Page 7 of Jacob

Jacob groaned and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he’d thought this would go, but it wasn’t like this. Hell, he half hoped her to be waiting there for him. She would just be there. She’d written she missed him and hadn’t left a way for him to contact her. Fuck, he was an idiot. She had a life. She deserved a better life than waiting for his dumb ass. She was too smart for that shit.

“Likes lollipops?” Dash offered when the girl looked between them skeptically.

“Uh, bird name?” she repeated before shaking her head. “No.”

Looking to Jacob, Dash frowned. It was almost like he’d joined the younger biker in disappointment. Maybe he was there for moral support after all.

The most unappealing club sandwich sunk heavily in his gut as he laid in the motel bed trying to sleep. This time he got a bed. His longtime friend snored like a banshee beside him. They’d ridden hard again, the same route as last time, and Jacob was admittedly tired and sore. He just couldn’t get his mind to stop.

From his pocket, he pulled out the letter, the last letter she’d sent him. The one that had been left for him at the motel. His fingers traced over the salutation.

I’m sorry.

Something had to have happened. Hopefully, good. She deserved something good in her life. She’d lost her dad already, she’d had enough bad. Sparrow’d said so much in that letter, but so little at the same time. He wanted to know everything about her life—from the last time he saw her until they met again.

But.

What if—

Was she still involved with The Roughneck Riders?Shit.Was she someone’s Ol’ Lady?Ah fuck. He couldn’t handle that bullshit.

They wouldn’t let her be a club slut. Would they? If they were like Odin’s Fury they wouldn’t. Daughters of members were off fucking limits unless you were serious. They were not club ass. If a brother fucked over a club daughter, shit, he was in for one hell of a beating. It didn’t matter if her daddy was breathing or not. Family was always family.

Folding the note, following the well-worn crease lines, he tucked it back into the pocket of his jeans. Time for a short nap. If his mind would let him. Exhaustion kicked in, and he wanted to be somewhat functional when they went to the bar to check out the men of the Roughneck Riders.

Chapter 4

Sparrow

Some of the deepest, soundest periods of sleep Sparrow experienced had been the nights Pipes spent at the clubhouse. The same rang true when it came to mornings. This was why she didnothave time to be digging through her closet looking for her most comfortable, favorite boots.

Besides, working at the Broken Spoke—a biker bar, owned by the Roughneck Riders, which they often referred to as just “The Spoke”—meant if she wanted good tips, she needed to appeal to the clientele. At the strip club, they expected stilettos and lucite platformed heels. At The Spoke, they wanted either cowboy or motorcycle boots. It fit the look.

“Gah!” she cried out as she crawled deeper into the walk-in closet. “I don’t havetimefor this.” Her exasperation had her bellowing into the mess of sneakers, old boots, belts, dirty clothes, and what the fuck else they had dumped in there the past few weeks. She promised all that was holy to be a better housekeeper if she could just find the other boot.

As she swiped at and then tossed a pair of Pipes’ jeans over her shoulder, it came into view. Sitting back on her haunches, she frowned, knowing full well which box it was and what it contained.

Hidden in the back of her closet, stuffed behind dirty socks, smelly jeans, and old sneakers were her father’s things. The only things her mother hadn’t sold, given away, or thrown out that remained were in that box shoved in the back of her closet to be forgotten.

As her eyes brimmed with tears, she pushed the remaining sweaters off the box and took off the lid. The Roughneck Rider skull, the club colors stared back at her, and she covered her mouth, failing to block the sob leaving her body. Dark maroon, almost brown stains of old blood covered the rockers and patches. Her father’s blood.

Seven years’ worth of tears cascaded down her face as she lifted his cut and brought it to her chest. She leaned forward over the box as she wept, hidden away in the closet, just like her father’s memory. He deserved better than that.

“Menina,” the term of endearment her father used, curled off his tongue as his face brightened with a wide smile upon seeing her.

She joined him at the kitchen table, doing her best not to disturb the stacks of papers, binders, and strips of receipts he had strewn about. In front of him was a large leather book with yellow lined pages, a calculator, and four different pens. Two black, one blue, and a red.

“When I’m done, you will check my math,” he said as he pulled a paper from one pile, made a notation in black, and put it in another pile. “You’re far better at this than me.”

“I don’t know why they have you doing all this anyway.” Her mother came breezing into the room, straight to the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Shouldn’t Heavy or Weights be doing it?” she said as she cracked the cap then sashayed the short distance to the seat beside Sparrow’s father. She took a swig of the beer before offering it to her man and nuzzling against him.

“They busy,” he responded abruptly, his accent thicker than normal as he swiped the beer from her and gulped down three hearty swallows.

Standing, her mother held her hands up, palms toward him, shoulder height. “All I’m saying is, you aren’t treasurer. You don’t run Razzle Dazzle. This ain’t club laws. You’re the SAA—”

“Club business,” her father growled, cutting off her mother as he put his pen down. “Shut up and get your nose out of club business.”

From her vantage point to her father’s left, Sparrow couldn’t see the look her father gave her mother. All she could see were his shaggy dark brown locks. She’d inherited his curls.

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