Page 9 of Jacob

So, with no bad blood and practically being in bed with the Roughneck Riders, they had permission. They were golden—colors on full display—loud and proud.

Though, Bowie didn’t know they were coming that day. Another surprise visit—as they all were. They had to keep him on his toes. Odin’s Fury would come for a few days, leave for a few weeks, and then come back. This pop-in was like all the rest—to make sure his house was in order.

A stocky barback carried a case of beer over his shoulder to the bar. A leggy blonde in a tight cropped tank top with the bar’s name on it helped him unload the beer. As she stepped out from behind the bar, it allowed Jacob to assess her fully. She wasn’t bad. No ass to speak of, but her tits looked real. He hated fake tits.

Satisfied he’d observed enough of her, his gaze panned the room and watched the waitresses prepare for their shifts. Some did prep work, filling napkin holders and cleaning trays. Others dried glasses. One checked herself in a compact mirror, fussing with her very 1990s bangs.

Then he saw her.

She was unmistakable even seven years later. Wearing dark wash cutoffs, sneakers, a tight t-shirt leaving her midriff exposed, and her multi-hued curls tied in a high ponytail, he’d know her anywhere. Sparrow strode in, all confidence and freckles. Damn those freckles. The dimly lit bar and the ten plus feet between them couldn’t mask those specks of perfection spattered across her beautiful features.

Of all the things he liked and appreciated about Sparrow, her freckles were his favorite. Some loved asses. Some liked tits or legs. Hell, some guys went crazy for feet. While Jacob could appreciate a nice set of legs or a good pair of breasts, he was a sucker for freckles. They turned his head every goddamn time, and he blamed Sparrow for that. She wore them perfectly.

With his horrid beer at his lips, his eyes locked on her. Frozen in place, he didn’t take a sip. Far too captivated by her radiant smile as she greeted the bartender and held her small apron, he didn’t want to do anything that could possibly ruin the moment, end it—like wake up from the dream of seeing her again.

Gone were her rounded cheeks of childhood. They were replaced by sheer grown adult beauty. A woman. She’d matured into one fine ass woman.

In his mind, time may have slowed. However, in reality, it kept right on at the same pace it always had. Dash slapped at him. “What’s with the goofy grin?” He turned to follow Jacob’s gaze. “Oh.”

With his club brother’s word, it struck him like a slap in the face—reality. She wasn’t at the diner. She wasn’t where he’d left her. Sparrow stood there in the same bar he sat in. They were in the same state, the same zip code, the same building. He was a few yards from her and Jesus fucking Christ, why was he still sitting there?

When she pulled a lollipop out of the pocket of her apron, he was on his feet. No letter bullshit. He wasn’t a boy anymore, he’d grown, too—into a man. They were going to talk.

“Hope you got something good…” Dash’s voice trailed off. His sponsor hadn’t met her more than a handful of times, but there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in Jacob’s mind the older biker knew her. She had a look that was hard to forget.

Stalking toward Sparrow with tunnel vision, Jacob must have been an intimidating sight. His cut was dirty, and he wore an old Metallica t-shirt under it. His faded jeans ripped at the knee and the bottom where they met his motorcycle boots completed his biker look. The surrounding crowd parted like the Red Sea when all six foot four headed toward the bar, toward the woman who had ghosted him.

Sparrow, seemingly oblivious to him, popped the lollipop in her mouth and headed for a back room.

The woman behind the bar narrowed her eyes, very aware of him when he followed his childhood crush. He didn’t care or stop. The fact that she didn’t cry out or try to stop him meant she must’ve seen his cut. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but Sparrow. Nothing would get between them this time.

Chapter 6

Sparrow

“You’re sorry?” The deep husky voice came from behind. Jolting, she dropped her apron in startled surprise. With her hand over her chest, trying to keep her heart from bursting through it pounded so hard, she turned.

Unprepared for what she saw, her mouth fell open and her heart lodged in her throat.

She didn’t immediately recognize him. For the first few seconds, all she saw was his height and facial hair. It wasn’t until she scanned up to his eyes. Those glacier-colored pools. She’d never forgetthem. The light blue irises burned as they bored into her.

The mohawk was gone. In its place, thick dark hair hung just past his chin. Or where she thought his chin would be. He wore a full beard trimmed neatly. It hid the beautiful features she remembered from his youth. Oh, his chin dimple. The little divot she wanted to poke so badly when he was a kid couldn’t be seen.

“Jacob?” she whispered, and her heart resumed its rapid beats for a completely new reason. Was it really him or just another dream of them meeting up again? If she moved, he might disappear. She might wake up. So, she stood perfectly still, staring at him.

He kept his distance, just inside the back room, with the door closed behind him. Muffled rock music came through the walls, along with inaudible conversations from the few patrons of the bar. However, in that room, the heavy silence weighed her down.

In her dreams, he’d speak, but often so softly, she barely heard him. Licking her bottom lip, she worried she’d forgotten his true voice. Then again, would he sound the same seven years later? She willed him to speak, silently pleading with him to say something, anything, just to hear him again. What he’d said before, when she had her back to him, it didn’t count. She wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t know it was him. She did now. He had her full attention. If he would just speak.

Instead, he remained stock-still. His tall, lean body blocked the only exit, but she didn’t feel trapped. If anything, there was far too much space between them. As though her feet were cemented to the floor, unable to move, she took the opportunity to assess him. The grown version of him.

Starting at his feet, scuffed motorcycle boots made her grin. She’d imagined him riding the long hours from Montana to Ohio with the wind ripping through the bit of hair that escaped the bottom of his helmet.

Loose-fitting, faded jeans were torn at his left knee with a chain attached to his belt loop. The left side of her mouth curled upward in an involuntary half grin as she spotted the small—considering he was from Montana, home to many a cowboy—belt buckle.

He wore a faded Metallica t-shirt, which he’d loosely tucked into his jeans. Over it, as was the tradition for every biker, was his cut. Those leather vests were a second skin, only coming off to sleep, and that was if they didn’t pass out first.

She took a moment to appreciate his club’s little patches. Some were standard, like the four F’s he had on his side. Every club had a version of it. She guessed he stood for “Fury forever, forever Fury.” Her father’s was RFFR which stood for “Roughnecks forever, forever Roughnecks.” The diamond on his left shoulder with “1%” in it was far too familiar. His club was an outlaw club, too.

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