CHAPTER TWO

 

The familiar roar and vibrations of Johnny's Harley should've been comforting as Seven held on to her ex-husband as they flew down the highway. The hog had been a part of their marriage, even their friendship, for as long as she could remember. Seven knew how the motor growled down the asphalt because she had watched him build it by hand, piece by piece, from stripped parts.

The custom front springer and chrome grips to the throwback fenders made the Harley uniquely Johnny—classic but rugged, just like its owner. Sliding on to Johnny's Harley was like slipping on a pair of her favorite jeans.

They slowed as they exited, and Johnny turned his head. "Relax, babe."

"Sorry." She was stiff as a brick on the back of his bike, but then her hiked bridesmaid dress flew from where she had pinned it under her thighs.

As the dress flapped in the wind, she breathed deeply, hoping some of the oxygen would work its way to her angry muscles. She let her mind wander back to Victoria's wedding—to Jax Michaelson. The brooding anti-biker could moonlight as the poster boy for Italian sex gods. Seven blamed his dark hair and matching eyes more than his muscles. At least she was more curious about running her fingers through his hair than along the curves of his cut arms and chest.

Johnny turned his head. "There ya go, babe."

"What?" she yelled, ripping her mind from the absurd fantasy of touching Jax's hair.

"Loosening up, finally."

Ugh. Apparently, thoughts of Jax helped her relax—when he wasn't working her up with obnoxiously rude comments.

She balanced her high heels on the foot pegs as her hair whipped loose from the skullcap. Johnny slowed, leaning onto a side street as she stayed straight. Two turns later, they pulled into the church parking lot, where she'd left her car after carting Victoria from the hair salon, in her dress, with makeup and hair done, ready to marry the love of her life, Ryder.

When Seven and Johnny had gotten married, they'd done it at the courthouse, same place they'd gone to drop off their divorce paperwork. There had been no hairdos and no special makeup. Seven couldn't remember what she'd worn to either event but could bet that Johnny had been dressed in his uniform of jeans, a Mayhem MC tee, and his leather cut that proudly displayed his member patch. At the time, she'd thought he looked fine—hot, even. Leathers had worked her up at the time. How times changed.

Johnny killed the motor, and Seven slipped off. She unfastened the skullcap and gave it back to him, not bothering to check out what he was wearing and not caring if he looked good. She leaned over to fluff her hair then stormed as best she could in her high heels toward her car.

"What? No 'thank you'?" Johnny called.

Seven spun, making effective use of the flare at the bottom of her skirt, and evil-eyed him like only she could. They had never had a falling out. They'd never been the couple with big blowup fights, who threw bottles at one another, or the crazy couple who hollered until the cops showed up. They hadn't made asses of themselves at the MC compound.

They'd simply known they shouldn't be married, so they'd stopped. It was that simple. The elevator didn't go any farther, and they had gotten off the relationship ride. Johnny had kept the apartment, and together, they'd shocked the Mayhem world when she moved into a house and he helped move the boxes of her belongings.

But at the moment, Seven wanted to fight. "I have to go get the kids."

"Fine. I don't want to hear about it later, though."

Unable to wait until she got home, Seven folded the skirt as best she could to calm down, but it didn't look right or stay still, which made everything worse.

"Did you hear me?"

She scrunched the fabric then smoothed it out violently. "I don't want to throw down in God's parking lot. But you will hear about it later."

Johnny tossed his leg over the back of his bike, and his boots crunched with every step as he came forward. "Don't even tell me you're mad."

Mad? "You think?" She beelined for her car door, repeating a mantra: "A fight at God's house was seven years bad karma." Why seven? Why not? Her name and all… Man, she was pissed and gritted her teeth. With a quick unlock, she pulled the door open.

"Seven," Johnny snapped. "What does your sweet ass have to be mad about? Nothing."

She glanced up at the church steeple. "Sorry, Big Guy." Then she slammed the door shut and spun, her finger up and wagging. "Don't you dare play dumb with me, Jonathan Andrew Miller."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "You're mad about the drugs."

