Deadline to Damnation (Sons of Templar MC 7)

This was Macy, of course it wasn’t the end of it.

“Well I know, and Hansen has informed me not only that we have her in the clubhouse, but we’re holding her against her will,” she said, voice sharp.

“She’s a journalist, Macy,” Jagger replied, voice hard.

Macy scowled. “Um, yeah, I know.”

“You know?” he asked, genuinely surprised. The way she said it made it seem like she didn’t know from her husband telling her business that was meant to be strictly club-only, but she knew some other way.

She nodded. “If I’d seen her and not at home attached to a breast pump, a screaming child, and a toddler who needs attention, then I would’ve recognized her straight away. But I’ve been sequestered to the land of dirty diapers and milk vomit.” She waved her hand. “Oh, and I love my sons and everything, they are the joy and light of my life—though I am grateful that their father is taking care of them today before I started ripping my own hair out.”

Jagger wanted to chuckle. He really did. But he didn’t have a reason to laugh right now.

Not that he ever had for the past decade and a half.

But he’d gotten pretty good at pretending.

There was no fucking pretending with her around.

He just hoped that his president didn’t tell Macy anything more about Caroline. Then again, if he had, Macy would not be approaching shit like this.

When she was a club girl, he’d gotten as close to her as he could’ve with a woman that wasn’t Caroline. Liked the bitch a lot. She was kind. Funny as fuck. Almost a distraction.

But it was always Caroline’s face he saw when he sunk his dick into anyone.

Macy wasn’t different in that respect.

She was different because she stuck around after the fact. Watched movies with him. Shot the shit. She was warm. He liked that feeling of warmth. Especially when everything else about him was as cold as the fucking grave they’d buried his dog tags in.

Macy didn’t know about his past. Not for lack of asking. So he knew that if Hansen had betrayed his trust—which he wouldn’t have—then she would not be approaching the conversation the way she was.

He was glad as fuck for that. He was afraid of what he might say to Macy, what he might do if she tried to bring up Caroline. Their history.

“You would’ve recognized her?” he asked instead of dwelling on that shit.

“You honestly didn’t watch any of her broadcasts?” she said, gaping at him. “Seriously? She’s one of the most famous conflict journalists around.”

“Don’t watch the news,” he replied, cracking his knuckles. He was doing his best to act like that singular piece of information didn’t spear him right to his very core. The thought of her being famous for being in danger filled his blood with acid.

Her. The girl who cried and almost fainted when he’d fallen off his dirtbike and cut open his arm. She cried because she couldn’t stand the thought of him in pain and almost threw up because blood sickened her.

And she was in the middle of war zones where all they saw was pain and blood.

Jesus.

Macy rolled her eyes, obviously unaware of what was going on inside his head. Unusual, since she was perceptive, but she was on a roll. And even the most perceptive bitch on the planet couldn’t guess at their story. “Of course you don’t. Men,” she muttered. “Well, she is famous for many reasons, because she’s a top reporter, of course. One of the bravest out there, men or women. She goes embedded sometimes, sure. But her top stories have been her risking her life without backup or with a small private security team. Then there’s the fact she’s a knockout. And there’s another little thing.” She held her thumb and forefinger inches apart. “No matter where she is in the world, what war torn country, site of famine, disease or disaster, she’s always wearing blood red lipstick.”

He froze. No, he’d already been frozen before, when Macy started talking about Caroline risking her fucking life being in war zones. Embedded was bad enough. Soldiers couldn’t guarantee a reporter’s safety as much as they could guarantee their own. He’d seen more than one reporter lying amongst the dead in a bomb blast. War didn’t care if you were fighting or witnessing. Everyone died the same. Whether they had a gun or a fucking tape recorder in their hands. Whether they were there to help or harm. Bile scratched at his throat. “Red lipstick?” he repeated.

She nodded rapidly, grinning. “Badass, right? She’s never told anyone exactly why, it’s a mystery. Could you ask her why?”

“Fuck,” he muttered, slamming the last of his whisky before standing up. “You happen to know what the fuck Chanel and the shade Pirate means?”