CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

 

Seven struggled to hold her head up high as though she weren't going to come apart at the seams. Thank goodness the babysitting brigade of motorcycle gang members and military operatives knew when it was time to stand down. She didn't go to Las Vegas for the first time in her entire life to unravel, and she wasn't going to stand by and snap in public.

A few minutes of alone time, quiet with her ritual, would calm her mind while professionals took over. Because if she didn't do that, she would melt down and be of no help later.

You're a bad mother. Just like your father. Walking away.

There were other options. She could call the police, FBI, somebody other than the people who surrounded her. But didn't they call Titan?

"You doing okay, Seven?" Jax asked.

"Of course. Just leaving."

Abandoning Mayhem. Walking away from her kids. The voice in her head even sounded like her father, and her blood pressure climbed. One foot in front of the next. That simple command took more strength than she realized. She needed to get into her room to tell Cullen Blackburn to shut up!

Titan knew what they were doing, and she had to do what would help her to be the best mom possible when Bianca and Nolan came home. If that meant folding stupid blankets, so what?

"Didn't take you for the type to walk away from intel," Deacon said.

"Jesus, dude. Shut the fuck up," Sugar cut in.

"Deacon—" Jax added simultaneously.

Seven pivoted, spiraling out of control. "Are you sadistic? Do you work for them? Or what? Because you're slowing everyone down!"

Behind Deacon, Jax loomed as though he could brawl if she blinked funny. If vibes could kill and rescue, Deacon would be a dead man and she would be home with her babies. How her heart could swell when pure vengeance etched Jax's face, Seven had no clue, but at that moment, she needed him.

"Bye. Again," she said. "I'm going to go call Victoria."

"And we're taking it back into the conference room," Jared said. "Move boots."

"You can't," Deacon said without elaborating.

"Oh, for God's sake," Seven blew out. "And why can't I?"

"She's likely still at the hospital."

"What?" Her head shot toward Jax. What had they held back?

A quick look showed he didn't know—Jared or Hawke, either. Seven flew at Deacon, smashing her hands into his chest. "You… you… asshole! What happened to her?" Too many things had happened to Victoria. Both her fists slammed into Deacon's chest again. "What happened!"

An arm snaked around her waist, and Jax whispered, "Come on, princess."

Seven clawed the air to fight Deacon still.

His smugness twisted. "She hurt her wrists."

"Victoria did?" Seven stopped fighting to get away from Jax and wanted to know what Deacon knew.

"She was fine when they left her handcuffed her to the steering wheel."

"Fine? Nothing about this is fine!" Seven spun and searched Jax then Jared's faces. "How does he know this?"

Hawke stepped forward, his hand on his sidearm. "How, brother? That's some insider info about her children."

Deacon ignored Hawke but eyed Johnny. "Maybe Mayhem shouldn't have messed with the status quo."

"You're laying this at my feet?" Johnny threw up a middle finger.

Deacon lifted his chin. "You had one responsibility. One."

Seven's mind crashed. Johnny? "What does he have to do with them?"

"You son of a bitch." Sugar eased closer, her expression dripping acid. "You're calling the shots. Aren't you, Deacon?"

Seven flashbacked to one of the first times she met Sugar and listened to her accuse Mayhem of having a mole working with the feds.

"Oh my God." Seven turned from Deacon to Johnny. "Are you a…"

"A what?" Tex demanded as Ethan scowled.

"Spit it out." Hawke changed the direction of his aggression, facing Johnny.

She wasn't talking. No way. Not about guesses and misunderstandings that could get Johnny killed, not when he was high or coming down, making stupid-ass decisions. She hated him, but damn it, he'd been in her life for as long as she could remember. "I need to be by myself."

Hawke's hand rested under his shirt. "Say it, Seven."

Fuck! "Bianca and Nolan. That's the only thing I'm going to say. Do what you need to do." She left, each boot step weighed as much as a lifetime of her burdens, and every inch of space that she put between her and Jax made Seven wish she was wearing her wedding band. A wedding band had always been a cage, but she wanted to spin the ring on her finger and hold on to it as hard as she'd held on to Jax.

It took an eternity to get to the elevator and to her hotel room. Finally, the door clicked shut, and she was alone but no closer to sanity or answers. Maybe Victoria would answer and Deacon was lying. Seven dug out her cell phone from her purse and called. No answer. Then she tried again. No answer. Each time, Seven got her voice mail.

Frustration pounded in her head, and she opened up the slew of ignored text messages from the day, scrolling until she found the only one of importance, from Ryder.

Go find Jax. Trust him.

"Trust Jax." God, she was trying. Her eyes closed. "My husband."

Trust him… How she wished she could remember more of that night. Seven curled the phone to her chest and sank against the door. She'd always thought that if she ever got married again, it would be more traditional, more of what she'd always dreamt of. The fairy tale. A poufy dress with a long veil in a church. Maybe that dream wasn't meant for her. Maybe she was only supposed to marry Jax so she would have a guaranteed abduction rescuer. How about that for fate working her magic?

