Beretta (MC#1)

Chapter 7- Him

A job.

A fucking job. Of all things. She wanted a job. What a waste of a priceless favor.

"We could've gotten you a job anyway if you'd gone to our consultant at Alder Consultancy on Crescent street", Diesel looks visibly perplexed. "But regardless, it's only fair to repay your debt. The creases on his forehead deepen and he's lost in thought. All the while Rose quietly looks him over.

What she's looking for, I have no idea. Her face is schooled into a neutral expression, carefully so. As if afraid to give something away.

"Okay. Okay, I'll schedule a meeting with Briac as soon as possible. After you're healed of course", Diesel nods along at his own idea, then meets her eyes, waiting for approval?

"Thanks Diesel, but I'm a bit desperate here,", she smiles tight-lipped and her cheeks dip into the barest hint of dimples, "Is it possible to have an appointment with Mr. Alder as soon as possible? His slots were full the last time I tried to book"

"If that's what you wish", Diesel is being kind. Too kind even. Since when did he care what a woman other than his wife wished for? Yeah, that's right- Never.

"Thank you", Rose smiles more genuinely this time. All teeth and dimples. As if she's achieved something crucial. Yeah, I know what; the favor of the Reapers. I sigh as Diesel stands up and takes her hand in a firm grip. When he pats it in a comforting manner, Roadkill twitches with restraint in the other corner of the room.

Finally, after the exchange of further pleasantries, Diesel walks out the infirmary and we follow. I breath freely now. My chest expanding as I take in a deep breath and contracting soon after. Even Roadkill looks less murderous.

I am thinking about how Rose didn't even flinch at Don's rough handling when I catch the barest hint of a shadow slipping out the back door from the corner of my eye. I silently alert Roadkill to watch over the President which won't be hard as we're almost to the bar with plenty of men and prospects around. I slip away as Roadkill pulls out his silver Glock with the skull and scythe embedded in the handle.

I palm a similar weapon when I push open the wooden back door of the clubhouse. Only someone who's been in the clubhouse before would know that route and how many people have been in here? Too many to count.

That's why I hate parties. The celebrations are like painting a big red target on your backs. At those moments we're happy, drunk and absolutely nonchalant to threats. Bad shit goes down when we're celebrating. Like last year when Raven got into a terrible accident while her husband was here doing shots. Raven was mostly unharmed physically. The devastation came at the news of the miscarriage. Since then the two have fallen apart. Which is why I'm not surprised to find Raven sitting out on the back porch.

I am surprised because her shoulders shake with the effort of keeping her sobs contained. I'm surprised because trails of her obvious heartbreak trail down her cheeks and drip into the wet mud from last night's heavy rainfall. The wind blows and her dark hair fall over her face. My breath catches when she tucks it behind her ear timidly. She looks like a Goddess. Her fragile beauty is a thing to treasure. Her spirit is a thing to preserve. A literal Goddess sits in the rain and I watch like a creep from the side.

Maybe I'll always love her. I loved her when I stood across from her at the altar while the pastor read on about the wonders of love. I loved her when she kissed her husband and gave me a small affectionate smile over his shoulder. I'd let her go and be the best man of her husband at her wedding if It meant her being happy. But as I look over her, I realize this- in no way- is happiness.