Page 49 of Her Possessive Bikers

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since before the fire. "Okay. I'm gonna make a sandwich while you call. Want one?"

"Nah, I'm good darlin'." He's already dialing.

I head for the door but pause with my hand on the knob. Something in his tone makes me hesitate.

"Yeah, she wants to check the house," Jacoby says into the phone. "I figured you'd want to know?—"

I press my ear against the door crack.

"Absolutely not." Tres's voice carries through the phone, sharp and commanding. "Lupe and fucking Dos Banditos could be staking it out, waiting for exactly that. She stays put, Jacoby. That's an order."

"What about sending some guys to?—"

"No. Best thing for her is to stay in the clubhouse where we can protect her. End of discussion."

My fingers curl into fists. They're talking about me like I'm some china doll that needs bubble wrapping. I'm a fucking Cooper, for Christ's sake. I've seen worse things than a burned house.

But the memory of flames consuming my childhood home makes my throat tight. Maybe they have a point. Still doesn't mean I have to like it.

Heat flushes through my body as I listen to them discuss my fate like I'm some helpless princess needing rescue. The chevelle keys burn in my pocket where I'd stashed them last night.

"Fuck this," I mutter, heading towards the steps. The floor creaks slightly as I walk, but Jacoby's still engrossed in his phone conversation.

"Yeah, I'll keep her here," I hear him say as I start to descend the stairs.

I take the steps two at a time, my combat boots silent against the wooden floors. The clubhouse is oddly quiet this morning - most of the crew probably still out patrolling after last night.

The back exit beckons. I know they've got prospects watching the front, but Dad once showed me this service door that leads to the lot. My pulse quickens as I push it open, checking both ways before darting to where my car sits.

The chevelle's engine roars to life, and I'm already shifting into drive when I hear shouting from the clubhouse.

"Indy!" Jacoby's voice carries across the lot. "Stop!"

My tires squeal against asphalt as I floor it. The side mirror shows Jacoby shirtless, sprinting toward his bike, phone still in hand.

"Sorry boys," I say to my empty car, "but I'm not some china doll that needs protecting."

The chevelle purrs as I take the corner onto Main Street, muscle memory guiding me toward what's left of Dad's house. My phone starts buzzing - Tres's number flashing on the screen. I'm going to be in some deep shit, I just know it. The fucked up part of me gets a little turned on potentially thinking about being punished by Tres.

"Snap out of it Indy," I tell myself. "We're supposed to be pissed off, not turned on."

I switch it off and toss it onto the passenger seat. They can lecture me later about safety and protection and whatever else they want. Right now, I need to see what survived the fire with my own eyes.

Because that house? It's all I have left of Dad. And no rival gang or overprotective bikers are going to keep me from it.

29

TRES

My phone buzzes and Jacoby's panicked voice fills my ear. "Boss, we got a problem.

"I ain't got the time for games Jacoby, what's going on?" I say irritatingly.

"First let me preface this by saying please don't put me back on oil change duty…" Jacoby starts.

"Cut the shit Wilson, what is it?"

"Uh see, Indy took off while I was on the phone with you." He says sheepishly. I can picture him rubbing his shaved ass head from here.

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