Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Before I could reconsider, I found myself walking toward him. I didn’t hurry, but made sure he had enough time to know I was headed his way. I hadn’t been around many newly released long-term guys, but it didn’t take a genius to know startling someone who’d just come out of prison after nearly four decades never worked out well for anyone. He didn’t look up, but the slight pause in his movements told me he was aware of me.
He continued his inspection, pointedly ignoring me. A less perceptive person might have been offended, but I recognized the defensive mechanism for what it was.
“That’s not paranoia,” I said casually, stopping a respectful distance away. “That’s hypervigilance you feel.”
He stilled, not looking up. For several seconds, he remained frozen, then slowly straightened to his full height. When he turned to face me, his expression was blank, but his eyes had sharpened with attention.
“You an expert on ex-cons? Some kind of shrink?” His voice was clipped, defensive, with an underlying edge that would have made most people retreat. I wasn’t most people.
“No,” I replied. “But I recognize institutional damage when I see it.” I hiked my thumb over my shoulder to the clubhouse. “I’ve been very involved in my brother’s life. Before and after he went away. Knight wasn’t in prison nearly as long as you, and he came out different.” I shrugged. “I read up. Tried to understand what was going on in his mind. I never really figured it out, but I did find ways for me to change my behavior so he’d be more comfortable.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “That right?” he said, his tone flat. He wiped his hands on a shop rag, his movements precise. “You got a psychology degree to go with whatever else you do?”
I smiled slightly. “No degree. Just tried to help my brother and apply those same alterations to my behavior when I was here until everyone got used to me.” I gestured to the bike with my free hand. “She’s beautiful. Knight mentioned they kept her for you.”
The change of subject seemed to throw him, if only for a fraction of a second. He glanced back at the motorcycle, and something in his expression softened minutely.
“Didn’t expect that,” he admitted, running his hand along the fuel tank with unexpected gentleness. “Thought she’d been sold off years ago.”
“The club takes care of its own,” I said, echoing what I’d heard countless times from Knight. “Even when its own can’t be here to take care of their stuff.”
Jag’s eyes returned to me, studying me with renewed intensity. I met his gaze steadily, neither challenging nor submissive. Just present. His discomfort at my perceptiveness was visible only in the slight tightening around his eyes, but I didn’t look away or apologize for seeing him clearly.
“Wasn’t always like that. Not when I went away.” He glanced off, his features hardening.
I could tell this wasn’t a subject he was ready for and, honestly, not my business. Instead of making him more uncomfortable I gave him a gentle smile. “See you around, Jag,” I said, taking a step back. “Take care of that bike.”
He didn’t respond verbally, but I felt his attention follow me as I walked away. The weight of his gaze on my back was tangible, like the heat from a fire at a distance. Not burning exactly, but unmistakably present.
At my car, I glanced back over my shoulder. He was still watching me, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. Our eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither of us looked away. Then I slid into my car and started the engine.
As I pulled out of the compound, I checked my rearview mirror. Jag remained motionless beside his motorcycle, tracking my departure with that same intense focus. Something about our brief interaction left me unsettled yet strangely energized. Most men at the compound were easy to read. Jag was different.
I’d always been good at reading people. It was both a gift and a curse. But Jagger Kross was a book written in a language I only partially understood, with entire chapters redacted. And despite my brother’s warning, I found myself curious to learn more.
Chapter Three
Jag
The road stretched ahead of me like freedom itself, my bike eating up asphalt as Nashville faded in my rearview. Two weeks out of the compound and I already felt more like myself than I had in thirty-seven fucking years. Hell, I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be free. Having had a taste of it now, I knew I’d die before I ever went back to prison again.
The engine rumbled between my legs, vibrations traveling up through my bones like a forgotten language my body suddenly remembered. Wind slapped against my face, stinging and beautiful.
The late afternoon sun baked the tar, sending waves of heat rippling upward. Sweat trickled down my back under the leather jacket. The road curved gently through patches of woodland and open fields. No particular destination in mind. Just riding to remember how. The road wasn’t isolated. In fact, there were several businesses in the area, but one side of the highway held a tree line. It was well away from the road but it still gave me an uncomfortable feeling. Anything could be lying in wait and there was every possibility I wouldn’t know until the threat was on me.