. "She's a good egg. Hasn't tampered with it yet."

I cock my head and study him for a moment. "Do you have access to everything on her phone?"

"Are you asking if I spy on my sister? Read her texts?"

"Yes."

His lips twist, like he's debating if he should lie to me or not. "Yes, I have access. No, I don't spy on her. Unless I have to." He blows out a breath. "Trust me, I don't have time to waste reading all her back and forths with her friends about what time they're meeting at Panera and what kind of mac and cheese is superior."

I press my hand to my lips and snicker. "Sounds like you snoop a little."

Jigsaw smirks, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Maybe just a tad," he admits, his tone playful. "But only to make sure she's not getting into anything too crazy. She's a good kid but she's gone through a wild phase or two."

"She's lucky to have you looking out for her," I say softly, feeling a twinge of envy for the closeness they seem to share. My own older brothers have certainly never been so concerned about me. "How big is the gap between you two?"

"About eight years."

"Ah, both of my brothers are a lot older. They were teenagers when I was born, and I think resented my presence."

"Really? They didn't look out for you? Protect their baby sister?"

I snort and shake my head with disbelief. "No."

"Shit, Teller has ten years on his sister, and he's always looked out for her the best he could."

"I'm close to my cousin. He's only a few years older than me. He'd protect me in school, but he got picked on too, so…" Why am I talking about any of this like it still matters?

"Actually, I don't know why I'm surprised." He hesitates as if he's not sure he wants to continue. "I had older brothers too, but they took off when they turned eighteen. Didn't give a fuck about me or Jezzie."

"Are they…have you ever tried to find them?"

He pauses for an even longer time before answering. "Yeah, once or twice."

I swallow hard, afraid to ask my next question, but unable to stop myself. "You said it's possible your dad may have killed your mom…is it possible he…?"

"It's possible." He reaches for his glass and spins it in a slow circle. "I've thought of that too. It was one of his ‘wives' who helped me escape?—"

"Wait, one of his wives ?"

He shoots a sharp look at me that snaps my mouth shut. "I don't know what else to call them. He had a bunch of women around we were supposed to call ‘Momma this or that.' He'd refer to them as his wives. But there were other ‘elder' type men around who had leadership roles too and other kids who came with their families."

"So, do you have more siblings out there?"

"Probably," he answers slowly, still turning the glass around and around. "Don't really want to find out, honestly."

"I don't blame you." Should I continue or drop it? He doesn't seem happy talking about this. "You said one of them helped you escape?"

"Yeah." He curls his fingers over his shoulder, tapping his back. "The last whipping I took was so bad, she was afraid he'd kill me." A pained smile crosses his face. "She was a nice girl. Took a big risk to give me a few things so I could leave." He shrugs. "Didn't matter. I got to school and passed out from an infection. People found out what happened to me?—"

"Was your father arrested?"

"Nope." His tone's laced with a dull bitterness.

"What about Jezzie?"

"Didn't have a mark on her."

"How'd you escape, then?"

"Rooster's aunt and uncle came and got me."

His playful, confident demeanor has changed so drastically over the course of this conversation. His answers dwindling down to just the basics when there must be more to it. I'm used to counseling people in one specific area of tragedy. Grief and loss. This is so much more complex. What should I say?

Joining a motorcycle club makes sense. The complete opposite of the religious oppression he grew up in but also a somewhat strict and orderly organization where they dress similarly and have to attend mandatory meetings. Although, the intent with a cult is to control the person by restricting their thoughts and access to information, while the motorcycle club doesn't restrict anything unless it could potentially harm the whole club.

Okay, definitely don't point out the similarities—or differences— between a cult and an MC. He won't appreciate that.

" Mrrrar ." Gretel twines her body around the legs of Jigsaw's stool, then mine.

"Hey, girl." Jigsaw leans down and scoops Gretel into one hand, lifting her into his lap. "I was wondering when you might make an appearance."

I'm so charmed by the way he lets her rub herself all over his chin and the gentle way he pets her, I don't have the heart to tell him I don't allow her near the kitchen counters. As if she senses me watching, she ignores our plates and the counter, and curls up in Jigsaw's lap instead.

"She really likes you," I say.

He smiles and keeps petting her.

Maybe it's a good thing she distracted us from the heavy conversation. I reach over and rub behind her ear and scratch her chin.

After a few minutes, Gretel's had her quota of affection. She hops off Jigsaw's lap onto the floor, meows at us, and saunters away.

Jigsaw's shaking with laughter. "She has a lot of personality packed into such a tiny body."

"She does."

He reaches over, settling his hand on my bare knee. "Hey, thanks for listening. I didn't mean to get too heavy."

I slide my fingers over his knuckles. Large hands—scarred and rough—that aren't afraid to get dirty or defend himself, but are also so gentle when he touches me. "It's okay. I want to know more about you." My voice breaks a little. "I hate that you suffered so much as a child, though." I don't want him to think I feel sorry for him. If anything, I admire the strength it took to become the opposite of what his father was.

His expression softens and he gently squeezes my leg before removing his hand. "I don't talk about it much. It's over. Seems pointless to dwell on the past."

"I can understand that." It's more than that, though. The reasons he "doesn't do relationships" seem clearer now. Whether he realizes it or not, he's carefully built walls around himself.

I'm lucky he let me have a glimpse inside.

And wonder if he'll ever allow more than that.

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