Page 54 of Jacob

“They have to run tests and stabilize him and we have to do admission paperwork.”

She didn’t know anything. Did he have insurance? As a prospect, he barely had a job with them. Stuffing her hands into her back pockets, she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, staring in the direction where they’d just taken Pipes. “I don’t know anything,” she pleaded with the woman. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

The woman offered her a reassuring smile. “I assure you, this will help make the time go faster.”

“Sparrow!” a voice called and she turned to spot a familiar face.

The new patch, a tattoo artist, often looked out of place with his crisp button-down shirts, clean-cut hair, and trimmed beard when in the clubhouse. The only indication he belonged was his shiny new cut. Which, that evening, he wasn’t wearing.

“Mooky,” she’d never been so relieved to see a biker in her life.

Trotting toward her, his arms encircled her, pulling her to him as he brought her in for a hug. “I came as soon as I heard.” He ran his hand over the top of her head. “He’s such a fucking asshole.”

The woman cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” he apologized, sounding truly convincing. “My brother.” He sighed. “We’ve been planning an intervention. I just—I guess we should’ve had it sooner.”

With her kneespulled up against her chest, one arm wrapped around her legs, the other resting over them, Sparrow had stared at the dingy tiled floor for the past hour. Somehow, in some sadistic twist of irony, she sat amid the stench of bleach with a hint of urine. A television, mounted high on the wall opposite Pipes’ bed, blabbered about the weekly weather.

On the other side, with his ankles crossed and his boots on the edge, Mooky sat silently doodling in a small pad. He hadn’t spoken to her since they got in the room and the nurse stopped asking questions. After he’d given the insurance information, they seemed content knowing they’d get paid.

Absolutely exhausted, unsure of the time, Sparrow drew her attention off the floor and toward the monitors of squiggly lines blipping silently in time with his heart rate. Her boyfriend lay in the bed, on his back, impossibly still. There were times she stared at his chest just to make sure he still breathed—despite having monitors there in case he didn’t. A clear bag of some fluid dripped into the tube in his arm.

According to the doctor they had to monitor his heart rate and his kidneys for damage. Releasing her legs, she dropped them to the ground and leaned forward. Tentatively, she reached across the bed and rested her hand over his, careful not to bump the IV in his hand.

For some reason, she’d expected him to be cold. She’d expected him to feel waxy. As she studied him, she fixated on the bruise forming at the top of his head, where she assumed he’d banged it against the car door, and wondered how he felt so alive when he’d been so close to death.

This vision of him, wires coming out from the neck of the gown hooked up to monitors with tubes coming out of his arm, and the oxygen shoved in his nostrils made him look sick. She’d never thought of Pipes as sick. Sure, she’d thought of him as a dickhead, especially when he used, but sick? No. She wasn’t sure she could handle this sight. It was such a stark contrast to the man she’d met. How did they get here?

Delivering the beers to the table of citizens, she noticed one of them, the one with the closely cropped dirty blond hair and pale blue eyes studied her. This was nothing new, at a place like this, she could walk around in a potato sack and get eye fucked. The cut offs and the tank top she wore were because it was hot as fuck made her a particularly tasty sight. Plus, she got more tips when she showed some skin. Potato sacks meant less tips. She needed the money. Sex may sell, but she wasn’t at a point in her life where she could strip. So, she’d do what she could at The Spoke.

She smiled her well-practiced, forced-smile and settled the glasses in front of the men at the table. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked.

“Nah, we’re good,” one of them responded.

She shifted her focus from one to the other. The one with the smoldering eyes just sat back and licked his lips. Her gaze kept flicking to him in the short time she stood there waiting for their responses.

She nodded to acknowledge him and felt herself blush under his focus. “Okay, well just wave,” she said, tucking some of her unruly hair behind her ear. Ducking her chin, she gave Mr. Starey one last glance and a genuine smile before she headed back to the bar.

Being stared at—routine. Feeling that stare in her girly parts—well, that was new.

With the round tray tucked under her arm, and using her free hand, she pulled a lollipop from her pocket. She needed a hit to take the edge off. Removing the wrapper, she popped it in her mouth before stopping at a table of empty glasses. Everyone had their addictions—lollipops were hers.

A purse remained and Sparrow glanced around for the patrons. At the dartboard, three men and a woman hooted over the throws. With brows raised, she pushed in the chair that held the purse. This was not the type of bar to leave a purse unattended.

She cleared empties and continued on her way, sucking on the blue raspberry sweetness of her candy. She’d often flopped between watermelon and blue raspberry. Watermelon was a classic flavor, but there was something about her tongue turning blue that reminded her of being a kid. It served as a mediocre distraction from her mind pondering Starey McBlue-Eyes back there. It took all she had not to look over her shoulder to see if he was still there. Was he watching her?

Oh, don’t be silly. Think about important things —like how many lollipops it’s going to take to make it through this shift and what flavors are left. Green Apple next.

Lost in her own world of lollipop ponderings, she unloaded dirty glasses into the bus bucket. She hadn’t noticed the approach of the man until he spoke to her.

“Hey,” he greeted nonchalantly.

Turning, she saw Mr. Smolder Stare from the table she’d just served.

“Hi,” she said, bringing her small tray in front of her, flat against her chest, almost like a shield. “Is there something I forgot?”

“Just your number,” he said, oozing confidence while he leaned against the bar.

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