Page 2 of Jacob

Blink. The last one.

“Whatcha’ doing in there?”

Dash tapped on the younger biker’s helmet, waking him from his memory with a jolt, asking the same question he had back then.

Tugging his full-face brain bucket from his head revealed the freshly shaven sides and the dark brown biker braid, while fully bringing the present into focus. He met his club brother’s gray eyes after resting his helmet on his knee.

“Good song,” he lied after he plucked the earbuds from their home.

The club Enforcer narrowed his eyes while stroking his blond beard. “I gotta piss.” He thumbed toward the side of the dumpster.

Jacob nodded. He had to go too, but someone should stay with the bikes, and Dash already started walking away. Sighing, figuring he could hold it a little longer, he went to the pumps. After he’d inserted the nozzle into his tank, he rifled through his saddlebag.

When riding, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about calls or texts. Nothing existed but the road. He even pre-loaded playlists so he wouldn’t have to worry about shuffling songs.

Then again, he hadn’t been to Ohio in a while.

Their last trip had been when he was a prospect—barely twenty years old. That would have made her eighteen. Maybe. He never did ask about her birthday. He made a mental note to find out.

As he stood watching the dials of the gas pump turning, he pushed his hands in his pockets and thought of his last visit to Ohio and Roughneck Rider territory. It’d been a fucking mess. Tired as balls. Watching bikes. Then a goddamn body he had to chop up and the stupid Roughneck Rider prospect didn’t have any damn lye, nor did he know where to get it.

He grumbled just thinking of how that night seemed like it would never end.

Hearing the thunk of the gas pump shutting off, he shook his head and turned to pull the nozzle from his bike. He replaced it in its holder when a streak of brown curls in his peripheral vision caught his eye.

Immediately, he jerked his head to get a better look, watching a woman who’d exited the small convenience store of the gas station climb into the small sedan parked a few yards away. He couldn’t get a good look at her with the rising sun glaring in his eyes. Holding his hand up to block its rays, he squinted, but the door slammed, and it hid her.

Had he missed her twice? Was it the diner all over again?

Knowing it washighly—fucking—unlikelyshe’d be atthatgas station out ofallthe gas stations in Ohio at thatungodlyhour in the morning didn’t mean his mind didn’t jump to conclusions.

From the inside pocket of his cut, he pulled out the well-worn note. Unfolding it for the millionth time, he read the words he’d memorized:

Jacob,

Was that you? I want it to have been you. I’ve missed you.

I’m sorry,

Sparrow

“Sparrow, was that you? I want it to have been you. I’ve missed you,” he murmured to her memory.

Closing his eyes, he allowed another memory from that first time when two teenagers born into one percent motorcycle clubs met at a motorcycle club rally to wash over him.

They spent the three-day rallies together. While the adults got drunk and stoned, they hung out at their picnic table playing cards and keeping one another company. There wasn’t much else to do at their ages.

The first year, on that last night lying on the table side by side, sucking on lollipops, they listened to the headlining band play in the distance. Heavy drum beats mingled with screeching guitars carried along the light breeze on a balmy July night. With light pollution, they stared at the minimal stars twinkling in the night sky, enjoying the music.

“You should write me,” Sparrow said.

“You mean like text you?” Jacob asked.

“No.” She chuckled. “I mean write me.”

“E-mail?” He tried again.

She snorted. “No.” Sitting up, she turned at the waist to look down at him. “I mean like pen and paper. Letters.”

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