"Am I mad about the drugs? Of course I'm mad about the goddmmm drugs." She cringed, not wanting to drop the big GD when she'd just told the Big Guy she was sorry.

He shook his head and turned away. "Surprise, surprise."

"Yeah, I'm ten kinds of mad, and you acting like it's some surprising revelation makes me angrier."

"You only care about Bianca and Nolan."

"That's my job in life," she spit back.

"This is why we never had kids. I knew you'd go nuts."

She pleated her skirt between her fingers. This wasn't the time and place to strangle her ex-husband. "Give me strength."

"What are you mumbling?" he asked.

Seven smoothed her skirt of nonexistent wrinkles. "Have you seen me do blow?"

He couldn't say yes because she'd never snorted coke. Drugs weren't her thing. Piercings and hair dye, those could give Seven a high. But not dope.

"Okay, Mother Teresa." Johnny threw his arm out, waving her away.

She stomped over in high heels that threatened to break her ankles. "You don't get to bring up my kids and not answer. They saw their mother foam at the mouth, twitch on the floor, vomit—"

"They were too damn young to remember, and you know it."

"Neither one of us will ever know what it's like to watch a mom OD with a pops too stoned to notice. That's trauma, you asshole. No matter how young they were."

His eyes searched the parking lot. "You're wrong, Seven."

She knew the guilt was there. It was for all of them, and everyone had been aware of the risks long before one of their own had OD'd. Bianca and Nolan's dad would be in jail for a long time, and somehow, Seven had ended up with the babies. She'd always raise them as though they were her own. But even before they'd come in to her life, the drug game was all kinds of screwed up when it came to Mayhem.

"Are you a cokehead again?" she asked quietly. "Because I can help."

Johnny's face hardened. "Lay off the pious routine because we're at a church."

She shifted her frustration to the man from earlier. The one in the parking lot who she faulted for everything. Seven didn't know who he was or what he did, but he was a problem. "Back at the reception. Any time I see that man, it's like I'm not supposed to know."

Johnny chuckled as if that was the understatement of the night. "No kidding."

"Why can't I know who he is?" she pressed.

"No one does." He crossed his arms. "You're not supposed to know club business. It's that simple."

"I'm not no one." Her voice quieted to a whisper. "Who is he?"

Johnny wouldn't raise his eyes to meet hers, all but confirming what she'd heard a few years ago. There was a mole in Mayhem. What charter did he belong to? Why did he come to their founding charter so often? "Whenever he shows up, things get bad."

Johnny cackled. "Bullshit. They get better."

They had two very different definitions of getting better. "Money does not equate better."

"Equate," he mocked. "I don't know what you're smoking, Seven, but it sure as fuck does."

"You're going to end up just like my father." Disappointment made the night that much colder. "I'm going to go get the kids."

"Just because you're some Mayhem Princess doesn't mean you have a say or a vote," Johnny muttered.

It was her turn to cackle and smirk. "You're not the president, Johnny. The vote's done. Drug days are coming to an end whether you like it or not. It's not the eighties and nineties anymore. Synthetics are made by teenagers in chemistry class. Your profits are cut short, and cartels aren't as powerful as they were. And you know what? I'm good with that, and I don't care what that no-name, bad-news-bearing—"

"Moneymaker who can change the hearts and minds—"

"Yeah. Him. I don't care what he brings to the table or says," Seven said, finishing what she'd started. "It was a vote. You can't overrule it."

His smile was entirely too slick. "Not yet."

"If you want to be alive to take the gavel…" Seven pushed the tongue stud out of her mouth and toyed with it, wondering how much she should say. "If you're going behind Hawke's back like that, especially open in a parking lot, you won't hold that gavel. You won't stay alive. And I say that as a friend."

Johnny pulled on the skullcap that he had let her wear, letting the straps dangle. "Calm your tits and get your kids, woman. I'll do what's best for the club, and you do what's best for you."