Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jigsaw

Am I smiling? My mouth's pulled into a weird, non-sarcastic, upward sensation I'm not used to as I cross the parking lot back to Rooster's truck.

I didn't want to leave Margot. Her cute, flustered expression when I gave in to the impulse to kiss her almost stopped me from walking out the door. I usually relish the corpse-disposal portion of our nocturnal mayhem activities, but I haven't been all that helpful to my brothers tonight.

Talking to Margot was more fun than murder clean-up. Watching her round little ass as she bent over to grab the case of water almost made me lose my mind.

"Are you okay?" Rooster huffs a laugh.

I yank the goofy smile off my face and scowl at him. "I'm fine, why?"

"You look like a puppy who just had his tummy rubbed."

"I wish she'd rubbed my tummy." I glance back at the funeral home. A few low lights flicker beyond the windows, but not enough to see anything in the house. Is Margot watching us from inside? Or did she go upstairs and back to bed like she said she would? How can she rest knowing bodies are being burned so close to where she sleeps?

I can't fake indifference a minute longer, and it's not like I'm fooling my oldest and closest friend one bit.

"Isn't she adorable?" I gush like an eleven-year-old girl who just got an invitation to a school dance.

Rooster rumbles with laughter, then winces and touches his side. "Yeah, she's cute. Not freaked out about us all showing up in the middle of the night, either." His gaze strays to the house. "Real nice of her to be worried about me, since we've never met."

"Don't let it go to your head." I throw the wad of gauze at him. "She wanted to patch Teller up too."

He rolls his eyes. "You better tread carefully, brother. You fuck around with her and screw this business relationship up, whole club will want your head on a stick."

He's got a point, not that I'd ever admit it. It's my duty to keep Rooster's ego in check. Can't do that if he thinks he's right all the time. "How insulting." I pull an indignant, hurt face as I set the case of bottled water on the back seat.

I slide my hunting knife out of its sheath, slice through the plastic cover, wriggle a bottle out of the tight package, and hand it to Rooster. "What if I really like her? Maybe she's the one ."

A pleasurable shiver, like a premonition of good fortune, runs up my spine.

I shouldn't say shit like that out loud just to fuck with Rooster. It's probably bad karma or something since I don't believe in soulmates. Or at least not that there's a soulmate out there for me . Rooster, on the other hand, found his soulmate. That's great for him, and I love Shelby, but their cutesy, lovey-dovey life isn't for me.

"The fuck you doing, Jigsaw?" Z calls in a hushed whisper. "We could use your help."

"Making sure the big, bearded pin cushion doesn't keel over." I jerk my thumb at Rooster, who snorts.

"You all right, Rooster?" Z asks, genuine concern in his voice.

"I'll live." He tilts his head toward me. "Jiggy ain't looking after me as much as he's been busy flirting with Margot."

Z shoots a glare at me, and I hold my hands up in an appeasement gesture. "Hey, Rock wanted me to keep an eye on her. He sent her out here to talk to me specifically."

Z stares at me. Awww, did I really leave my president speechless?

"Yeah, all right. Guess it's good to keep her out of our business." He glances around the parking lot. "Where is she?"

"She went inside. I told her I'd text if something comes up."

"Smart." Z jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Fucking taking forever but we're almost ready for the next contestant."

I hold up one hand. "Don't forget, I need a pinky or two for my collection."

Z does a slow eyeroll, head-tilt thing that's not as funny as he thinks it is. "Are you fucking serious?"

I cross my arms over my chest, holding his gaze.

Z leans in close and whispers, "You realize if someone ever finds your ‘collection' it can be used against you as evidence, right?" He lifts his brows to punctuate his words.

"No one's finding my stash."

Z turns to Rooster. "Is he fucking serious?"

Ever my protector, Rooster shrugs. "Everyone needs a hobby."

"Jesus Christ." Z plows his fingers through his hair. "The bone fragments are still pretty big once the burning's over. We have to put them through the grinder to turn 'em into ash. Can't you just take a bone chunk?"

That actually would make things easier than what I normally do, but I'm enjoying fucking with Z. "But how will I know it's the pinky?"

Z clenches his jaw and snarls—something I've rarely seen him do. Maybe it's time to dial it back a bit.

"Bone chunk will be fine," I concede before his head explodes.

"Great," Z claps his hands together, "now that we've sorted out souvenirs for the insane , can we move things along?"

Rooster lifts his chin toward the brick building. "Want me to move my truck closer?"

"That'd be preferable." Z barely controls his sarcasm. Out of respect for Rooster's injury, no doubt.

"I'll do it." I hold out my hand for Rooster's keys, but he shakes his head.

"Let me do something," the stubborn fucker insists.

"You got stabbed, brother," Z points out. "Wasn't that enough?"

Rooster grunts and shuffles into the truck, holding his side. He lets out a barely audible groan as he hoists his big ass into the cab.

Z turns his stern, presidential glare on me. "In between sifting through bone fragments, will you please keep an eye on him? I'm trying to reach Doc. See if he'll meet us at Upstate's clubhouse. No way he's driving all the way downstate in that condition."

"You know I will." I tilt my head toward the house. "Margot offered to help, but you know how stubborn he is."

Z's lips curl into a slight sneer. "Or he was concerned since she usually spends her time sucking blood out of bodies, not trying to keep it in."

A violent urge to defend Margot washes over me, even though I barely know the woman, and technically Z isn't wrong. He's also my president and I respect him. So I keep my lips zipped. Even in the weak moonlight, my irritation must show on my face, though.

"Easy." Z holds out his hands in a "calm yourself" gesture. "She's a nice woman. I'm just saying, she usually attends to the dead, not the living."

"I hear you, Prez."

Rooster's loud, diesel engine rumbles and chugs to life. He slaps the driver's side door and sticks his head out of the open window. "You two wanna get the fuck outta my way, or should I use you to fill in the potholes?" he shouts.

"So much for not waking up the neighborhood," Z grumbles as we move toward the brick building.

"What neighborhood?" I ask. "There's barely any houses out here."

Z grunts in response as he turns to wave and guide Rooster closer to the crematorium.

Rooster turns the truck off. Z jogs over and presses his hand to the door. "Stay put. We'll handle this."

"He won't sit there for long," I warn Z when he meets me at the back of the truck.

"No shit." He circles one hand in the air. "Let's hurry the fuck up, then."

I grab the handle and lower the tailgate. Two freshly killed corpses, neatly rolled into dirty sheets, wait for us. Bye-bye, final members of the South of Satan MC.

The hinges creak and the tailgate drops open with a hard thud that sounds like the door to night ripping itself open.

The sound of retribution's clean-up is music to my demented ears.