Page 22 of Jacob

She nodded. Stuffing her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, she understood. He couldn’t commit. Though he was the president of the club, he couldn’t make decisions like that without consulting the others. After all, she asked to be involved in club business—which was only for patches, and she would never have a patch.

“Yeah.” She turned. “I gotta get to work.”

“Me too,” he snorted a laugh, which turned into a cough as she made her way out of the back room, letting her gaze fall on the bouquet of candy again as she reached for her apron lying on top of her purse. She tied it around her waist and, instead of plucking a lollipop from the display, she pulled a blue raspberry flavored one from her pocket. She peeled the wrapper off and popped it in her mouth.

The flavor reminded her of that summer when she was thirteen, and she’d met Jacob. Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought and opened the door. She had to focus on the present and the future. Those were what she could control. The past was over and done with—no matter how much it seemed to want to invade her present.

Chapter 13

Jacob

Exceeding the comfortable limit of men seated at the round table, bikers bunched around Tut, a Roughneck Rider member, who rolled up his t-shirt, showing off his latest tattoo. Accented with bold colors, excellent line work, and perfectly shaded blacks, was a take on the Roughneck Rider’s club colors. Blue toned wrenches crossed behind the shaded skull wearing a black helmet. The tall oil rig in the background, while purposely faded, matched the image perfectly.

Beside the beaming biker sat the artist, Mooky, nodding as he discussed and pointed to portions of the tattoo with his club brothers. The patch on Mooky’s cut wasn’t extremely bright, but it hadn’t quite begun to yellow yet.

“He’s new,” Dash whispered as much as one could in the noisy clubhouse.

Jacob nodded as he brought the beer to his lips. “Looks straight.”

His sponsor nodded. “Gotta be. He takes his tattoo license seriously. He wants to run the shop for the club. Right now, they got that dingus Jackal running it. His work is shit compared to the kid.” He gestured to the young biker talking about his art.

The two Odin’s Fury bikers stood back slightly, leaning against the pool table watching the others fawn over the new tattoo. Holding his beer, observing the group, the crowd as a whole, there was a clear distinction between the Roughneck Riders of old and the newer ones Bowie had been bringing on as of late.

“I like the progress,” Dash commented. “If they’re like Mooky, there’s hope for the future of this club.”

The younger biker nodded, hearing his father’s words about reputation. Tipping his head back, he gulped down the remainder of his beer. Odin’s Fury had been coming around this club for a while, and if their visits were anything like this visit, the tension between the two clubs was anything but friendly. Something needed to change. He placed his empty beer bottle down and headed over to the crowded table.

“Hey!” he called.

The conversation at the table stopped. Hang-arounds turned first. The women’s eyes widened, and their unease at his approach was clear. The men with them backed away, pulling the women aside, clearing a space for Jacob to join them at the table.

At six foot four inches tall, and over two hundred pounds of muscle, he imagined he looked rather intimidating wearing his cut. The dark beard and shaggy hair added to it. The short bald stocky guy behind him with resting asshole face helped too.

At the table, the Roughneck Riders members eyed him skeptically. Offering them a smile, Jacob rolled up his sleeve, revealing his own tattoo. On the round of his bicep, close to his shoulder, the Helm of Awe was etched into his skin. His Viking compass of eight arms resemblingspiked tridents radiating from a central point with a small circle in the middle was his symbol for strength in battle.

Compared to Tut’s new ink, it was simple, a series of black lines. There wasn’t any shading or colors. However, to a tattoo artist like Mooky, he’d notice how straight the lines were. How consistent the thickness of each line was, and how symmetrical the shapes were in their repetitive patterns.

Amid the confused looks, one of interest took in the tattoo. The young biker tattoo artist scanned the old ink on Jacob’s arm. “That’s some nice shit,” he commented, nodding. “Talent.”

Mooky glanced up, straight-faced. Jacob smirked. “You do this style?” he asked, rolling his sleeve down.

“I could do that shit,” Tut blurted. “Let me find a sharpie.” He laughed and a few around him did as well. “Won’t even charge you.” He roared with laughter.

The newer biker lifted his shoulder. “I could. I’m more into new school stuff. But black linework like this, I could do it.”

“Your linework is on point,” Dash chimed in. “I think I wanna get a chain of runes along my collar bone.” He ran his hand from shoulder to shoulder. “How long do you think that would take?”

Mooky nodded, got up from his seat, and came over to the two men. Shifting gears it seemed, the man tapped his phone and showed something to Dash. The bald biker pointed, then swiped at the phone as though showing a different picture.

As the two bikers talked about tattoos, specifically Viking style tattoos, the lingering tension in the room seemed to shift, dissipate. The hum of conversation around them, which seemed to die down slightly when they approached, resumed its normal volume. It got to the point Jacob couldn’t hear the song playing over the radio.

Strolling over to the bar, he couldn’t help feeling smug that he’d done something that’d make his father proud. If the two clubs were going to merge, the Ohio boys needed to stop looking at them as outsiders. A reluctant alliance wouldn’t make for loyal brothers in the future.

It may be one tattoo conversation, but it was a start. Odin’s Fury could build off it for sure. As he got to the bar, he was full-on grinning like a Cheshire cat.How’s that for thinking with his “big head?”

“I don’t know who that smile’s for, but I sure as hell don’t mind it,” the woman behind the bar said as she returned the gesture.

Sliding onto the barstool, Jacob rested his elbows on the bar, giving her a generous once over. She had a thick athletic build with smallish breasts covered in a black, cut-off tank-top, a flat stomach, and thick thighs that she wrapped in skin-tight jeans.

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