Knock, knock. "Housekeeping."

Oh, for the love of God. Seven crawled away from the door, barely able to find enough composure to say go away. "No, thank you." But it came out as a whisper filled with tears she hadn't cried. Pushing to her feet, Seven gripped the side of the couch, cleared her throat, and—

A key card clicked in the door before it opened. The cart pushed in before the whistling woman's face showed. "Oh, ma'am. So sorry."

Seven swallowed, unexpectedly grateful to see anyone that didn't wear a leather motorcycle cut or know how to fire a grenade launcher. For a second, life was normal.

"Would you like me to come back later?"

Her tongue stud clicked against her teeth, and she couldn't find the words to send the woman away. Seven had company that didn't kill people, who didn't use drugs, who she didn't know. It was a break from reality. Gesturing, Seven grabbed a folded blanket and moved to the bedroom area, unable to send the housekeeper away. "It's mostly clean…" Everything was exactly how she wanted it. Then her hands started, and she couldn't think of anything else, not the woman emptying the kitchen trash or the guys downstairs.

Smooth, fold. Smooth, fold. Precise and perfect. Over, over, and done.

Again, Seven pulled another blanket out of the closet, smoothing away every possible crinkle and wrinkle until it was impossible for one to exist. A tear slid down her cheek, and she swatted the wetness away.

"No crying." Because what was the purpose of the folding if she couldn't control her mind? Seven bunched the newest blanket into a hideous, skin crawling mess and quickly smoothed it out. Nothing was under control, like the edges of this ratty hotel blanket that wasn't even.

She tried harder, tugging the corners to make the square the right angles as another tear slipped free. "Please don't cry."

Nolan had a blanket just like this. My babies… She couldn't stop it, and she buried her face in the softness, sobbing into hysterics. Were they scared? Were they hungry? Cold? Did they ask why? Did they ask for her? Seven hiccupped and clung to the blanket, squeezing it to her breasts as she collapsed on the bed.

She needed Jax. But Nolan and Bianca needed him more. Anything she asked of him—come hold her, hug her, tell her it would be all right—would only slow the process of bringing them home. Trust Jax. She trusted Ryder, and he said to. She trusted Jax, and he promised everything would be okay. He would bring her babies home.

"Do you need anything, ma'am?" The quiet compassion of the housekeeper's voice pulled Seven from her cries.

There were so many things she needed, but nothing this nice person could assist with. She shook her head as the shadow of pink hair fell over her tear-stained face. "No."

"Are you sure?"

Seven rolled her lips into her mouth, nodding. "I'm positive. Nothing you can help with."

The woman fished a paper from her uniform pocket and unfolded it for Seven to see. It wasn't a paper. It was a picture of Bianca and Nolan.

The blanket fell from Seven's fingers as she jolted upright. "Wh-who are you?" Her father had taught her to never show fear, and she quickly pulled it together even as anxiety like she'd never faced stood feet away. Seven lifted her chin defiantly. Her eyes turned to slits as her cold terror morphed into disciplined Mayhem royalty. "Who the fuck are you, and where are my babies?"

The housekeeping imposter lowered her arm and slid the picture of Seven's children back into her uniform pocket. "I'm just the messenger."

She sealed her molars. "Then tell me the message."

"Senor Hernán Suarez does not approve of the changes to the distribution."

"They have nothing to do with Mayhem. I have nothing to do with it, either."

"Señora Suarez cannot have children," the woman added.

Seven licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth to hide the tremble that ran through her at the revelation. Esmeralda Suarez had a reputation for erratic behavior.

"Señor Suarez is more interested in business but has never left her wanting for anything. She wants a family, and if you know much about the Suarez cartel…"

"They teach lessons," Seven answered. Did Deacon know all this? That it was Mayhem's fault? About Esmeralda wanting kids?

The other woman moved toward the living room area. "Come with me, and you can be with your children. You can care for them."

"What?" Seven jerked, trying to understand.

"They always win." A small flash of compassion waved across the woman's face before it went neutral again. "If you want to see the children again, this is your only option. She'll have a caretaker for them. Would you rather do it, or someone else?"

Seven gasped. "They're coming home."

"They aren't, but you can go with me." She reached into the other pocket of her uniform and extracted a notepad and pen that matched the hotel's. "Write a note." The woman tossed them onto the bed. Seven's eyes followed them, then she turned back to the woman and faced the barrel of a gun. "Your only option."

"What is it supposed to say?" Seven asked incredulously, totally confused.

"That you don't need help. But you're with your kids. That Mayhem is not changing the distribution. And that you'll be in touch." The woman cocked the weapon.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Start writing." She raised the weapon, clearly having no idea how to hold a loaded gun, and that was more dangerous than if she did. "They have my kid. If you don't come with me, I'm going to shoot you."