Page 47 of Collect the Pieces

“Under our old president, Upstate and Downstate didn’t mix that much. I hardly ever came up here, but since Z took over as president, the two clubs mingle a lot more.” He lets out a short laugh. “I think we’ve finally moved past that awkward blended family stage.”

“Why not just merge them into one club, then?” Unless two iron-willed MC presidents don’t want to consolidate leadership. I better not say that out loud.

“Honestly—I think we’re moving in that direction. Especially since Upstate built a new clubhouse down in Empire. Some of the guys have houses and stuff down near Union, though. And we have a few businesses down there too, but yeah, I think eventually, that’ll happen.”

“The club doesn’t tell you where you have to live, though, right?”

“No. As long as we get to church on time and we’re available when needed, we can do whatever.”

It still sounds restrictive. But I guess it’s not my business. Besides, who am I to judge when I’m basically on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?

Motorcycles are lined up tight against a tall, wooden fence—its rough planks shadowed by towering pine trees. The fence itself cuts a clear boundary between the clubhouse parking lot and the looming forest, with wide dirt paths branching off at each end, disappearing into the woods. Across the asphalt, two sprawling garages sit in a loose L-shape. One has its massive bay doors thrown open, bright lights flooding the interior where folding tables have been set up. Tucked around the far side of that garage, a narrow trail sneaks into the thick evergreens. Beyond the brush, the silhouette of a small house or cabin peeks through the foliage.

Jigsaw glances over, then follows my line of sight. “They built Sparky a small cabin over there for him to do his ‘special baking’ without it stinking up the whole clubhouse.”

It takes a second for that to sink in. “Oh! Where he makes the pot brownies. Got it.”

“Yeah.” He scratches his jaw, gaze lingering on the cabin. “Murphy wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of Sparky leaving ‘treats’ lying around where the kids might find them.”

I wince. “Yikes, that would be bad.”

“That never happened,” Jigsaw says quickly, as if he’s worried I’ll assume the worst about his brothers. “But?—”

“They wanted to be safe. I get it.” I nod, still staring in the direction of the cabin. “That was smart.”

Just how much money does the club have that they can afford to build an entire house for one member to bake pot brownies?

That seems way too intrusive to ask, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

Jigsaw ends up backing the truck into a grassy spot along the driveway.

Anxiety over meeting everyone rushes in and pushes out my curiosity about the clubhouse. I drag my sweaty palms over myjeans, then flip the visor down and check my hair in the mirror. My lipstick’s faded and I pull my purse into my lap, searching for my lip gloss.

The passenger door swings open, letting in a rush of cool air. “What’s wrong?” Jigsaw asks.

“Nothing.” Nervous with him watching, I quickly swipe the mauve-pink gloss over my lips, screw the cap on, and toss it back in my purse. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His gaze drops to my lips. “That color’s pretty on you.”

I’ve only ever had women compliment my makeup. Boyfriends I’ve had either didn’t notice or complained. “Thanks.”

He takes my hand and helps me down from the truck.

“There ya guys are!” Shelby jogs over the parking lot, her cowgirl boots hitting the pavement with hardthwack, thwack, thwacks. Rooster’s following behind her at a slower pace.

Jigsaw laughs. “Where’d you even come from, songbird?”

“Sparky’s cabin.” She stops in front of us and whips her head around, her blonde curls fanning around her. The light scent of sandalwood and blue tansy fills my nose for a second. How about that? I use the same shampoo. Maybe we’re meant to be friends.

“I assume he’s doing a lot of baking for tonight?” Jigsaw asks.

“Ohhh, yeah.” Shelby nods slowly. “Be careful. He’s got brownies and these big sugar cookies with green M&Ms in ’em. You see them, steer clear unless you wanna be floatin’ in the clouds all night.”

My cheeks warm. Did Jigsaw tell her I accidentally got high off brownies at Teller’s wedding? Or is she just delivering a general warning?

“Hey, Margot.” Shelby leans in and gives me a quick hug. “Good to see ya again.” She tilts her head down. “You lookgreat. Told ya.” She tugs at the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. A crabby looking pink flamingo takes up a good portion of the front.Flock around and find outis written in a spiky, rough-textured font underneath. “Casual on bonfire night.”

“That’s my kind of flamingo.” I nod to the sweatshirt.

---