Lili Germain: Six Brothers

“It’d be better if they were all you were wearing,” he leers, undressing me with his eyes. He doesn’t scare me. I grew up with my father the president of this motorcycle club. I’ve been dealing with shit like him all of my life.

“That’s the way your daddy likes it,” I say, with a wicked smile and a wink.

Jase suddenly notices Maxi doing up his fly. He looks from the wet patch on my grave to his brother, his hands balling into fists.

“Max,” he says, his voice barely controlled, “did you just take a whizz on that grave?”

Maxi laughs, rearranging his pants. “Bitch deserves it.”

Jase snaps, leaping at his brother so quickly, I barely catch the action with my eyes. He easily pins his bigger, but clumsier and inebriated brother to the ground, laying into him with a series of well-placed punches. I watch at first, fascinated and oddly moved, until it becomes clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. I jump with a start as Jazz appears beside me, close enough for our arms to brush together.

I fight the urge to step away, instead standing my ground.

“That’s the first time little Jason’s left your side all day,” Jazz says. “You might be Pop’s girl, but it looks like there’s more than one Ross ready to stick his dick inside you.”

I fight to keep my face neutral. “What the fuck do you want?” I blurt out, my nerves fraying.

“Sweetie,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m just calling it how I see it. My baby brother’s been following you around like a lost puppy ever since you showed up. And I meant what I said about those fucking shoes. The minute Dornan’s done with you, you’re wearing them while I bend you over a bike and show you a real good time.”

I laugh. “Over my dead body, buddy.”

He shrugs casually. “That can be arranged, darlin’.”

I just shake my head, looking at Jase as he steps in front of us. His hands are covered in blood, and his white shirt is splattered with red, as well. I cast a dirty look at Jazz before I push off on my heels.

I seethe as we walk back to the car, Jazz’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

Maximilian Ernesto Ross has just earned himself a spot at the top of my hit list. And Jazz, if he isn’t careful, might just find himself next.

The wake is held, not at the clubhouse like I assumed it would be, but at Dornan’s actual house. The one where his current wife lives; the mother of his fifth and sixth sons. It’s nothing special; a single-storey bungalow-style affair, as drab as they come, to match the drab expression on his wife’s face when she sees me.

As I walk in the door with Jase, she gives me the most withering stare.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say, reaching out to grasp her hand.

She rips her hand away as if my touch has burned her. I’m not offended. I’ve been fucking her husband for a good month, and everybody here knows it.

“Celia,” Jase says sharply. She turns to him, her body language dismissing me as if I don’t exist, and pulls him into a hug.

When Jase finally breaks free, I already have a glass of wine in my hand, plucked from a tray. I won’t drink too much—I don’t like not being in control of myself around this family—but one drink to celebrate the collective misery won’t hurt. I am surprised when Jase takes the wine from me and downs it in two gulps, handing me the empty glass.

He didn’t say one word to me on the way to the wake, making the fifteen-minute car ride pretty uncomfortable. I know he’s hurting. And I don’t think it has much to do with his brother dying.

I’m pretty sure it’s about me . About Juliette Portland’s grave.

“I guess you should go find my father,” Jase says derisively. “You know, he’s probably expecting you by now.”

I glance at Jase. “I don’t think his wife would appreciate that. I’ll just hang around in the background and stay out of the way.”

I grab a fresh glass of wine and wander down the hallway, passing Dornan, who is speaking with a group of guys bearing the club insignia and patches from around the country. I make eye contact with him and offer a small smile, getting a wink and a resigned look in return.

A little girl, no older than four comes running in, giggling as an older boy chases her with a plastic toy gun.

She collides with my knees and I steady her with my hands so she doesn’t fall. She is a tiny thing, gorgeous, with blonde ringlets and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

She looks up at me, her eyes the size of dinner plates. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice delicate and I look around, wondering whom she belongs to.

“That’s okay,” I say, crouching down to her level. “Where’s your mama?”

She points to Chad’s wife, whose own big blue eyes are spouting tears like an uncontrolled fire hydrant. Something dies inside of me as I reach out and tuck a loose ringlet behind the girls ear.

“She’s sad,” the little girl says. “My daddy went to heaven.”

I don’t think that’s where he went.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Dornan says, scooping up his granddaughter. “You been speaking to my friend Sammi?”

I swallow back a lump in my throat and pat her head, smiling at her.

I want to save her. I want to save all of the children who are going to grow up in this life, take them away somewhere they can be safe and loved without the stigma of being a Ross, without the infliction of being Dornan’s blood.

But I can’t. I’m selfish and broken. I can only save myself.

I only hope that once Dornan and his sons are dead, these children may have some kind of a chance in this world.

Dornan carries his granddaughter off and I continue down the hallway, sipping my wine. I find an empty bedroom that has French doors leading out to a small deck area that wraps around the side of the house. It has been a long day, and the sun is starting to sink already.

I’m leaning against the railing, staring out into nowhere, when I feel him behind me.

“Mind if I hide with you?” Jase asks, gripping the railing beside me.

I smile and shrug. “Fine by me. Are you okay?”

He lowers himself so his elbows are resting on the railing and looks out into the yard, thick with trees and bushes, obscuring the view. “Not really,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. It smells strong, like bourbon or whiskey, and it looks like it’s mixed with a few ice cubes and not much else.

“It’s your brother’s funeral,” I say. “Of course you’re not okay. I’m sorry.”

He laughs bitterly and glances at me, before turning back to the trees and the approaching night. “I could give two shits about that asshole dying. The world’s a much better place without him, believe me.”

I turn so my back is against the railing, catching his eye. “Sounds like you killed him,” I say quietly, a small smile to let him know I’m just teasing. He straightens and towers over me, so close I can feel our arms brushing. I tilt my head to look up at him. He looks angry. And horny. And drunk.

“It’s that girl, isn’t it?” I ask, emboldened by the way he’s standing. “That grave? That’s what’s got you all messed up.” I can’t help myself; I reach up and brush a stray hair from his forehead, letting my hand linger on his skin a little longer than I should. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, squeezing it tightly.

“What do you know about her?” he asks, anything gentle in his demeanor now gone.

“Nothing,” I say, not struggling. I hold his gaze as his eyes burn into mine, searching for any trace of a lie. “Who was she?” I ask, as he lets go of my wrist and lets his hand fall to his side.