The clubhouse is pretty empty this afternoon, despite the big party the lost girls are prepping for. When I left to go to the school, they were all discussing everything they needed to get at the store, so that's where they probably are right now. I can't say I'm not happy about having fewer people here to witness the shit storm I'm inviting on myself. It needs to happen, though. More than not wanting to get into a fight with Jim, I want him to take care of his kid. Ryan isn't my responsibility, and today is just one of the several times in the last few months that Jim's left me to parent his kid. And it has to stop.
Sylvia Stone, Jim's mother, sits at the bar with a highball filled with a dark, caramel-colored liquid clutched in her shaking hand. Her eyes are downcast, but the telltale nod of her head tells me she's listening to the woman who's leaning over the bar top and whispering in her ear.
Ryan rushes into the room, shouting for his grandma and taking everyone's attention away from what they were doing. This is typical for Ryan. I'm not sure he's ever entered a room like a normal person. Sylvia pulls herself away from the other woman, who I only now recognize as Lona Phillips, one of the brother's old lady.
"You're home early," Sylvia says to Ryan with a raised brow. She lifts her eyes to mine. Her brow falls, and the expression on her face is none too pleased. Join the club, lady.
"Got in trouble. Grandma, you should have heard Ruby yell at my principal. She was awesome!"
"I didn't yell and it wasn't awesome," I say dismissively in Ryan's direction. Sylvia's face lifts just a bit, and I might be imagining things, but it's entirely possible she's giving me the world's smallest, most demure smile. I must be tired, though, because in the entire time Ian and I have been in Fort Bragg, Sylvia Stone has never so much as regarded me with any kind of thought, much less smiled at me.
"Is Jim here?"
"Is his bike outside?" Sylvia's mouth stretches in a firm line, but her blue-gray eyes shine in a way I've never seen before.
"That a yes or a no? I'm not in the mood for your shit right now."
Sylvia smiles with narrowed eyes. It's more predatory than I expect. Her lips quirk up and she preens, saying, "There she is."
"He's in his room," Lona says with a tight smile. Lona doesn't hang around the clubhouse much, but when she does, she always has her and Chief's daughter, Elle, with her. Ryan doesn't think I've noticed, but he's sporting a pretty big crush on Elle. She's a few years older than him and miles ahead in maturity, but it doesn't seem to matter to the kid. Sure enough, Elle rounds the corner with a pool cue in her hands. She taps her foot impatiently on the ground and stares at her mother. "You said you'd play with me."
"In a minute, baby."
"We'll play with you," Ryan says. He grabs Ian's arm and drags him over to the unimpressed girl. To my surprise, Ian doesn't flinch or pull back. He just goes along with his friend. My jaw almost drops when I see a glint in my boy's eye that dances when Elle smiles at him. I let the sight warm my heart for just a moment before I force it down. I remind myself that I'm still pissed at Jim and can't have happy, fuzzy, mommy thoughts clouding my brain when I'm dealing with the way-too-sexy overgrown child. As it is, he has a way of distracting me from my purpose, and today I've vowed to myself that I won't be distracted.
Once the kids are off in the pool room, I excuse myself from Lona and Sylvia's presence and march across the room. The hallway off the main room of the clubhouse leads to the chapel--where the club's members have their meetings--and the pleasure palace, which is really no better than a seedy strip club but also houses six small bedrooms for the club's members to crash in when they need to. I know for a fact that one or two of them don't just crash in their room but keep it as their primary residence. Part of my job is cleaning not only the public areas of the clubhouse but the private areas as well. My least favorite part of the job is cleaning the bedrooms. I'm not stupid, so I don't talk about the things I find in there, but I can't say some of my findings don't make me look differently at some of the guys.
Especially Jim. When we first met, he was all suave and saying all the right things. Then he moved into the full-on flirting and casual mentions of how hot we'd be together. I've had more than a few rough nights of sleep after he'd dropped a comment like that, but the plethora of different-sized women's panties I've found in his room in combination with the dozens of condom wrappers gives me a damn good idea of what he's all about, and it definitely doesn't add up to the sweet nothings he tries to whisper in my ear. Jim Stone is a pig, plain and simple. Which I could handle if not for his incessant need to try to convince me he's not. I've fallen for that line of bull before, and I won't do it again. The price of being an idiot is way too high.
With an open palm, I slam my hands against the closed door to Jim's room. I don't even realize I'm banging until the door swings open and its occupants are glaring down at me. And they're pissed.